{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_53792/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_53792","id":"gutenberg_53792","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53792","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Psychiatry/Psychology","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\nIN FOUR VOLUMES.\n\nVOL. II.\n\nEDINBURGH:\n\nPRINTED FOR ADAM BLACK AND WILLIAM TAIT;\n\nAND CHARLES TAIT, 63, FLEET STREET,\n\nLONDON.\n\nMDCCCXXVI.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS OF VOLUME SECOND.\n\n\n    TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE.\n\n    BOOK II.--OF THE PASSIONS.\n\n    PART I.\n\n    OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY.\n\n    Division of the Subject\n    Of Pride and Humility, their Objects and Causes\n    Whence these Objects and Causes are derived\n    Of the Relations of Impressions and Ideas\n    Of the Influence of these Relations on Pride and Humility\n    Limitations of this System\n    Of Vice and Virtue\n    Of Beauty and Deformity\n    Of external Advantages and Disadvantages\n    Of Property and Riches\n    Of the Love of Fame\n    Of Pride and Humility of Animals\n\n    PART II.\n\n    OF LOVE AND HATRED.\n\n    Of the Objects and Causes of Love and Hatred\n    Experiments to confirm this System\n    Difficulties solved\n    Of the Love of Relations\n    Of our Esteem for the Rich and Powerful\n    Of Benevolence and Anger\n    Of Compassion\n    Of Malice and Envy\n    Of the mixture of Benevolence and Anger with Compassion and Malice\n    Of Respect and Contempt\n    Of the Amorous Passion, or Love betwixt the Sexes\n    Of Love and Hatred of Animals\n\n    PART III.\n\n    OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS.\n\n    Of Liberty and Necessity\n    The Same subject continued\n    Of the Influencing Motives of the Will\n    Of the Causes of the Violent Passions\n    Of the Effects of Custom\n    Of the Influence of the Imagination on the Passions\n    Of Contiguity and Distance in Space and Time\n    The same Subject continued\n    Of the Direct Passions\n    Of Curiosity, or the Love of Truth\n\n    BOOK III.--OF MORALS.\n\n    PART I.\n\n    OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL.\n\n    Moral Distinctions not derived from Reason\n    Moral Distinctions derived from a Moral Sense\n\n    PART II.\n\n    OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE.\n\n    Justice, whether a natural or artificial Virtue?\n    Of the Origin of Justice and Property\n    Of the Rules which determine Property\n    Of the Transference of Property by Consent\n    Of the Obligation of Promises\n    Some farther Reflections concerning Justice and Injustice\n    Of the Origin of Government\n    Of the Source of Allegiance\n    Of the Measures of Allegiance\n    Of the Objects of Allegiance\n    Of the Laws of Nations\n    Of Chastity and Modesty\n\n    PART III.\n\n    OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES.\n\n    Of the Origin of the Natural Virtues and Vices\n    Of Greatness of Mind\n    Of Goodness and Benevolence\n    Of Natural Abilities\n    Some farther Reflections concerning the Natural Virtues\n    Conclusion of this Book\n\n    Dialogues concerning Natural Religion\n\n    Appendix to the Treatise of Human Nature\n\n\n\nBOOK II.\n\nOF THE PASSIONS\n\nPART I.\n\nOF PRIDE AND HUMILITY.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I.\n\nDIVISION OF THE SUBJECT.\n\n\nAs all the perceptions of the mind may be divided into _impressions_\nand _ideas_, so the impressions admit of another division into\n_original_ and _secondary_. This division of the impressions is the\nsame with that which I formerly made use of[1] when I distinguished\nthem into impressions of _sensation_ and _reflection_. Original\nimpressions, or impressions of sensation, are such as, without any\nantecedent perception, arise in the soul, from the constitution of the\nbody, from the animal spirits, or from the application of objects to\nthe external organs. Secondary, or reflective impressions, are such as\nproceed from some of these original ones, either immediately, or by the\ninterposition of its idea. Of the first kind are all the impressions of\nthe senses, and all bodily pains and pleasures: of the second are the\npassions, and other emotions resembling them.\n\n'Tis certain that the mind, in its perceptions, must begin somewhere;\nand that since the impressions precede their correspondent ideas, there\nmust be some impressions, which, without any introduction, make their\nappearance in the soul. As these depend upon natural and physical\ncauses, the examination of them would lead me too far from my present\nsubject, into the sciences of anatomy and natural philosophy. For this\nreason I shall here confine myself to those other impressions, which\nI have called secondary and reflective, as arising either from the\noriginal impressions, or from their ideas. Bodily pains and pleasures\nare the source of many passions, both when felt and considered by the\nmind; but arise originally in the soul, or in the body, whichever you\nplease to call it, without any preceding thought or perception. A fit\nof the gout produces a long train of passions, as grief, hope, fear;\nbut is not derived immediately from any affection or idea.\n\nThe reflective impressions may be divided into two kinds, viz. the\n_calm_ and the _violent_. Of the first kind is the sense of beauty and\ndeformity in action, composition, and external objects. Of the second\nare the passions of love and hatred, grief and joy, pride and humility.\nThis division is far from being exact. The raptures of poetry and music\nfrequently rise to the greatest height; while those other impressions,\nproperly called _passions_, may decay into so soft an emotion, as to\nbecome in a manner imperceptible. But as, in general, the passions\nare more violent than the emotions arising from beauty and deformity,\nthese impressions have been commonly distinguished from each other. The\nsubject of the human mind being so copious and various, I shall here\ntake advantage of this vulgar and specious division, that I may proceed\nwith the greater order; and, having said all I thought necessary\nconcerning our ideas, shall now explain those violent emotions or\npassions, their nature, origin, causes and effects.\n\nWhen we take a survey of the passions, there occurs a division of\nthem into _direct_ and _indirect_. By direct passions I understand\nsuch as arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure.\nBy indirect, such as proceed from the same principles, but by the\nconjunction of other qualities. This distinction I cannot at present\njustify or explain any farther. I can only observe in general, that\nunder the indirect passions I comprehend pride, humility, ambition,\nvanity, love, hatred, envy, pity, malice, generosity, with their\ndependents. And under the direct passions, desire, aversion, grief,\njoy, hope, fear, despair, and security. I shall begin with the former.\n\n\n[1] Book I. Part I. Sect. 2.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II.\n\nOF PRIDE AND HUMILITY, THEIR OBJECTS AND CAUSES.\n\n\nThe passions of _pride_ and _humility_ being simple and uniform\nimpressions, 'tis impossible we can ever, by a multitude of words,\ngive a just definition of them, or indeed of any of the passions. The\nutmost we can pretend to is a description of them, by an enumeration\nof such circumstances as attend them: but as these words, _pride_ and\n_humility_, are of general use, and the impressions they represent the\nmost common of any, every one, of himself, will be able to form a just\nidea of them, without any danger of mistake. For which reason, not\nto lose time upon preliminaries, I shall immediately enter upon the\nexamination of these passions.\n\n'Tis evident, that pride and humility, though directly contrary, have\nyet the same _object_. This object is self, or that succession of\nrelated ideas and impressions, of which we have an intimate memory\nand consciousness. Here the view always fixes when we are actuated by\neither of these passions. According as our idea of ourself is more or\nless advantageous, we feel either of those opposite affections, and are\nelated by pride, or dejected with humility. Whatever other objects may\nbe comprehended by the mind, they are always considered with a view to\nourselves; otherwise they would never be able either to excite these\npassions, or produce the smallest increase or diminution of them. When\nself enters not into the consideration, there is no room either for\npride or humility.\n\nBut though that connected succession of perceptions, which we call\n_self_ be always the object of these two passions, 'tis impossible\nit can be their _cause_, or be sufficient alone to excite them. For\nas these passions are directly contrary, and have the same object in\ncommon; were their object also their cause, it could never produce\nany degree of the one passion, but at the same time it must excite\nan equal degree of the other; which opposition and contrariety must\ndestroy both. 'Tis impossible a man can at the same time be both proud\nand humble; and where he has different reasons for these passions, as\nfrequently happens, the passions either take place alternately, or, if\nthey encounter, the one annihilates the other, as far as its strength\ngoes, and the remainder only of that which is superior, continues to\noperate upon the mind. But in the present case neither of the passions\ncould ever become superior; because, supposing it to be the view only\nof ourself which excited them, that being perfectly indifferent to\neither, must produce both in the very same proportion; or, in other\nwords, can produce neither. To excite any passion, and at the same time\nraise an equal share of its antagonist, is immediately to undo what was\ndone, and must leave the mind at last perfectly calm and indifferent.\n\nWe must therefore make a distinction betwixt the cause and the object\nof these passions; betwixt that idea which excites them, and that to\nwhich they direct their view when excited. Pride and humility, being\nonce raised, immediately turn our attention to ourself, and regard that\nas their ultimate and final object; but there is something farther\nrequisite in order to raise them: something, which is peculiar to\none of the passions, and produces not both in the very same degree.\nThe first idea that is presented to the mind is that of the cause or\nproductive principle. This excites the passion connected with it; and\nthat passion, when excited, turns our view to another idea, which is\nthat of self. Here then is a passion placed betwixt two ideas, of which\nthe one produces it, and the other is produced by it. The first idea\ntherefore represents the cause, the second the _object_ of the passion.\n\nTo begin with the causes of pride and humility; we may observe, that\ntheir most obvious and remarkable property is the vast variety of\n_subjects_ on which they may be placed. Every valuable quality of the\nmind, whether of the imagination, judgment, memory or disposition;\nwit, good sense, learning, courage, justice, integrity; all these are\nthe causes of pride, and their opposites of humility. Nor are these\npassions confined to the mind, but extend their view to the body\nlikewise. A man may be proud of his beauty, strength, agility, good\nmien, address in dancing, riding, fencing, and of his dexterity in\nany manual business or manufacture. But this is not all. The passion,\nlooking farther, comprehends whatever objects are in the least allied\nor related to us. Our country, family, children, relations, riches,\nhouses, gardens, horses, dogs, clothes; any of these may become a cause\neither of pride or of humility.\n\nFrom the consideration of these causes, it appears necessary we should\nmake a new distinction in the causes of the passion, betwixt that\n_quality_ which operates, and the _subject_ on which it is placed. A\nman, for instance, is vain of a beautiful house which belongs to him,\nor which he has himself built and contrived. Here the object of the\npassion is himself, and the cause is the beautiful house: which cause\nagain is subdivided into two parts, viz. the quality, which operates\nupon the passion, and the subject, in which the quality inheres. The\nquality is the beauty, and the subject is the house, considered as his\nproperty or contrivance. Both these parts are essential, nor is the\ndistinction vain and chimerical. Beauty, considered merely as such,\nunless placed upon something related to us, never produces any pride or\nvanity; and the strongest relation alone, without beauty, or something\nelse in its place, has as little influence on that passion. Since,\ntherefore, these two particulars are easily separated, and there is a\nnecessity for their conjunction, in order to produce the passion, we\nought to consider them as component parts of the cause; and infix in\nour minds an exact idea of this distinction.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III.\n\nWHENCE THESE OBJECTS AND CAUSES ARE DERIVED.\n\n\nBeing so far advanced as to observe a difference betwixt the _object_\nof the passions and their _cause_, and to distinguish in the cause the\n_quality_, which operates on the passions, from the _subject_, in which\nit inheres; we now proceed to examine what determines each of them to\nbe what it is, and assigns such a particular object and quality, and\nsubject to these affections. By this means we shall fully understand\nthe origin of pride and humility.\n\n'Tis evident, in the first place, that these passions are determined\nto have self for their _object_, not only by a natural, but also by an\noriginal property. No one can doubt but this property is _natural_,\nfrom the constancy and steadiness of its operations. 'Tis always self,\nwhich is the object of pride and humility; and whenever the passions\nlook beyond, 'tis still with a view to ourselves; nor can any person or\nobject otherwise have any influence upon us.\n\nThat this proceeds from an _original_ quality or primary impulse, will\nlikewise appear evident, if we consider that 'tis the distinguishing\ncharacteristic of these passions. Unless nature had given some original\nqualities to the mind, it could never have any secondary ones; because\nin that case it would have no foundation for action, nor could ever\nbegin to exert itself. Now these qualities, which we must consider as\noriginal, are such as are most inseparable from the soul, and can be\nresolved into no other: and such is the quality which determines the\nobject of pride and humility.\n\nWe may, perhaps, make it a greater question, whether the _causes_ that\nproduce the passion, be as _natural_ as the object to which it is\ndirected, and whether all that vast variety proceeds from caprice, or\nfrom the constitution of the mind. This doubt we shall soon remove, if\nwe cast our eye upon human nature, and consider that, in all nations\nand ages, the same objects still give rise to pride and humility; and\nthat upon the view even of a stranger, we can know pretty nearly what\nwill either increase or diminish his passions of this kind. If there\nbe any variation in this particular, it proceeds from nothing but a\ndifference in the tempers and complexions of men, and is, besides, very\ninconsiderable. Can we imagine it possible, that while human nature\nremains the same, men will ever become entirely indifferent to their\npower, riches, beauty or personal merit, and that their pride and\nvanity will not be affected by these advantages?\n\nBut though the causes of pride and humility be plainly _natural_, we\nshall find, upon examination, that they are not _original_, and that\n'tis utterly impossible they should each of them be adapted to these\npassions by a particular provision and primary constitution of nature.\nBeside their prodigious number, many of them are the effects of art,\nand arise partly from the industry, partly from the caprice, and partly\nfrom the good fortune of men. Industry produces houses, furniture,\nclothes. Caprice determines their particular kinds and qualities. And\ngood fortune frequently contributes to all this, by discovering the\neffects that result from the different mixtures and combinations\nof bodies. 'Tis absurd therefore to imagine, that each of these was\nforeseen and provided for by nature, and that every new production\nof art, which causes pride or humility, instead of adapting itself\nto the passion by partaking of some general quality that naturally\noperates on the mind, is itself the object of an original principle,\nwhich till then lay concealed in the soul, and is only by accident\nat last brought to light. Thus the first mechanic that invented a\nfine scrutoire, produced pride in him who became possessed of it, by\nprinciples different from those which made him proud of handsome chairs\nand tables. As this appears evidently ridiculous, we must conclude,\nthat each cause of pride and humility is not adapted to the passions\nby a distinct original quality, but that there are some one or more\ncircumstances common to all of them, on which their efficacy depends.\n\nBesides, we find in the course of nature, that though the effects be\nmany, the principles from which they arise are commonly but few and\nsimple, and that 'tis the sign of an unskilful naturalist to have\nrecourse to a different quality, in order to explain every different\noperation. How much more must this be true with regard to the human\nmind, which, being so confined a subject, may justly be thought\nincapable of containing such a monstrous heap of principles, as would\nbe necessary to excite the passions of pride and humility, were each\ndistinct cause adapted to the passion by a distinct set of principles!\n\nHere, therefore, moral philosophy is in the same condition as natural,\nwith regard to astronomy before the time of Copernicus. The ancients,\nthough sensible of that maxim, _that Nature does nothing in vain_,\ncontrived such intricate systems of the heavens, as seemed inconsistent\nwith true philosophy, and gave place at last to something more simple\nand natural. To invent without scruple a new principle to every\nnew phenomenon, instead of adapting it to the old; to overload our\nhypothesis with a variety of this kind, are certain proofs that none of\nthese principles is the just one, and that we only desire, by a number\nof falsehoods, to cover our ignorance of the truth.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IV.\n\nOF THE RELATIONS OF IMPRESSIONS AND IDEAS.\n\n\nThus we have established two truths without any obstacle or difficulty,\n_that 'tis from natural principles this variety of causes excite\npride and humility_, and _that 'tis not by a different principle each\ndifferent cause is adapted to its passion_. We shall now proceed to\ninquire how we may reduce these principles to a lesser number, and find\namong the causes something common on which their influence depends.\n\nIn order to this, we must reflect on certain properties of human\nnature, which, though they have a mighty influence on every operation\nboth of the understanding and passions, are not commonly much insisted\non by philosophers. The _first_ of these is the association of ideas,\nwhich I have so often observed and explained. 'Tis impossible for the\nmind to fix itself steadily upon one idea for any considerable time;\nnor can it by its utmost efforts ever arrive at such a constancy. But\nhowever changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without\nrule and method in their changes. The rule by which they proceed, is to\npass from one object to what is resembling, contiguous to, or produced\nby it. When one idea is present to the imagination, any other, united\nby these relations naturally follows it, and enters with more facility\nby means of that introduction.\n\nThe _second_ property I shall observe in the human mind is a like\nassociation of impressions. All resembling impressions are connected\ntogether, and no sooner one arises than the rest immediately follow.\nGrief and disappointment give rise to anger, anger to envy, envy to\nmalice, and malice to grief again, till the whole circle be completed.\nIn like manner our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws\nitself into love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the other\nresembling affections. 'Tis difficult for the mind, when actuated\nby any passion, to confine itself to that passion alone, without\nany change or variation. Human nature is too inconstant to admit of\nany such regularity. Changeableness is essential to it. And to what\ncan it so naturally change as to affections or emotions, which are\nsuitable to the temper, and agree with that set of passions which\nthen prevail? 'Tis evident then there is an attraction or association\namong impressions, as well as among ideas; though with this remarkable\ndifference, that ideas are associated by resemblance, contiguity, and\ncausation, and impressions only by resemblance.\n\nIn the _third_ place, 'tis observable of these two kinds of\nassociation, that they very much assist and forward each other, and\nthat the transition is more easily made where they both concur in\nthe same object. Thus, a man who, by an injury from another, is very\nmuch discomposed and ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred\nsubjects of discontent, impatience, fear, and other uneasy passions,\nespecially if he can discover these subjects in or near the person who\nwas the cause of his first passion. Those principles which forward\nthe transition of ideas here concur with those which operate on the\npassions; and both uniting in one action, bestow on the mind a double\nimpulse. The new passion, therefore, must arise with so much greater\nviolence, and the transition to it must be rendered so much more easy\nand natural.\n\nUpon this occasion I may cite the authority of an elegant writer, who\nexpresses himself in the following manner:--\"As the fancy delights in\nevery thing that is great, strange or beautiful, and is still more\npleased the more it finds of these perfections in the _same_ object,\nso it is capable of receiving a new satisfaction by the assistance of\nanother sense. Thus, any continued sound, as the music of birds or a\nfall of waters, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and\nmakes him more attentive to the several beauties of the place that lie\nbefore him. Thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes,\nthey heighten the pleasure of the imagination, and make even the\ncolours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable; for the\nideas of both senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together\nthan when they enter the mind separately: as the different colours of a\npicture, when they are well disposed, set off one another, and receive\nan additional beauty from the advantage of the situation.\" In this\nphenomenon we may remark the association both of impressions and ideas,\nas well as the mutual assistance they lend each other.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION V.\n\nOF THE INFLUENCE OF THESE RELATIONS ON PRIDE AND HUMILITY.\n\n\nThese principles being established on unquestionable experience, I\nbegin to consider how we shall apply them, by revolving over all the\ncauses of pride and humility, whether these causes be regarded as the\nqualities that operate, or as the subjects on which the qualities\nare placed. In examining these _qualities_, I immediately find many\nof them to concur in producing the sensation of pain and pleasure,\nindependent of those affections which I here endeavour to explain. Thus\nthe beauty of our person, of itself, and by its very appearance, gives\npleasure as well as pride; and its deformity, pain as well as humility.\nA magnificent feast delights us, and a sordid one displeases. What I\ndiscover to be true in some instances, I _suppose_ to be so in all,\nand take it for granted at present, without any farther proof, that\nevery cause of pride, by its peculiar qualities, produces a separate\npleasure, and of humility a separate uneasiness.\n\nAgain, in considering the _subjects_, to which these qualities\nadhere, I make a new _supposition_, which also appears probable from\nmany obvious instances, viz. that these subjects are either parts\nof ourselves, or something nearly related to us. Thus the good and\nbad qualities of our actions and manners constitute virtue and vice,\nand determine our personal character, than which nothing operates\nmore strongly on these passions. In like manner, 'tis the beauty or\ndeformity of our person, houses, equipage, or furniture, by which\nwe are rendered either vain or humble. The same qualities, when\ntransferred to subjects, which bear us no relation, influence not in\nthe smallest degree either of these affections.\n\nHaving thus in a manner supposed two properties of the causes of\nthese affections, viz. that the _qualities_ produce a separate\npain or pleasure, and that the _subjects_, on which the qualities\nare placed, are related to self; I proceed to examine the passions\nthemselves, in order to find something in them correspondent to the\nsupposed properties of their causes. _First_, I find, that the peculiar\nobject of pride and humility is determined by an original and natural\ninstinct, and that 'tis absolutely impossible, from the primary\nconstitution of the mind, that these passions should ever look beyond\nself, or that individual person, of whose actions and sentiments each\nof us is intimately conscious. Here at last the view always rests,\nwhen we are actuated by either of these passions; nor can we, in that\nsituation of mind, ever lose sight of this object. For this I pretend\nnot to give any reason; but consider such a peculiar direction of the\nthought as an original quality.\n\nThe _second_ quality which I discover in these passions, and which\nI likewise consider as an original quality, is their sensations, or\nthe peculiar emotions they excite in the soul, and which constitute\ntheir very being and essence. Thus, pride is a pleasant sensation, and\nhumility a painful; and upon the removal of the pleasure and pain,\nthere is in reality no pride nor humility. Of this our very feeling\nconvinces us; and beyond our feeling, 'tis here in vain to reason or\ndispute.\n\nIf I compare therefore these two _established_ properties of the\npassions, viz. their object, which is self, and their sensation, which\nis either pleasant or painful, to the two _supposed_ properties of the\ncauses, viz. their relation to self, and their tendency to produce a\npain or pleasure independent of the passion; I immediately find, that\ntaking these suppositions to be just, the true system breaks in upon me\nwith an irresistible evidence. That cause, which excites the passion,\nis related to the object, which nature has attributed to the passion;\nthe sensation, which the cause separately produces, is related to\nthe sensation of the passion: from this double relation of ideas and\nimpressions, the passion is derived. The one idea is easily converted\ninto its correlative; and the one impression into that which resembles\nand corresponds to it: with how much greater facility must this\ntransition be made, where these movements mutually assist each other,\nand the mind receives a double impulse from the relations both of its\nimpressions and ideas!\n\nThat we may comprehend this the better, we must suppose that nature\nhas given to the organs of the human mind a certain disposition fitted\nto produce a peculiar impression or emotion, which we call _pride_:\nto this emotion she has assigned a certain idea, viz. that of _self_,\nwhich it never fails to produce. This contrivance of nature is easily\nconceived. We have many instances of such a situation of affairs.\nThe nerves of the nose and palate are so disposed, as in certain\ncircumstances to convey such peculiar sensations to the mind: the\nsensations of lust and hunger always produce in us the idea of those\npeculiar objects, which are suitable to each appetite. These two\ncircumstances are united in pride. The organs are so disposed as to\nproduce the passion; and the passion, after its production, naturally\nproduces a certain idea. All this needs no proof. 'Tis evident we never\nshould be possessed of that passion, were there not a disposition of\nmind proper for it; and 'tis as evident, that the passion always turns\nour view to ourselves, and makes us think of our own qualities and\ncircumstances.\n\nThis being fully comprehended, it may now be asked, _Whether nature\nproduces the passion immediately of herself, or whether she must be\nassisted by the cooperation of other causes_? For 'tis observable,\nthat in this particular her conduct is different in the different\npassions and sensations. The palate must be excited by an external\nobject, in order to produce any relish: but hunger arises internally,\nwithout the concurrence of any external object. But however the case\nmay stand with other passions and impressions, 'tis certain that pride\nrequires the assistance of some foreign object, and that the organs\nwhich produce it exert not themselves like the heart and arteries, by\nan original internal movement. For, _first_, daily experience convinces\nus, that pride requires certain causes to excite it, and languishes\nwhen unsupported by some excellency in the character, in bodily\naccomplishments, in clothes, equipage, or fortune. _Secondly_, 'tis\nevident pride would be perpetual if it arose immediately from nature,\nsince the object is always the same, and there is no disposition of\nbody peculiar to pride, as there is to thirst and hunger. _Thirdly_,\nhumility is in the very same situation with pride; and therefore either\nmust, upon this supposition, be perpetual likewise, or must destroy the\ncontrary passion from the very first moment; so that none of them could\never make its appearance. Upon the whole, we may rest satisfied with\nthe foregoing conclusion, that pride must have a cause as well as an\nobject, and that the one has no influence without the other.\n\nThe difficulty, then, is only to discover this cause, and find what\nit is that gives the first motion to pride, and sets those organs\nin action which are naturally fitted to produce that emotion. Upon\nmy consulting experience, in order to resolve this difficulty, I\nimmediately find a hundred different causes that produce pride; and\nupon examining these causes, I suppose, what at first I perceive to\nbe probable, that all of them concur in two circumstances, which are,\nthat of themselves they produce an impression allied to the passion,\nand are placed on a subject allied to the object of the passion. When I\nconsider after this the nature of _relation_, and its effects both on\nthe passions and ideas, I can no longer doubt upon these suppositions,\nthat 'tis the very principle which gives rise to pride, and bestows\nmotion on those organs, which, being naturally disposed to produce that\naffection, require only a first impulse or beginning to their action.\nAny thing that gives a pleasant sensation, and is related to self,\nexcites the passion of pride, which is also agreeable, and has self for\nits object.\n\nWhat I have said of pride is equally true of humility. The sensation\nof humility is uneasy, as that of pride is agreeable; for which reason\nthe separate sensation arising from the causes must be reversed, while\nthe relation to self continues the same. Though pride and humility\nare directly contrary in their effects and in their sensations, they\nhave notwithstanding the same object; so that 'tis requisite only to\nchange the relation of impressions without making any change upon that\nof ideas. Accordingly we find, that a beautiful house belonging to\nourselves produces pride; and that the same house, still belonging\nto ourselves, produces humility, when by any accident its beauty is\nchanged into deformity, and thereby the sensation of pleasure, which\ncorresponded to pride, is transformed into pain, which is related\nto humility. The double relation between the ideas and impressions\nsubsists in both cases, and produces an easy transition from the one\nemotion to the other.\n\nIn a word, nature has bestowed a kind of attraction on certain\nimpressions and ideas, by which one of them, upon its appearance,\nnaturally introduces its correlative. If these two attractions or\nassociations of impressions and ideas concur on the same object, they\nmutually assist each other, and the transition of the affections and\nof the imagination is made with the greatest ease and facility. When\nan idea produces an impression, related to an impression, which is\nconnected with an idea related to the first idea, these two impressions\nmust be in a manner inseparable, nor will the one in any case be\nunattended with the other. 'Tis after this manner that the particular\ncauses of pride and humility are determined. The quality which operates\non the passion produces separately an impression resembling it; the\nsubject to which the quality adheres is related to self, the object of\nthe passion: no wonder the whole cause, consisting of a quality and of\na subject, does so unavoidably give rise to the passion.\n\nTo illustrate this hypothesis, we may compare it to that by which I\nhave already explained the belief attending the judgments which we\nform from causation. I have observed, that in all judgments of this\nkind, there is always a present impression and a related idea; and\nthat the present impression gives a vivacity to the fancy, and the\nrelation conveys this vivacity, by an easy transition, to the related\nidea. Without the present impression, the attention is not fixed, nor\nthe spirits excited. Without the relation, this attention rests on\nits first object, and has no farther consequence. There is evidently\na great analogy betwixt that hypothesis, and our present one of an\nimpression and idea, that transfuse themselves into another impression\nand idea by means of their double relation: which analogy must be\nallowed to be no despicable proof of both hypotheses.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VI.\n\nLIMITATIONS OF THIS SYSTEM.\n\n\nBut before we proceed farther in this subject, and examine particularly\nall the causes of pride and humility, 'twill be proper to make some\nlimitations to the general system, _that all agreeable objects, related\nto ourselves by an association of ideas and of impressions, produce\npride, and disagreeable ones, humility_: and these limitations are\nderived from the very nature of the subject.\n\nI. Suppose an agreeable object to acquire a relation to self, the\nfirst passion that appears on this occasion is joy; and this passion\ndiscovers itself upon a slighter relation than pride and vain-glory.\nWe may feel joy upon being present at a feast, where our senses are\nregaled with delicacies of every kind: but 'tis only the master of\nthe feast, who, beside the same joy, has the additional passion of\nself-applause and vanity. 'Tis true, men sometimes boast of a great\nentertainment, at which they have only been present; and by so small\na relation convert their pleasure into pride: but however this must in\ngeneral be owned, that joy arises from a more inconsiderable relation\nthan vanity, and that many things, which are too foreign to produce\npride, are yet able to give us a delight and pleasure. The reason\nof the difference may be explained thus. A relation is requisite to\njoy, in order to approach the object to us, and make it give us any\nsatisfaction. But beside this, which is common to both passions,\n'tis requisite to pride, in order to produce a transition from one\npassion to another, and convert the satisfaction into vanity. As it\nhas a double task to perform, it must be endowed with double force and\nenergy. To which we may add, that where agreeable objects bear not\na very close relation to ourselves, they commonly do to some other\nperson; and this latter relation not only excels, but even diminishes,\nand sometimes destroys the former, as we shall see afterwards.[2]\n\nHere then is the first limitation we must make to our general position,\n_that every thing related to us, which produces pleasure or pain,\nproduces likewise pride or humility_. There is not only a relation\nrequired, but a close one, and a closer than is required to joy.\n\nII. The second limitation is, that the agreeable or disagreeable\nobject be not only closely related, but also peculiar to ourselves, or\nat least common to us with a few persons. 'Tis a quality observable\nin human nature, and which we shall endeavour to explain afterwards,\nthat every thing, which is often presented, and to which we have been\nlong accustomed, loses its value in our eyes, and is in a little\ntime despised and neglected. We likewise judge of objects more from\ncomparison than from their real and intrinsic merit; and where we\ncannot by some contrast enhance their value, we are apt to overlook\neven what is essentially good in them. These qualities of the mind have\nan effect upon joy as well as pride; and 'tis remarkable, that goods,\nwhich are common to all mankind, and have become familiar to us by\ncustom, give us little satisfaction, though perhaps of a more excellent\nkind than those on which, for their singularity, we set a much higher\nvalue. But though this circumstance operates on both these passions, it\nhas a much greater influence on vanity. We are rejoiced for many goods,\nwhich, on account of their frequency, give us no pride. Health, when it\nreturns after a long absence, affords us a very sensible satisfaction;\nbut is seldom regarded as a subject of vanity, because 'tis shared with\nsuch vast numbers.\n\nThe reason why pride is so much more delicate in this particular than\njoy, I take to be as follows. In order to excite pride, there are\nalways two objects we must contemplate, viz. the _cause_, or that\nobject which produces pleasure; and self, which is the real object of\nthe passion. But joy has only one object necessary to its production,\nviz. that which gives pleasure; and though it be requisite that this\nbear some relation to self, yet that is only requisite in order to\nrender it agreeable; nor is self, properly speaking, the object of\nthis passion. Since, therefore, pride has, in a manner, two objects to\nwhich it directs our view, it follows, that where neither of them have\nany singularity, the passion must be more weakened upon that account\nthan a passion which has only one object. Upon comparing ourselves\nwith others, as we are every moment apt to do, we find we are not in\nthe least distinguished; and, upon comparing the object we possess, we\ndiscover still the same unlucky circumstance. By two comparisons so\ndisadvantageous, the passion must be entirely destroyed.\n\nIII. The third limitation is, that the pleasant or painful object be\nvery discernible and obvious, and that not only to ourselves but to\nothers also. This circumstance, like the two foregoing, has an effect\nupon joy as well as pride. We fancy ourselves more happy, as well as\nmore virtuous or beautiful, when we appear so to others; but are still\nmore ostentatious of our virtues than of our pleasures. This proceeds\nfrom causes which I shall endeavour to explain afterwards.\n\nIV. The fourth limitation is derived from the inconstancy of the cause\nof these passions, and from the short duration of its connexion with\nourselves. What is casual and inconstant gives but little joy, and less\npride. We are not much satisfied with the thing itself; and are still\nless apt to feel any new degrees of self-satisfaction upon its account.\nWe foresee and anticipate its change by the imagination, which makes\nus little satisfied with the thing: we compare it to ourselves, whose\nexistence is more durable, by which means its inconstancy appears still\ngreater. It seems ridiculous to infer an excellency in ourselves from\nan object which is of so much shorter duration, and attends us during\nso small a part of our existence. 'Twill be easy to comprehend the\nreason why this cause operates not with the same force in joy as in\npride; since the idea of self is not so essential to the former passion\nas to the latter.\n\nV. I may add, as a fifth limitation, or rather enlargement of this\nsystem, that _general rules_ have a great influence upon pride and\nhumility, as well as on all the other passions. Hence we form a notion\nof different ranks of men, suitable to the power or riches they are\npossessed of; and this notion we change not upon account of any\npeculiarities of the health or temper of the persons, which may deprive\nthem of all enjoyment in their possessions. This may be accounted for\nfrom the same principles that explained the influence of general rules\non the understanding. Custom readily carries us beyond the just bounds\nin our passions as well as in our reasonings.\n\nIt may not be amiss to observe on this occasion, that the influence\nof general rules and maxims on the passions very much contributes to\nfacilitate the effects of all the principles, which we shall explain\nin the progress of this Treatise. For 'tis evident, that if a person,\nfull grown, and of the same nature with ourselves, were on a sudden\ntransported into our world, he would be very much embarrassed with\nevery object, and would not readily find what degree of love or hatred,\npride or humility, or any other passion he ought to attribute to it.\nThe passions are often varied by very inconsiderable principles; and\nthese do not always play with a perfect regularity, especially on the\nfirst trial. But as custom and practice have brought to light all\nthese principles, and have settled the just value of every thing; this\nmust certainly contribute to the easy production of the passions, and\nguide us, by means of general established maxims, in the proportions\nwe ought to observe in preferring one object to another. This remark\nmay, perhaps, serve to obviate difficulties that may arise concerning\nsome causes which I shall hereafter ascribe to particular passions,\nand which may be esteemed too refined to operate so universally and\ncertainly as they are found to do. I shall close this subject with a\nreflection derived from these five limitations. This reflection is,\nthat the persons who are proudest, and who, in the eye of the world,\nhave most reason for their pride, are not always the happiest; nor\nthe most humble always the most miserable, as may at first sight be\nimagined from this system. An evil may be real, though its cause has\nno relation to us: it may be real, without being peculiar: it may be\nreal without showing itself to others: it may be real, without being\nconstant: and it may be real, without falling under the general rules.\nSuch evils as these will not fail to render us miserable, though they\nhave little tendency to diminish pride: and perhaps the most real and\nthe most solid evils of life will be found of this nature.\n\n\n[2] Part. II. Sect. 4.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VII.\n\nOF VICE AND VIRTUE.\n\n\nTaking these limitations along with us, let us proceed to examine the\ncauses of pride and humility, and see whether in every case we can\ndiscover the double relations by which they operate on the passions.\nIf we find that all these causes are related to self, and produce a\npleasure or uneasiness separate from the passion, there will remain no\nfarther scruple with regard to the present system. We shall principally\nendeavour to prove the latter point, the former being in a manner\nself-evident.\n\nTo begin with _vice_ and _virtue_, which are the most obvious causes\nof these passions, 'twould be entirely foreign to my present purpose\nto enter upon the controversy, which of late years has so much excited\nthe curiosity of the public, _whether these moral distinctions be\nfounded on natural and original principles, or arise from interest\nand education_. The examination of this I reserve for the following\nbook; and, in the mean time, shall endeavour to show, that my system\nmaintains its ground upon either of these hypotheses, which will be a\nstrong proof of its solidity.\n\nFor, granting that morality had no foundation in nature, it must still\nbe allowed, that vice and virtue, either from self-interest or the\nprejudices of education, produce in us a real pain and pleasure; and\nthis we may observe to be strenuously asserted by the defenders of\nthat hypothesis. Every passion, habit, or turn of character (say they)\nwhich has a tendency to our advantage or prejudice, gives a delight\nor uneasiness; and 'tis from thence the approbation or disapprobation\narises. We easily gain from the liberality of others, but are always in\ndanger of losing by their avarice: courage defends us, but cowardice\nlays us open to every attack: justice is the support of society, but\ninjustice, unless checked, would quickly prove its ruin: humility\nexalts, but pride mortifies us. For these reasons the former qualities\nare esteemed virtues, and the latter regarded as vices. Now, since\n'tis granted there is a delight or uneasiness still attending merit or\ndemerit of every kind, this is all that is requisite for my purpose.\n\nBut I go farther, and observe, that this moral hypothesis and my\npresent system not only agree together, but also that, allowing the\nformer to be just, 'tis an absolute and invincible proof of the latter.\nFor if all morality be founded on the pain or pleasure which arises\nfrom the prospect of any loss or advantage that may result from our own\ncharacters, or from those of others, all the effects of morality must\nbe derived from the same pain or pleasure, and, among the rest, the\npassions of pride and humility. The very essence of virtue, according\nto this hypothesis, is to produce pleasure, and that of vice to give\npain. The virtue and vice must be part of our character, in order to\nexcite pride or humility. What farther proof can we desire for the\ndouble relation of impressions and ideas?\n\nThe same unquestionable argument may be derived from the opinion\nof those who maintain that morality is something real, essential,\nand founded on nature. The most probable hypothesis, which has been\nadvanced to explain the distinction betwixt vice and virtue, and\nthe origin of moral rights and obligations, is, that from a primary\nconstitution of nature, certain characters and passions, by the very\nview and contemplation, produce a pain, and others in like manner\nexcite a pleasure. The uneasiness and satisfaction are not only\ninseparable from vice and virtue, but constitute their very nature and\nessence. To approve of a character is to feel an original delight upon\nits appearance. To disapprove of it is to be sensible of an uneasiness.\nThe pain and pleasure therefore being the primary causes of vice and\nvirtue, must also be the causes of all their effects, and consequently\nof pride and humility, which are the unavoidable attendants of that\ndistinction.\n\nBut, supposing this hypothesis of moral philosophy should be allowed to\nbe false, 'tis still evident that pain and pleasure, if not the causes\nof vice and virtue, are at least inseparable from them. A generous and\nnoble character affords a satisfaction even in the survey; and when\npresented to us, though only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm\nand delight us. On the other hand, cruelty and treachery displease\nfrom their very nature; nor is it possible ever to reconcile us to\nthese qualities, either in ourselves or others. Thus, one hypothesis of\nmorality is an undeniable proof of the foregoing system, and the other\nat worst agrees with it.\n\nBut pride and humility arise not from these qualities alone of the\nmind, which, according to the vulgar systems of ethicks, have been\ncomprehended as parts of moral duty, but from any other that has a\nconnexion with pleasure and uneasiness. Nothing flatters our vanity\nmore than the talent of pleasing by our wit, good humour, or any other\naccomplishment; and nothing gives us a more sensible mortification than\na disappointment in any attempt of that nature. No one has ever been\nable to tell what _wit_ is, and to show why such a system of thought\nmust be received under that denomination, and such another rejected.\n'Tis only by taste we can decide concerning it, nor are we possessed\nof any other standard, upon which we can form a judgment of this kind.\nNow, what is this _taste_, from which true and false wit in a manner\nreceive their being, and without which no thought can have a title to\neither of these denominations? 'Tis plainly nothing but a sensation of\npleasure from true wit, and of uneasiness from false, without our being\nable to tell the reasons of that pleasure or uneasiness. The power of\nbestowing these opposite sensations is, therefore, the very essence\nof true and false wit, and consequently the cause of that pride or\nhumility which arises from them.\n\nThere may perhaps be some, who, being accustomed to the style of the\nschools and pulpit, and having never considered human nature in any\nother light, than that in which _they_ place it, may here be surprised\nto hear me talk of virtue as exciting pride, which they look upon as a\nvice; and of vice as producing humility, which they have been taught\nto consider as a virtue. But not to dispute about words, I observe,\nthat by _pride_ I understand that agreeable impression, which arises in\nthe mind, when the view either of our virtue, beauty, riches or power,\nmakes us satisfied with ourselves; and that by _humility_ I mean the\nopposite impression. 'Tis evident the former impression is not always\nvicious, nor the latter virtuous. The most rigid morality allows us\nto receive a pleasure from reflecting on a generous action; and 'tis\nby none esteemed a virtue to feel any fruitless remorses upon the\nthoughts of past villany and baseness. Let us, therefore, examine these\nimpressions, considered in themselves; and inquire into their causes,\nwhether placed on the mind or body, without troubling ourselves at\npresent with that merit or blame, which may attend them.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VIII.\n\nOF BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY.\n\n\nWhether we consider the body as a part of ourselves, or assent to those\nphilosophers, who regard it as something external, it must still be\nallowed to be near enough connected with us to form one of these double\nrelations, which I have asserted to be necessary to the causes of\npride and humility. Wherever, therefore, we can find the other relation\nof impressions to join to this of ideas, we may expect with assurance\neither of these passions, according as the impression is pleasant or\nuneasy. But _beauty_ of all kinds gives us a peculiar delight and\nsatisfaction; as _deformity_ produces pain, upon whatever subject it\nmay be placed, and whether surveyed in an animate or inanimate object.\nIf the beauty or deformity, therefore, be placed upon our own bodies,\nthis pleasure or uneasiness must be converted into pride or humility,\nas having in this case all the circumstances requisite to produce a\nperfect transition of impressions and ideas. These opposite sensations\nare related to the opposite passions. The beauty or deformity is\nclosely related to self, the object of both these passions. No wonder,\nthen, our own beauty becomes an object of pride, and deformity of\nhumility.\n\nBut this effect of personal and bodily qualities is not only a proof\nof the present system, by showing that the passions arise not in\nthis case without all the circumstances I have required, but may be\nemployed as a stronger and more convincing argument. If we consider\nall the hypotheses which have been formed either by philosophy\nor common reason, to explain the difference betwixt beauty and\ndeformity, we shall find that all of them resolve into this, that\nbeauty is such an order and construction of parts, as, either by the\n_primary constitution_ of our nature, by _custom_, or by _caprice_,\nis fitted to give a pleasure and satisfaction to the soul. This is\nthe distinguishing character of beauty, and forms all the difference\nbetwixt it and deformity, whose natural tendency is to produce\nuneasiness. Pleasure and pain, therefore, are not only necessary\nattendants of beauty and deformity, but constitute their very essence.\nAnd, indeed, if we consider that a great part of the beauty which we\nadmire either in animals or in other objects is derived from the idea\nof convenience and utility, we shall make no scruple to assent to\nthis opinion. That shape which produces strength is beautiful in one\nanimal; and that which is a sign of agility, in another. The order and\nconvenience of a palace are no less essential to its beauty than its\nmere figure and appearance. In like manner the rules of architecture\nrequire, that the top of a pillar should be more slender than its base,\nand that because such a figure conveys to us the idea of security,\nwhich is pleasant; whereas the contrary form gives us the apprehension\nof danger, which is uneasy. From innumerable instances of this kind,\nas well as from considering that beauty, like wit, cannot be defined,\nbut is discerned only by a taste or sensation, we may conclude that\nbeauty is nothing but a form, which produces pleasure, as deformity\nis a structure of parts which conveys pain; and since the power of\nproducing pain and pleasure make in this manner the essence of beauty\nand deformity, all the effects of these qualities must be derived from\nthe sensation; and among the rest pride and humility, which of all\ntheir effects are the most common and remarkable.\n\nThis argument I esteem just and decisive; but in order to give greater\nauthority to the present reasoning, let us suppose it false for a\nmoment, and see what will follow. 'Tis certain, then, that if the power\nof producing pleasure and pain forms not the essence of beauty and\ndeformity, the sensations are at least inseparable from the qualities,\nand 'tis even difficult to consider them apart. Now, there is nothing\ncommon to natural and moral beauty (both of which are the causes of\npride), but this power of producing pleasure; and as a common effect\nalways supposes a common cause, 'tis plain that pleasure must in both\ncases be the real and influencing cause of the passion. Again, there\nis nothing originally different betwixt the beauty of our bodies and\nthe beauty of external and foreign objects, but that the one has\na near relation to ourselves, which is waiting in the other. This\noriginal difference, therefore, must be the cause of all their other\ndifferences, and, among the rest, of their different influence upon the\npassion of pride, which is excited by the beauty of our person, but\nis not affected in the least by that of foreign and external objects.\nPlacing then these two conclusions together, we find they compose the\npreceding system betwixt them, viz. that pleasure, as a related or\nresembling impression, when placed on a related object, by a natural\ntransition produces pride, and its contrary, humility. This system,\nthen, seems already sufficiently confirmed by experience, though we\nhave not yet exhausted all our arguments.\n\n'Tis not the beauty of the body alone that produces pride, but also\nits strength and force. Strength is a kind of power, and therefore\nthe desire to excel in strength is to be considered as an inferior\nspecies of _ambition_. For this reason the present phenomenon will be\nsufficiently accounted for in explaining that passion.\n\nConcerning all other bodily accomplishments, we may observe, in\ngeneral, that whatever in ourselves is either useful, beautiful or\nsurprising, is an object of pride, and its contrary of humility. Now,\n'tis obvious that every thing useful, beautiful or surprising, agrees\nin producing a separate pleasure, and agrees in nothing else. The\npleasure, therefore, with relation to self, must be the cause of the\npassion.\n\nThough it should not be questioned whether beauty be not something\nreal, and different from the power of producing pleasure, it can never\nbe disputed, that, as surprise is nothing but a pleasure arising from\nnovelty, it is not, properly speaking, a quality in any object, but\nmerely a passion or impression in the soul. It must therefore be from\nthat impression that pride by a natural transition arises. And it\narises so naturally, that there is nothing _in us, or belonging to us_,\nwhich produces surprise, that does not at the same time excite that\nother passion. Thus, we are vain of the surprising adventures we have\nmet with, the escapes we have made, and dangers we have been exposed\nto. Hence the origin of vulgar lying; where men, without any interest,\nand merely out of vanity, heap up a number of extraordinary events,\nwhich are either the fictions of their brain, or, if true, have at\nleast no connexion with themselves. Their fruitful invention supplies\nthem with a variety of adventures; and where that talent is wanting,\nthey appropriate such as belong to others, in order to satisfy their\nvanity.\n\nIn this phenomenon are contained two curious experiments, which, if\nwe compare them together, according to the known rules, by which we\njudge of cause and effect in anatomy, natural philosophy, and other\nsciences, will be an undeniable argument for that influence of the\ndouble relations above-mentioned. By one of these experiments we find,\nthat an object produces pride merely by the interposition of pleasure;\nand that because the quality by which it produces pride, is in reality\nnothing but the power of producing pleasure. By the other experiment\nwe find, that the pleasure produces the pride by a transition along\nrelated ideas; because when we cut off that relation, the passion is\nimmediately destroyed. A surprising adventure, in which we have been\nourselves engaged, is related to us, and by that means produces pride:\nbut the adventures of others, though they may cause pleasure, yet, for\nwant of this relation of ideas, never excite that passion. What farther\nproof can be desired for the present system?\n\nThere is only one objection to this system with regard to our body;\nwhich is, that though nothing be more agreeable than health, and more\npainful than sickness, yet commonly men are neither proud of the one,\nnor mortified with the other. This will easily be accounted for, if\nwe consider the _second_ and _fourth_ limitations, proposed to our\ngeneral system. It was observed, that no object ever produces pride or\nhumility, if it has not something _peculiar_ to ourself; as also, that\nevery cause of that passion must be in some measure _constant_, and\nhold some proportion to the duration of ourself, which is its object.\nNow, as health and sickness vary incessantly to all men, and there is\nnone who is _solely_ or _certainly_ fixed in either, these accidental\nblessings and calamities are in a manner separated from us, and are\nnever considered as connected with our being and existence. And that\nthis account is just, appears hence, that wherever a malady of any kind\nis so rooted in our constitution that we no longer entertain any hopes\nof recovery, from that moment it becomes an object of humility; as is\nevident in old men, whom nothing mortifies more than the consideration\nof their age and infirmities. They endeavour, as long as possible, to\nconceal their blindness and deafness, their rheums and gout; nor do\nthey ever confess them without reluctance and uneasiness. And though\nyoung men are not ashamed of every headache or cold they fall into, yet\nno topic is so proper to mortify human pride, and make us entertain a\nmean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are every moment of our\nlives subject to such infirmities. This sufficiently proves that bodily\npain and sickness are in themselves proper causes of humility; though\nthe custom of estimating every thing by comparison more than by its\nintrinsic worth and value, makes us overlook these calamities, which we\nfind to be incident to every one, and causes us to form an idea of our\nmerit and character independent of them.\n\nWe are ashamed of such maladies as affect others, and are either\ndangerous or disagreeable to them. Of the epilepsy, because it gives\na horror to every one present; of the itch, because it is infectious;\nof the king's evil, because it commonly goes to posterity. Men always\nconsider the sentiments of others in their judgment of themselves. This\nhas evidently appeared in some of the foregoing reasonings, and will\nappear still more evidently, and be more fully explained afterwards.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IX.\n\nOF EXTERNAL ADVANTAGES AND DISADVANTAGES.\n\n\nBut though pride and humility have the qualities of our mind and body,\nthat is _self_, for their natural and more immediate causes, we find\nby experience that there are many other objects which produce these\naffections, and that the primary one is, in some measure, obscured\nand lost by the multiplicity of foreign and extrinsic. We round a\nvanity upon houses, gardens, equipages, as well as upon personal\nmerit and accomplishments; and though these external advantages be\nin themselves widely distant from thought or a person, yet they\nconsiderably influence even a passion, which is directed to that as\nits ultimate object. This happens when external objects acquire any\nparticular relation to ourselves, and are associated or connected with\nus. A beautiful fish in the ocean, an animal in a desart, and indeed\nany thing that neither belongs, nor is related to us, has no manner of\ninfluence on our vanity, whatever extraordinary qualities it may be\nendowed with, and whatever degree of surprise and admiration it may\nnaturally occasion. It must be some way associated with us in order to\ntouch our pride. Its idea must hang in a manner upon that of ourselves;\nand the transition from the one to the other must be easy and natural.\n\nBut here 'tis remarkable, that though the relation of _resemblance_\noperates upon the mind in the same manner as contiguity and causation,\nin conveying us from one idea to another, yet 'tis seldom a foundation\neither of pride or of humility. If we resemble a person in any of the\nvaluable parts of his character, we must, in some degree, possess the\nquality in which we resemble him; and this quality we always choose\nto survey directly in ourselves, rather than by reflection in another\nperson, when we would found upon it any degree of vanity. So that\nthough a likeness may occasionally produce that passion, by suggesting\na more advantageous idea of ourselves, 'tis there the view, fixes at\nlast, and the passion finds its ultimate and final cause.\n\nThere are instances, indeed, wherein men show a vanity in resembling\na great man in his countenance, shape, air, or other minute\ncircumstances, that contribute not in any degree to his reputation;\nbut it must be confessed, that this extends not very far, nor is of\nany considerable moment in these affections. For this I assign the\nfollowing reason. We can never have a vanity of resembling in trifles\nany person, unless he be possessed of very shining qualities, which\ngive us a respect and veneration for him. These qualities, then, are,\nproperly speaking, the causes of our vanity, by means of their relation\nto ourselves. Now, after what manner are they related to ourselves?\nThey are parts of the person we value, and, consequently, connected\nwith these trifles; which are also supposed to be parts of him. These\ntrifles are connected with the resembling qualities in us; and these\nqualities in us, being parts, are connected with the whole; and, by\nthat means, form a chain of several links betwixt ourselves and the\nshining qualities of the person we resemble. But, besides that this\nmultitude of relations must weaken the connexion, 'tis evident the\nmind, in passing from the shining qualities to the trivial ones, must,\nby that contrast, the better perceive the minuteness of the latter, and\nbe, in some measure, ashamed of the comparison and resemblance.\n\nThe relation, therefore, of contiguity, or that of causation, betwixt\nthe cause and object of pride and humility, is alone requisite to\ngive rise to these passions; and these relations are nothing else\nbut qualities, by which the imagination is conveyed from one idea to\nanother. Now, let us consider what effect these can possibly have upon\nthe mind, and by what means they become so requisite to the production\nof the passions. 'Tis evident, that the association of ideas operates\nin so silent and imperceptible a manner, that we are scarce sensible\nof it, and discover it more by its effects than by any immediate\nfeeling or perception. It produces no emotion, and gives rise to no\nnew impression of any kind, but only modifies those ideas of which the\nmind was formerly possessed, and which it could recal upon occasion.\nFrom this reasoning, as well as from undoubted experience, we may\nconclude, that an association of ideas, however necessary, is not alone\nsufficient to give rise to any passion.\n\n'Tis evident, then, that when the mind feels the passion, either of\npride or humility, upon the appearance of a related object, there\nis, beside the relation or transition of thought, an emotion, or\noriginal impression, produced by some other principle. The question\nis, whether the emotion first produced be the passion itself, or some\nother impression related to it. This question we cannot be long in\ndeciding. For, besides all the other arguments with which this subject\nabounds, it must evidently appear, that the relation of ideas, which\nexperience shows to be so requisite a circumstance to the production\nof the passion, would be entirely superfluous, were it not to second\na relation of affections, and facilitate the transition from one\nimpression to another. If nature produced immediately the passion\nof pride or humility, it would be completed in itself, and would\nrequire no farther addition or increase from any other affection. But,\nsupposing the first emotion to be only related to pride or humility,\n'tis easily conceived to what purpose the relation of objects may\nserve, and how the two different associations of impressions and ideas,\nby uniting their forces, may assist each other's operation. This is not\nonly easily conceived, but, I will venture to affirm, 'tis the only\nmanner in which we can conceive this subject. An easy transition of\nideas, which, of itself, causes no emotion, can never be necessary, or\neven useful to the passions, but by forwarding the transition betwixt\nsome related impressions. Not to mention that the same object causes\na greater or smaller degree of pride, not only in proportion to the\nincrease or decrease of its qualities, but also to the distance or\nnearness of the relation, which is a clear argument for the transition\nof affections along the relation of ideas, since every change in the\nrelation produces a proportionable change in the passion. Thus one\npart of the preceding system, concerning the relations of ideas, is a\nsufficient proof of the other, concerning that of impressions; and is\nitself so evidently founded on experience, that 'twould be lost time to\nendeavour farther to prove it.\n\nThis will appear still more evidently in particular instances. Men are\nvain of the beauty of their country, of their county, of their parish.\nHere the idea of beauty plainly produces a pleasure. This pleasure\nis related to pride. The object or cause of this pleasure is, by the\nsupposition, related to self, or the object of pride. By this double\nrelation of impressions and ideas, a transition is made from the one\nimpression to the other.\n\nMen are also vain of the temperature of the climate in which they were\nborn; of the fertility of their native soil; of the goodness of the\nwines, fruits, or victuals, produced by it; of the softness or force of\ntheir language, with other particulars of that kind. These objects have\nplainly a reference to the pleasures of the senses, and are originally\nconsidered as agreeable to the feeling, taste, or hearing. How is it\npossible they could ever become objects of pride, except by means of\nthat transition above explained?\n\nThere are some that discover a vanity of an opposite kind, and affect\nto depreciate their own country, in comparison of those to which\nthey have travelled. These persons find, when they are at home, and\nsurrounded with their countrymen, that the strong relation betwixt them\nand their own nation is shared with so many, that 'tis in a manner lost\nto them; whereas their distant relation to a foreign country, which is\nformed by their having seen it and lived in it, is augmented by their\nconsidering how few there are who have done the same. For this reason\nthey always admire the beauty, utility, and rarity of what is abroad,\nabove what is at home.\n\nSince we can be vain of a country, climate, or any inanimate object\nwhich bears a relation to us, 'tis no wonder we are vain of the\nqualities of those who are connected with us by blood or friendship.\nAccordingly we find, that the very same qualities, which in ourselves\nproduce pride, produce also, in a lesser degree, the same affection\nwhen discovered in persons related to us. The beauty, address, merit,\ncredit, and honours of their kindred, are carefully displayed by the\nproud, as some of their most considerable sources of their vanity.\n\nAs we are proud of riches in ourselves, so, to satisfy our vanity, we\ndesire that every one, who has any connexion with us, should likewise\nbe possessed of them, and are ashamed of any one that is mean or poor\namong our friends and relations. For this reason we remove the poor\nas far from us as possible; and as we cannot prevent poverty in some\ndistant collaterals, and our forefathers are taken to be our nearest\nrelations, upon this account every one affects to be of a good family,\nand to be descended from a long succession of rich and honourable\nancestors.\n\nI have frequently observed, that those who boast of the antiquity\nof their families, are glad when they can join this circumstance,\nthat their ancestors for many generations have been uninterrupted\nproprietors of the same portion of land, and that their family has\nnever changed its possessions, or been transplanted into any other\ncounty or province. I have also observed, that 'tis an additional\nsubject of vanity, when they can boast that these possessions have been\ntransmitted through a descent composed entirely of males, and that\nthe honours and fortune have never passed through any female. Let us\nendeavour to explain these phenomena by the foregoing system.\n\n'Tis evident that, when any one boasts of the antiquity of his family,\nthe subjects of his vanity are not merely the extent of time and number\nof ancestors, but also their riches and credit, which are supposed to\nreflect a lustre on himself on account of his relation to them. He\nfirst considers these objects; is affected by them in an agreeable\nmanner; and then returning back to himself, through the relation of\nparent and child, is elevated with the passion of pride, by means of\nthe double relation of impressions and ideas. Since, therefore, the\npassion depends on these relations, whatever strengthens any of the\nrelations must also increase the passion, and whatever weakens the\nrelations must diminish the passion. Now 'tis certain the identity of\nthe possession strengthens the relation of ideas arising from blood\nand kindred, and conveys the fancy with greater facility from one\ngeneration to another, from the remotest ancestors to their posterity,\nwho are both their heirs and their descendants. By this facility the\nimpression is transmitted more entire, and excites a greater degree of\npride and vanity.\n\nThe case is the same with the transmission of the honours and fortune\nthrough a succession of males without their passing through any female.\n'Tis a quality of human nature, which we shall consider afterwards,[3]\nthat the imagination naturally turns to whatever is important and\nconsiderable; and where two objects are presented to it, a small and\na great one, usually leaves the former, and dwells entirely upon the\nlatter. As in the society of marriage, the male sex has the advantage\nabove the female, the husband first engages our attention; and whether\nwe consider him directly, or reach him by passing through related\nobjects, the thought both rests upon him with greater satisfaction,\nand arrives at him with greater facility than his consort. 'Tis easy\nto see, that this property must strengthen the child's relation to the\nfather, and weaken that to the mother. For as all relations are nothing\nbut a propensity to pass from one idea to another, whatever strengthens\nthe propensity strengthens the relation; and as we have a stronger\npropensity to pass from the idea of the children to that of the father,\nthan from the same idea to that of the mother, we ought to regard the\nformer relation as the closer and more considerable. This is the reason\nwhy children commonly bear their father's name, and are esteemed to\nbe of nobler or baser birth, according to _his_ family. And though\nthe mother should be possessed of a superior spirit and genius to the\nfather, as often happens, the _general rule_ prevails, notwithstanding\nthe exception, according to the doctrine above explained. Nay, even\nwhen a superiority of any kind is so great, or when any other reasons\nhave such an effect, as to make the children rather represent the\nmother's family than the father's, the general rule still retains\nsuch an efficacy, that it weakens the relation, and makes a kind of\nbreak in the line of ancestors. The imagination runs not along them\nwith facility, nor is able to transfer the honour and credit of the\nancestors to their posterity of the same name and family so readily,\nas when the transition is conformable to the general rules, and passes\nfrom father to son, or from brother to brother.\n\n\n[3] Part II. Sect. 2.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION X.\n\nOF PROPERTY AND RICHES.\n\n\nBut the relation which is esteemed the closest, and which, of all\nothers, produces most commonly the passion of pride, is that of\n_property_. This relation 'twill be impossible for me fully to explain\nbefore I come to treat of justice and the other moral virtues. 'Tis\nsufficient to observe on this occasion, that property may be defined,\n_such a relation betwixt a person and an object as permits him, but\nforbids any other, the free use and possession of it, without violating\nthe laws of justice and moral equity_. If justice therefore be a\nvirtue, which has a natural and original influence on the human mind,\nproperty may be looked upon as a particular species of _causation_;\nwhether we consider the liberty it gives the proprietor to operate\nas he pleases upon the object, or the advantages which he reaps\nfrom it. 'Tis the same case, if justice, according to the system of\ncertain philosophers, should be esteemed an artificial and not a\nnatural virtue. For then honour, and custom, and civil laws supply\nthe place of natural conscience, and produce in some degree, the same\neffects. This, in the mean time, is certain, that the mention of the\nproperty naturally carries our thought to the proprietor, and of the\nproprietor to the property; which being a proof of a perfect relation\nof ideas, is all that is requisite to our present purpose. A relation\nof ideas, joined to that of impressions, always produces a transition\nof affections; and therefore, whenever any pleasure or pain arises\nfrom an object, connected with us by property, we may be certain, that\neither pride or humility must arise from this conjunction of relations,\nif the foregoing system be solid and satisfactory. And whether it be so\nor not, we may soon satisfy ourselves by the most cursory view of human\nlife.\n\nEvery thing belonging to a vain man is the best that is any where to\nbe found. His houses, equipage, furniture, clothes, horses, hounds,\nexcel all others in his conceit; and 'tis easy to observe, that from\nthe least advantage in any of these, he draws a new subject of pride\nand vanity. His wine, if you'll believe him, has a finer flavour than\nany other; his cookery is more exquisite; his table more orderly; his\nservant more expert; the air in which he lives more healthful; the soil\nhe cultivates more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier, and to greater\nperfection; such a thing is remarkable for its novelty; such another\nfor its antiquity: this is the workmanship of a famous artist, that\nbelonged to such a prince or great man; all objects, in a word, that\nare useful, beautiful, or surprising, or are related to such, may, by\nmeans of property, give rise to this passion. These agree in giving\npleasure, and agree in nothing else. This alone is common to them, and\ntherefore must be the quality that produces the passion, which is their\ncommon effect. As every new instance is a new argument, and as the\ninstances are here without number, I may venture to affirm, that scarce\nany system was ever so fully proved by experience, as that which I have\nhere advanced.\n\nIf the property of any thing that gives pleasure either by its\nutility, beauty, or novelty, produces also pride by a double relation\nof impressions and ideas; we need not be surprised that the power of\nacquiring this property should have the same effect. Now, riches are to\nbe considered as the power of acquiring the property of what pleases;\nand 'tis only in this view they have any influence on the passions.\nPaper will, on many occasions, be considered as riches, and that\nbecause it may convey the power of acquiring money; and money is not\nriches, as it is a metal endowed with certain qualities of solidity,\nweight, and fusibility; but only as it has a relation to the pleasures\nand conveniences of life. Taking then this for granted, which is in\nitself so evident, we may draw from it one of the strongest arguments\nI have yet employed to prove the influence of the double relations on\npride and humility.\n\nIt has been observed, in treating of the understanding, that the\ndistinction which we sometimes make betwixt a _power_ and the\n_exercise_ of it, is entirely frivolous, and that neither man nor any\nother being ought ever to be thought possessed of any ability, unless\nit be exerted and put in action. But though this be strictly true in\na just and _philosophical_ way of thinking, 'tis certain it is not\n_the philosophy_ of our passions, but that many things operate upon\nthem by means of the idea and supposition of power, independent of\nits actual exercise. We are pleased when we acquire an ability of\nprocuring pleasure, and are displeased when another acquires a power of\ngiving pain. This is evident from experience; but in order to give a\njust explication of the matter, and account for this satisfaction and\nuneasiness, we must weigh the following reflections.\n\n'Tis evident the error of distinguishing power from its exercise\nproceeds not entirely from the scholastic doctrine of _free will_,\nwhich, indeed, enters very little into common life, and has but small\ninfluence on our vulgar and popular ways of thinking. According to\nthat doctrine, motives deprive us not of free-will, nor take away our\npower of performing or forbearing any action. But according to common\nnotions a man has no power, where very considerable motives lie betwixt\nhim and the satisfaction of his desires, and determine him to forbear\nwhat he wishes to perform. I do not think I have fallen into my enemy's\npower when I see him pass me in the streets with a sword by his side,\nwhile I am, unprovided of any weapon. I know that the fear of the civil\nmagistrate is as strong a restraint as any of iron, and that I am in as\nperfect safety as if he were chained or imprisoned. But when a person\nacquires such an authority over me, that not only there is no external\nobstacle to his actions, but also that he may punish or reward me as he\npleases without any dread of punishment in his turn, I then attribute a\nfull power to him, and consider myself as his subject or vassal.\n\nNow, if we compare these two cases, that of a person who has very\nstrong motives of interest or safety to forbear any action, and\nthat of another who lies under no such obligation, we shall find,\naccording to the philosophy explained in the foregoing book, that\nthe only _known_ difference betwixt them lies in this, that in the\nformer case we conclude, from _past experience_, that the person never\nwill perform that action, and in the latter, that he possibly or\nprobably will perform it. Nothing is more fluctuating and inconstant\non many occasions than the will of man; nor is there any thing but\nstrong motives which can give us an absolute certainty in pronouncing\nconcerning any of his future actions. When we see a person free\nfrom these motives, we suppose a possibility either of his acting\nor forbearing; and though, in general, we may conclude him to be\ndetermined by motives and causes, yet this removes not the uncertainty\nof our judgment concerning these causes, nor the influence of that\nuncertainty on the passions. Since, therefore, we ascribe a power of\nperforming an action to every one who has no very powerful motive to\nforbear it, and refuse it to such as have, it may justly be concluded,\nthat _power_ has always a reference to its _exercise_, either actual\nor probable, and that we consider a person as endowed with any ability\nwhen we find, from past experience, that 'tis probable, or at least\npossible, he may exert it. And indeed, as our passions always regard\nthe real existence of objects, and we always judge of this reality\nfrom past instances, nothing can be more likely of itself, without\nany farther reasoning, than that power consists in the possibility or\nprobability of any action, as discovered by experience and the practice\nof the world.\n\nNow, 'tis evident that, wherever a person is in such a situation with\nregard to me that there is no very powerful motive to deter him from\ninjuring me, and consequently 'tis _uncertain_ whether he will injure\nme or not, I must be uneasy in such a situation, and cannot consider\nthe possibility or probability of that injury without a sensible\nconcern. The passions are not only affected by such events as are\ncertain and infallible, but also in an inferior degree by such as are\npossible and contingent. And though perhaps I never really feel any\nharm, and discover by the event, that, philosophically speaking, the\nperson never had any power of harming me, since he did not exert any,\nthis prevents not my uneasiness from the preceding uncertainty. The\nagreeable passions may here operate as well as the uneasy, and convey a\npleasure when I perceive a good to become either possible or probable\nby the possibility or probability of another's bestowing it on me, upon\nthe removal of any strong motives which might formerly have hindered\nhim.\n\nBut we may farther observe, that this satisfaction increases, when\nany good approaches, in such a manner that it is in one's _own_ power\nto take or leave it, and there neither is any physical impediment,\nnor any very strong motive to hinder our enjoyment. As all men desire\npleasure, nothing can be more probable than its existence when there is\nno external obstacle to the producing it, and men perceive no danger\nin following their inclinations. In that case their imagination easily\nanticipates the satisfaction, and conveys the same joy as if they were\npersuaded of its real and actual existence.\n\nBut this accounts not sufficiently for the satisfaction which attends\nriches. A miser receives delight from his money; that is, from the\n_power_ it affords him of procuring all the pleasures and conveniences\nof life, though he knows he has enjoyed his riches for forty years\nwithout ever enjoying them; and consequently cannot conclude, by any\nspecies of reasoning, that the real existence of these pleasures is\nnearer, than if he were entirely deprived of all his possessions.\nBut though he cannot form any such conclusion in a way of reasoning\nconcerning the nearer approach of the pleasure, 'tis certain he\n_imagines_ it to approach nearer, whenever all external obstacles are\nremoved, along with the more powerful motives of interest and danger,\nwhich oppose it. For farther satisfaction on this head, I must refer to\nmy account of the will,[4] where I shall explain that false sensation\nof liberty, which makes us imagine we can perform any thing that is not\nvery dangerous or destructive. Whenever any other person is under no\nstrong obligations of interest to forbear any pleasure, we judge from\n_experience_, that the pleasure will exist, and that he will probably\nobtain it. But when ourselves are in that situation, we judge from an\n_illusion of the fancy_, that the pleasure is still closer and more\nimmediate. The will seems to move easily every way, and casts a shadow\nor image of itself even to that side on which it did not settle. By\nmeans of this image the enjoyment seems to approach nearer to us, and\ngives us the same lively satisfaction as if it were perfectly certain\nand unavoidable.\n\n'Twill now be easy to draw this whole reasoning to a point, and\nto prove, that when riches produce any pride or vanity in their\npossessors, as they never fail to do, 'tis only by means of a double\nrelation of impressions and ideas. The very essence of riches consists\nin the power of procuring the pleasures and conveniences of life.\nThe very essence of this power consists in the probability of its\nexercise, and in its causing us to anticipate, by a _true_ or _false_\nreasoning, the real existence of the pleasure. This anticipation of\npleasure is, in itself, a very considerable pleasure; and as its cause\nis some possession or property which we enjoy, and which is thereby\nrelated to us, we here clearly see all the parts of the foregoing\nsystem most exactly and distinctly drawn out before us.\n\nFor the same reason, that riches cause pleasure and pride, and\npoverty excites uneasiness and humility, power must produce the\nformer emotions, and slavery the latter. Power or an authority over\nothers makes us capable of satisfying all our desires; as slavery, by\nsubjecting us to the will of others, exposes us to a thousand wants and\nmortifications.\n\n'Tis here worth observing, that the vanity of power, or shame of\nslavery, are much augmented by the consideration of the persons over\nwhom we exercise our authority, or who exercise it over us. For,\nsupposing it possible to frame statues of such an admirable mechanism,\nthat they could move and act in obedience to the will; 'tis evident the\npossession of them would give pleasure and pride, but not to such a\ndegree as the same authority, when exerted over sensible and rational\ncreatures, whose condition, being compared to our own, makes it seem\nmore agreeable and honourable. Comparison is in every case a sure\nmethod of augmenting our esteem of any thing. A rich man feels the\nfelicity of his condition better by opposing it to that of a beggar.\nBut there is a peculiar advantage in power, by the contrast, which\nis, in a manner, presented to us betwixt ourselves and the person we\ncommand. The comparison is obvious and natural: the imagination finds\nit in the very subject: the passage of the thought to its conception\nis smooth and easy. And that this circumstance has a considerable\neffect in augmenting its influence, will appear afterwards in examining\nthe nature of _malice_ and _envy_.\n\n\n[4] Part III. Sect. 2.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION XI.\n\nOF THE LOVE OF FAME.\n\n\nBut beside these original causes of pride and humility, there is a\nsecondary one in the opinions of others, which has an equal influence\non the affections. Our reputation, our character, our name, are\nconsiderations of vast weight and importance; and even the other causes\nof pride, virtue, beauty and riches, have little influence, when not\nseconded by the opinions and sentiments of others. In order to account\nfor this phenomenon, 'twill be necessary to take some compass, and\nfirst explain the nature of _sympathy_.\n\nNo quality of human nature is more remarkable, both in itself and\nin its consequences, than that propensity we have to sympathize\nwith others, and to receive by communication their inclinations and\nsentiments, however different from, or even contrary to, our own. This\nis not only conspicuous in children, who implicitly embrace every\nopinion proposed to them; but also in men of the greatest judgment and\nunderstanding, who find it very difficult to follow their own reason\nor inclination, in opposition to that of their friends and daily\ncompanions. To this principle we ought to ascribe the great uniformity\nwe may observe in the humours and turn of thinking of those of the\nsame nation; and 'tis much more probable, that this resemblance arises\nfrom sympathy, than from any influence of the soil and climate, which,\nthough they continue invariably the same, are not able to preserve the\ncharacter of a nation the same for a century together. A good-natured\nman finds himself in an instant of the same humour with his company;\nand even the proudest and most surly take a tincture from their\ncountrymen and acquaintance. A cheerful countenance infuses a sensible\ncomplacency and serenity into my mind; as an angry or sorrowful one\nthrows a sudden damp upon me. Hatred, resentment, esteem, love,\ncourage, mirth and melancholy; all these passions I feel more from\ncommunication, than from my own natural temper and disposition. So\nremarkable a phenomenon merits our attention, and must be traced up to\nits first principles.\n\nWhen any affection is infused by sympathy, it is at first known only\nby its effects, and by those external signs in the countenance and\nconversation, which convey an idea of it. This idea is presently\nconverted into an impression, and acquires such a degree of force\nand vivacity, as to become the very passion itself, and produce an\nequal emotion as any original affection. However instantaneous this\nchange of the idea into an impression may be, it proceeds from certain\nviews and reflections, which will not escape the strict scrutiny of a\nphilosopher, though they may the person himself who makes them.\n\n'Tis evident that the idea, or rather impression of ourselves, is\nalways intimately present with us, and that our consciousness gives us\nso lively a conception of our own person, that 'tis not possible to\nimagine that any thing can in this particular go beyond it. Whatever\nobject, therefore, is related to ourselves, must be conceived with a\nlike vivacity of conception, according to the foregoing principles; and\nthough this relation should not be so strong as that of causation, it\nmust still have a considerable influence. Resemblance and contiguity\nare relations not to be neglected; especially when, by an inference\nfrom cause and effect, and by the observation of external signs, we are\ninformed of the real existence of the object, which is resembling or\ncontiguous.\n\nNow, 'tis obvious that nature has preserved a great resemblance among\nall human creatures, and that we never remark any passion or principle\nin others, of which, in some degree or other, we may not find a\nparallel in ourselves. The case is the same with the fabric of the\nmind as with that of the body. However the parts may differ in shape\nor size, their structure and composition are in general the same.\nThere is a very remarkable resemblance, which preserves itself amidst\nall their variety; and this resemblance must very much contribute to\nmake us enter into the sentiments of others, and embrace them with\nfacility and pleasure. Accordingly we find, that where, beside the\ngeneral resemblance of our natures, there is any peculiar similarity\nin our manners, or character, or country, or language, it facilitates\nthe sympathy. The stronger the relation is betwixt ourselves and any\nobject, the more easily does the imagination make the transition, and\nconvey to the related idea the vivacity of conception, with which we\nalways form the idea of our own person.\n\nNor is resemblance the only relation which has this effect, but\nreceives new force from other relations that may accompany it. The\nsentiments of others have little influence when far removed from\nus, and require the relation of contiguity to make them communicate\nthemselves entirely. The relations of blood, being a species of\ncausation, may sometimes contribute to the same effect; as also\nacquaintance, which operates in the same manner with education and\ncustom, as we shall see more fully afterwards.[5] All these relations,\nwhen united together, convey the impression or consciousness of our own\nperson to the idea of the sentiments or passions of others, and makes\nus conceive them in the strongest and most lively manner.\n\nIt has been remarked in the beginning of this Treatise, that all ideas\nare borrowed from impressions, and that these two kinds of perceptions\ndiffer only in the degrees of force and vivacity with which they\nstrike upon the soul. The component parts of ideas and impressions are\nprecisely alike. The manner and order of their appearance may be the\nsame. The different degrees of their force and vivacity are, therefore,\nthe only particulars that distinguish them: and as this difference may\nbe removed, in some measure, by a relation betwixt the impressions\nand ideas, 'tis no wonder an idea of a sentiment or passion may by\nthis means be so enlivened as to become the very sentiment or passion.\nThe lively idea of any object always approaches its impression; and\n'tis certain we may feel sickness and pain from the mere force of\nimagination, and make a malady real by often thinking of it. But this\nis most remarkable in the opinions and affections; and 'tis there\nprincipally that a lively idea is converted into an impression. Our\naffections depend more upon ourselves, and the internal operations of\nthe mind, than any other impressions; for which reason they arise more\nnaturally from the imagination, and from every lively idea we form of\nthem. This is the nature and cause of sympathy; and 'tis after this\nmanner we enter so deep into the opinions and affections of others,\nwhenever we discover them.\n\nWhat is principally remarkable in this whole affair, is the strong\nconfirmation these phenomena give to the foregoing system concerning\nthe understanding, and consequently to the present one concerning\nthe passions, since these are analogous to each other. 'Tis indeed\nevident, that when we sympathize with the passions and sentiments\nof others, these movements appear at first in _our_ mind as mere\nideas, and are conceived to belong to another person, as we conceive\nany other matter of fact. 'Tis also evident, that the ideas of the\naffections of others are converted into the very impressions they\nrepresent, and that the passions arise in conformity to the images we\nform of them. All this is an object of the plainest experience, and\ndepends not on any hypothesis of philosophy. That science can only be\nadmitted to explain the phenomena; though at the same time it must be\nconfessed, they are so clear of themselves, that there is but little\noccasion to employ it. For, besides the relation of cause and effect,\nby which we are convinced of the reality of the passion with which we\nsympathize; besides this, I say, we must be assisted by the relations\nof resemblance and contiguity, in order to feel the sympathy in its\nfull perfection. And since these relations can entirely convert an\nidea into an impression, and convey the vivacity of the latter into\nthe former, so perfectly as to lose nothing of it in the transition,\nwe may easily conceive how the relation of cause and effect alone,\nmay serve to strengthen and enliven an idea. In sympathy there is an\nevident conversion of an idea into an impression. This conversion\narises from the relation of objects to ourself. Ourself is always\nintimately present to us. Let us compare all these circumstances, and\nwe shall find, that sympathy is exactly correspondent to the operations\nof our understanding; and even contains something more surprising and\nextraordinary.\n\n'Tis now time to turn our view from the general consideration of\nsympathy, to its influence on pride and humility, when these passions\narise from praise and blame, from reputation and infamy. We may\nobserve, that no person is ever praised by another for any quality\nwhich would not, if real, produce of itself a pride in the person\npossessed of it. The eulogiums either turn upon his power, or riches,\nor family, or virtue; all of which are subjects of vanity, that we\nhave already explained and accounted for. 'Tis certain, then, that\nif a person considered himself in the same light in which he appears\nto his admirer, he would first receive a separate pleasure, and\nafterwards a pride or self-satisfaction, according to the hypothesis\nabove explained. Now, nothing is more natural than for us to embrace\nthe opinions of others in this particular, both from _sympathy_,\nwhich renders all their sentiments intimately present to us, and from\n_reasoning_, which makes us regard their judgment as a kind of argument\nfor what they affirm. These two principles of authority and sympathy\ninfluence almost all our opinions, but must have a peculiar influence\nwhen we judge of our own worth and character. Such judgments are\nalways attended with passion;[6] and nothing tends more to disturb\nour understanding, and precipitate us into any opinions, however\nunreasonable, than their connexion with passion, which diffuses itself\nover the imagination, and gives an additional force to every related\nidea. To which we may add, that, being conscious of great partiality in\nour own favour, we are peculiarly pleased with any thing that confirms\nthe good opinion we have of ourselves, and are easily shocked with\nwhatever opposes it.\n\nAll this appears very probable in theory; but in order to bestow a\nfull certainty on this reasoning, we must examine the phenomena of the\npassions, and see if they agree with it.\n\nAmong these phenomena we may esteem it a very favourable one to our\npresent purpose, that though fame in general be agreeable, yet we\nreceive a much greater satisfaction from the approbation of those\nwhom we ourselves esteem and approve of, than of those whom we hate\nand despise. In like manner we are principally mortified with the\ncontempt of persons upon whose judgment we set some value, and are,\nin a great measure, indifferent about the opinions of the rest of\nmankind. But if the mind received from any original instinct a desire\nof fame, and aversion to infamy, fame and infamy would influence us\nwithout distinction; and every opinion, according as it were favourable\nor unfavourable, would equally excite that desire or aversion. The\njudgment of a fool is the judgment of another person, as well as\nthat of a wise man, and is only inferior in its influence on our own\njudgment.\n\nWe are not only better pleased with the approbation of a wise man than\nwith that of a fool, but receive an additional satisfaction from the\nformer, when 'tis obtained after a long and intimate acquaintance. This\nis accounted for after the same manner.\n\nThe praises of others never give us much pleasure, unless they concur\nwith our own opinion, and extol us for those qualities in which we\nchiefly excel. A mere soldier little values the character of eloquence;\na gownman, of courage; a bishop, of humour; or a merchant, of\nlearning. Whatever esteem a man may have for any quality, abstractedly\nconsidered, when he is conscious he is not possessed of it, the\nopinions of the whole world will give him little pleasure in that\nparticular, and that because they never will be able to draw his own\nopinion after them.\n\nNothing is more usual than for men of good families, but narrow\ncircumstances, to leave their friends and country, and rather seek\ntheir livelihood by mean and mechanical employments among strangers,\nthan among those who are acquainted with their birth and education.\nWe shall be unknown, say they, where we go. Nobody will suspect from\nwhat family we are sprung. We shall be removed from all our friends and\nacquaintance, and our poverty and meanness will by that means sit more\neasy upon us. In examining these sentiments, I find they afford many\nvery convincing arguments for my present purpose.\n\nFirst, we may infer from them that the uneasiness of being contemned\ndepends on sympathy, and that sympathy depends on the relation of\nobjects to ourselves, since we are most uneasy under the contempt of\npersons who are both related to us by blood and contiguous in place.\nHence we seek to diminish this sympathy and uneasiness by separating\nthese relations, and placing ourselves in a contiguity to strangers,\nand at a distance from relations.\n\nSecondly, we may conclude, that relations are requisite to sympathy,\nnot absolutely considered as relations, but by their influence\nin converting our ideas of the sentiments of others into the very\nsentiments by means of the association betwixt the idea of their\npersons and that of our own. For here the relations of kindred and\ncontiguity both subsist, but not being united in the same persons, they\ncontribute in a less degree to the sympathy.\n\nThirdly, this very circumstance of the diminution of sympathy, by the\nseparation of relations, is worthy of our attention. Suppose I am\nplaced in a poor condition among strangers, and consequently am but\nlightly treated; I yet find myself easier in that situation, than when\nI was every day exposed to the contempt of my kindred and countrymen.\nHere I feel a double contempt; from my relations, but they are absent;\nfrom those about me, but they are strangers. This double contempt is\nlikewise strengthened by the two relations of kindred and contiguity.\nBut as the persons are not the same who are connected with me by those\ntwo relations, this difference of ideas separates the impressions\narising from the contempt, and keeps them from running into each other.\nThe contempt of my neighbours has a certain influence, as has also\nthat of my kindred; but these influences are distinct and never unite,\nas when the contempt proceeds from persons who are at once both my\nneighbours and kindred. This phenomenon is analogous to the system of\npride and humility above explained, which may seem so extraordinary to\nvulgar apprehensions.\n\nFourthly, a person in these circumstances naturally conceals his birth\nfrom those among whom he lives, and is very uneasy if any one suspects\nhim to be of a family much superior to his present fortune and way of\nliving. Every thing in this world is judged of by comparison What is\nan immense fortune for a private gentleman, is beggary for a prince.\nA peasant would think himself happy in what cannot afford necessaries\nfor a gentleman. When a man has either been accustomed to a more\nsplendid way of living, or thinks himself entitled to it by his birth\nand quality, every thing below is disagreeable and even shameful; and\n'tis with the greatest industry he conceals his pretensions to a better\nfortune. Here he himself knows his misfortunes; but as those with whom\nhe lives are ignorant of them, he has the disagreeable reflection and\ncomparison suggested only by his own thoughts, and never receives it by\na sympathy with others; which must contribute very much to his ease and\nsatisfaction.\n\nIf there be any objections to this hypothesis, _that the pleasure which\nwe receive from praise arises from a communication of sentiments_, we\nshall find, upon examination, that these objections, when taken in a\nproper light, will serve to confirm it. Popular fame may be agreeable\neven to a man who despises the vulgar; but 'tis because their multitude\ngives them additional weight and authority. Plagiaries are delighted\nwith praises, which they are conscious they do not deserve; but this\nis a kind of castle-building, where the imagination amuses itself\nwith its own fictions, and strives to render them firm and stable by\na sympathy with the sentiments of others. Proud men are most shocked\nwith contempt, though they do not most readily assent to it; but 'tis\nbecause of the opposition betwixt the passion, which is natural to\nthem, and that received by sympathy. A violent lover, in like manner,\nis very much displeased when you blame and condemn his love; though\n'tis evident your opposition can have no influence but by the hold it\ntakes of himself, and by his sympathy with you. If he despises you, or\nperceives you are in jest, whatever you say has no effect upon him.\n\n\n[5] Part II. Sect. 4.\n\n[6] Book I. Part III. Sect. 10.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION XII.\n\nOF THE PRIDE AND HUMILITY OF ANIMALS.\n\n\nThus, in whatever light we consider this subject, we may still\nobserve, that the causes of pride and humility correspond exactly to\nour hypothesis, and that nothing can excite either of these passions,\nunless it be both related to ourselves, and produces a pleasure or\npain independent of the passion. We have not only proved, that a\ntendency to produce pleasure or pain is common to all the causes of\npride or humility, but also that 'tis the only thing which is common,\nand consequently is the quality by which they operate. We have farther\nproved, that the most considerable causes of these passions are\nreally nothing but the power of producing either agreeable or uneasy\nsensations; and therefore that all their effects, and amongst the rest\npride and humility, are derived solely from that origin. Such simple\nand natural principles, founded on such solid proofs, cannot fail to be\nreceived by philosophers, unless opposed by some objections that have\nescaped me.\n\n'Tis usual with anatomists to join their observations and experiments\non human bodies to those on beasts; and, from the agreement of these\nexperiments, to derive an additional argument for any particular\nhypothesis. 'Tis indeed certain, that where the structure of parts in\nbrutes is the same as in men, and the operation of these parts also\nthe same, the causes of that operation cannot be different; and that\nwhatever we discover to be true of the one species, may be concluded,\nwithout hesitation, to be certain of the other. Thus, though the\nmixture of humours, and the composition of minute parts, may justly\nbe presumed to be somewhat different in men from what it is in mere\nanimals, and therefore any experiment we make upon the one concerning\nthe effects of medicines, will not always apply to the other, yet, as\nthe structure of the veins and muscles, the fabric and situation of the\nheart, of the lungs, the stomach, the liver, and other parts, are the\nsame or nearly the same in all animals, the very same hypothesis, which\nin one species explains muscular motion, the progress of the chyle,\nthe circulation of the blood, must be applicable to every one; and,\naccording as it agrees or disagrees with the experiments we may make in\nany species of creatures, we may draw a proof of its truth or falsehood\non the whole. Let us therefore apply this method of inquiry, which is\nfound so just and useful in reasonings concerning the body, to our\npresent anatomy of the mind, and see what discoveries we can make by it.\n\nIn order to this, we must first show the correspondence of _passions_\nin men and animals, and afterwards compare the _causes_, which produce\nthese passions.\n\n'Tis plain, that almost in every species of creatures, but especially\nof the nobler kind, there are many evident marks of pride and humility.\nThe very port and gait of a swan, or turkey, or peacock, show the high\nidea he has entertained of himself, and his contempt of all others.\nThis is the more remarkable, that, in the two last species of animals,\nthe pride always attends the beauty, and is discovered in the mule\nonly. The vanity and emulation of nightingales in singing have been\ncommonly remarked; as likewise that of horses in swiftness, of hounds\nin sagacity and smell, of the bull and cock in strength, and of every\nother animal in his particular excellency. Add to this, that every\nspecies of creatures, which approach so often to man as to familiarize\nthemselves with him, show an evident pride in his approbation, and\nare pleased with his praises and caresses, independent of every\nother consideration. Nor are they the caresses of every one without\ndistinction which give them this vanity, but those principally of\nthe persons they know and love; in the same manner as that passion\nis excited in mankind. All these are evident proofs that pride and\nhumility are not merely human passions, but extend themselves over the\nwhole animal creation.\n\nThe _causes_ of these passions are likewise much the same in beasts\nas in us, making a just allowance for our superior knowledge and\nunderstanding. Thus, animals have little or no sense of virtue or vice;\nthey quickly lose sight of the relations of blood; and are incapable\nof that of right and property: for which reason the causes of their\npride and humility must lie solely in the body, and can never be placed\neither in the mind or external objects. But so far as regards the body,\nthe same qualities cause pride in the animal as in the human kind; and\n'tis on beauty, strength, swiftness, or some other useful or agreeable\nquality, that this passage is always founded.\n\nThe next question is, whether, since those passions are the same, and\narise from the same causes through the whole creation, the _manner_,\nin which the causes operate, be also the same. According to all rules\nof analogy, this is justly to be expected; and if we find upon\ntrial, that the explication of these phenomena, which we make use of\nin one species, will not apply to the rest, we may presume that that\nexplication, however specious, is in reality without foundation.\n\nIn order to decide this question, let us consider, that there is\nevidently the same _relation_ of ideas, and derived from the same\ncauses, in the minds of animals as in those of men. A dog, that has\nhid a bone, often forgets the place; but when brought to it, his\nthought passes easily to what he formerly concealed, by means of the\ncontiguity, which produces a relation among his ideas. In like manner,\nwhen he has been heartily beat in any place, he will tremble on his\napproach to it, even though he discover no signs of any present danger.\nThe effects of resemblance are not so remarkable; but as that relation\nmakes a considerable ingredient in causation, of which all animals show\nso evident a judgment, we may conclude, that the three relations of\nresemblance, contiguity, and causation operate in the same manner upon\nbeasts as upon human creatures.\n\nThere are also instances of the relation of impressions, sufficient to\nconvince us, that there is an union of certain affections with each\nother in the inferior species of creatures, as well as in the superior,\nand that their minds are frequently conveyed through a series of\nconnected emotions. A dog, when elevated with joy, runs naturally into\nlove and kindness, whether of his master or of the sex. In like manner,\nwhen full of pain and sorrow, he becomes quarrelsome and ill natured;\nand that passion, which at first was grief, is by the smallest occasion\nconverted into anger.\n\nThus, all the internal principles that are necessary in us to produce\neither pride or humility, are common to all creatures; and since the\ncauses, which excite these passions, are likewise the same, we may\njustly conclude, that these causes operate after the same _manner_\nthrough the whole animal creation. My hypothesis is so simple, and\nsupposes so little reflection and judgment, that 'tis applicable\nto every sensible creature; which must not only be allowed to be a\nconvincing proof of its veracity, but, I am confident, will be found an\nobjection to every other system.\n\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\nOF LOVE AND HATRED.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I.\n\nOF THE OBJECT AND CAUSES OF LOVE AND HATRED.\n\n\n'Tis altogether impossible to give any definition of the passions\nof _love_ and _hatred_; and that because they produce merely a\nsimple impression, without any mixture or composition. 'Twould be\nas unnecessary to attempt any description of them, drawn from their\nnature, origin, causes, and objects; and that both because these\nare the subjects of our present inquiry, and because these passions\nof themselves are sufficiently known from our common feeling and\nexperience. This we have already observed concerning pride and\nhumility, and here repeat it concerning love and hatred; and, indeed,\nthere is so great a resemblance betwixt these two sets of passions,\nthat we shall be obliged to begin with a kind of abridgment of our\nreasonings concerning the former, in order to explain the latter.\n\nAs the immediate _object_ of pride and humility is self, or that\nidentical person of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are\nintimately conscious; so the _object_ of love and hatred is some\nother person, of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are not\nconscious. This is sufficiently evident from experience. Our love and\nhatred are always directed to some sensible being external to us; and\nwhen we talk of _self-love_, 'tis not in a proper sense, nor has the\nsensation it produces any thing in common with that tender emotion,\nwhich is excited by a friend or mistress. 'Tis the same case with\nhatred. We may be mortified by our own faults and follies; but never\nfeel any anger or hatred, except from the injuries of others.\n\nBut though the object of love and hatred be always some other person,\n'tis plain that the object is not, properly speaking, the _cause_ of\nthese passions, or alone sufficient to excite them. For since love\nand hatred are directly contrary in their sensation, and have the\nsame object in common, if that object were also their cause, it would\nproduce these opposite passions in an equal degree; and as they must,\nfrom the very first moment, destroy each other, none of them would ever\nbe able to make its appearance. There must, therefore, be some cause\ndifferent from the object.\n\nIf we consider the causes of love and hatred, we shall find they are\nvery much diversified, and have not many things in common. The virtue,\nknowledge, wit, good sense, good humour of any person, produce love\nand esteem; as the opposite qualities, hatred and contempt. The same\npassions arise from bodily accomplishments, such as beauty, force,\nswiftness, dexterity; and from their contraries; as likewise from the\nexternal advantages and disadvantages of family, possessions, clothes,\nnation and climate. There is not one of these objects but what, by\nits different qualities, may produce love and esteem, or hatred and\ncontempt.\n\nFrom the view of these causes we may derive a new distinction betwixt\nthe _quality_ that operates, and the _subject_ on which it is placed.\nA prince that is possessed of a stately palace commands the esteem of\nthe people upon that account; and that, _first_, by the beauty of the\npalace; and, _secondly_, by the relation of property, which connects it\nwith him. The removal of either of these destroys the passion; which\nevidently proves that the cause is a compounded one.\n\n'Twould be tedious to trace the passions of love and hatred through all\nthe observations which we have formed concerning pride and humility,\nand which are equally applicable to both sets of passions. 'Twill be\nsufficient to _remark_, in general, that the object of love and hatred\nis evidently some thinking person; and that the sensation of the former\npassion is always agreeable, and of the latter uneasy. We may also\n_suppose_, with some show of probability, _that the cause of both these\npassions is always related to a thinking being_, and _that the cause of\nthe former produces a separate pleasure, and of the latter a separate\nuneasiness_.\n\nOne of these suppositions, viz. that the cause of love and hatred must\nbe related to a person or thinking being, in order to produce these\npassions, is not only probable, but too evident to be contested. Virtue\nand vice, when considered in the abstract; beauty and deformity, when\nplaced on inanimate objects; poverty and riches, when belonging to a\nthird person, excite no degree of love or hatred, esteem or contempt,\ntowards those who have no relation to them. A person looking out at a\nwindow sees me in the street, and beyond me a beautiful palace, with\nwhich I have no concern: I believe none will pretend, that this person\nwill pay me the same respect as if I were owner of the palace.\n\n'Tis not so evident at first sight, that a relation of impressions\nis requisite to these passions, and that because in the transition\nthe one impression is so much confounded with the other, that they\nbecome in a manner undistinguishable. But as in pride and humility,\nwe have easily been able to make the separation, and to prove, that\nevery cause of these passions produces a separate pain or pleasure, I\nmight here observe the same method with the same success, in examining\nparticularly the several causes of love and hatred. But as I hasten to\na full and decisive proof of these systems, I delay this examination\nfor a moment; and in the mean time shall endeavour to convert to my\npresent purpose all my reasonings concerning pride and humility, by an\nargument that is founded on unquestionable experience.\n\nThere are few persons that are satisfied with their own character,\nor genius, or fortune, who are not desirous of showing themselves to\nthe world, and of acquiring the love and approbation of mankind. Now\n'tis evident, that the very same qualities and circumstances, which\nare the causes of pride or self-esteem, are also the causes of vanity,\nor the desire of reputation; and that we always put to view those\nparticulars with which in ourselves we are best satisfied. But if love\nand esteem were not produced by the same qualities as pride, according\nas these qualities are related to ourselves or others, this method of\nproceeding would be very absurd; nor could men expect a correspondence\nin the sentiments of every other person with those themselves have\nentertained. 'Tis true, few can form exact systems of the passions, or\nmake reflections on their general nature and resemblances. But without\nsuch a progress in philosophy, we are not subject to many mistakes in\nthis particular, but are sufficiently guided by common experience, as\nwell as by a kind of _presentation_, which tells us what will operate\non others, by what we feel immediately in ourselves. Since then the\nsame qualities that produce pride or humility, cause love or hatred,\nall the arguments that have been employed to prove that the causes\nof the former passions excite a pain or pleasure independent of the\npassion, will be applicable with equal evidence to the causes of the\nlatter.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II.\n\nEXPERIMENTS TO CONFIRM THIS SYSTEM.\n\n\nUpon duly weighing these arguments, no one will make any scruple to\nassent to that conclusion I draw from them, concerning the transition\nalong related impressions and ideas, especially as 'tis a principle in\nitself so easy and natural. But that we may place this system beyond\ndoubt, both with regard to love and hatred, pride and humility, 'twill\nbe proper to make some new experiments upon all these passions, as well\nas to recal a few of these observations which I have formerly touched\nupon.\n\nIn order to make these experiments, let us suppose I am in company with\na person, whom I formerly regarded without any sentiments either of\nfriendship or enmity. Here I have the natural and ultimate object of\nall these four passions placed before me. Myself am the proper object\nof pride or humility; the other person of love or hatred.\n\nRegard now with attention the nature of these passions, and their\nsituation with respect to each other. 'Tis evident here are four\naffections, placed as it were in a square, or regular connexion with,\nand distance from, each other. The passions of pride and humility,\nas well as those of love and hatred, are connected together by the\nidentity of their object, which to the first set of passions is self,\nto the second some other person. These two lines of communication or\nconnexion form two opposite sides of the square. Again, pride and love\nare agreeable passions; hatred and humility uneasy. This similitude of\nsensation betwixt pride and love, and that betwixt humility and hatred,\nform a new connexion, and may be considered as the other two sides of\nthe square. Upon the whole, pride is connected with humility, love\nwith hatred, by their objects or ideas: pride with love, humility with\nhatred, by their sensations or impressions.\n\nI say then, that nothing can produce any of these passions without\nbearing it a double relation, viz. of ideas to the object of the\npassion, and of sensation to the passion itself. This we must prove by\nour experiments.\n\n_First experiment_. To proceed with the greater order in these\nexperiments, let us first suppose, that being placed in the situation\nabove mentioned, viz. in company with some other person, there is an\nobject presented, that has no relation either of impressions or ideas\nto any of these passions. Thus, suppose we regard together an ordinary\nstone, or other common object, belonging to neither of us, and causing\nof itself no emotion, or independent pain and pleasure: 'tis evident\nsuch an object will produce none of these four passions. Let us try it\nupon each of them successively. Let us apply it to love, to hatred, to\nhumility, to pride; none of them ever arises in the smallest degree\nimaginable. Let us change the object as oft as we please, provided\nstill we choose one that has neither of these two relations. Let us\nrepeat the experiment in all the dispositions of which the mind is\nsusceptible. No object in the vast variety of nature will, in any\ndisposition, produce any passion without these relations.\n\n_Second experiment_. Since an object that wants both these relations\ncan ever produce any passion, let us bestow on it only one of these\nrelations, and see what will follow. Thus, suppose I regard a stone,\nor any common object that belongs either to me or my companion, and by\nthat means acquires a relation of ideas to the object of the passions:\n'tis plain that, to consider the matter _a priori_, no emotion of\nany kind can reasonably be expected. For, besides that a relation of\nideas operates secretly and calmly on the mind, it bestows an equal\nimpulse towards the opposite passions of pride and humility, love\nand hatred, according as the object belongs to ourselves or others;\nwhich opposition of the passions must destroy both, and leave the mind\nperfectly free from any affection or emotion. This reasoning _a priori_\nis confirmed by experience. No trivial or vulgar object, that causes\nnot a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will ever, by its\nproperty or other relations, either to ourselves or others, be able to\nproduce the affections of pride or humility, love or hatred.\n\n_Third experiment_. 'Tis evident, therefore, that a relation of ideas\nis not able alone to give rise to these affections. Let us now remove\nthis relation, and, in its stead, place a relation of impressions,\nby presenting an object, which is agreeable or disagreeable, but has\nno relation either to ourself or companion; and let us observe the\nconsequences. To consider the matter first _a priori_, as in the\npreceding experiment, we may conclude that the object will have a\nsmall, but an uncertain connexion with these passions. For, besides\nthat this relation is not a cold and imperceptible one, it has not\nthe inconvenience of the relation of ideas, nor directs us with equal\nforce to two contrary passions, which, by their opposition, destroy\neach other. But if we consider, on the other hand, that this transition\nfrom the sensation to the affection is not forwarded by any principle\nthat produces a transition of ideas; but, on the contrary, that though\nthe one impression be easily transfused into the other, yet the change\nof objects is supposed contrary to all the principles that cause a\ntransition of that kind; we may from thence infer, that nothing will\never be a steady or durable cause of any passion that is connected with\nthe passion merely by a relation of impressions. What our reason would\nconclude from analogy, after balancing these arguments, would be, that\nan object, which produces pleasure or uneasiness, but has no manner of\nconnexion either with ourselves or others, may give such a turn to the\ndisposition as that it may naturally fall into pride or love, humility\nor hatred, and search for other objects, upon which, by a double\nrelation, it can found these affections; but that an object, which has\nonly one of these relations, though the most advantageous one, can\nnever give rise to any constant and established passion.\n\nMost fortunately, all this reasoning is found to be exactly\nconformable to experience and the phenomena of the passions. Suppose I\nwere travelling with a companion through a country to which we are both\nutter strangers; 'tis evident, that if the prospects be beautiful, the\nroads agreeable, and the inns commodious, this may put me into good\nhumour both with myself and fellow-traveller. But as we suppose that\nthis country has no relation either to myself or friend, it can never\nbe the immediate cause of pride or love; and, therefore, if I found\nnot the passion on some other object that bears either of us a closer\nrelation, my emotions are rather to be considered as the overflowings\nof an elevate or humane disposition, than as an established passion.\nThe case is the same where the object produces uneasiness.\n\n_Fourth experiment_. Having found, that neither an object, without\nany relation of ideas or impressions, nor an object that has only one\nrelation, can ever cause pride or humility, love or hatred; reason\nalone may convince us, without any farther experiment, that whatever\nhas a double relation must necessarily excite these passions; since\n'tis evident they must have some cause. But, to leave as little room\nfor doubt as possible, let us renew our experiments, and see whether\nthe event in this case answers our expectation. I chuse an object,\nsuch as virtue, that causes a separate satisfaction: on this object\nI bestow a relation to self; and find, that from this disposition of\naffairs there immediately arises a passion. But what passion? That very\none of pride, to which this object bears a double relation. Its idea\nis related to that of self, the object of the passion: the sensation\nit causes resembles the sensation of the passion. That I may be sure I\nam not mistaken in this experiment, I remove first one relation, then\nanother, and find that each removal destroys the passion, and leaves\nthe object perfectly indifferent. But I am not content with this. I\nmake a still farther trial; and instead of removing the relation,\nI only change it for one of a different kind. I suppose the virtue\nto belong to my companion, not to myself; and observe what follows\nfrom this alteration. I immediately perceive the affections to wheel\nabout, and leaving pride, where there is only one relation, viz.\nof impressions, fall to the side of love, where they are attracted\nby a double relation of impressions and ideas. By repeating the\nsame experiment in changing anew the relation of ideas, I bring the\naffections back to pride; and, by a new repetition, I again place them\nat love or kindness. Being fully convinced of the influence of this\nrelation, I try the effects of the other; and, by changing virtue for\nvice, convert the pleasant impression which arises from the former,\ninto the disagreeable one which proceeds from the latter. The effect\nstill answers expectation. Vice, when placed on another, excites,\nby means of its double relations, the passion of hatred, instead of\nlove, which, for the same reason, arises from virtue. To continue the\nexperiment, I change anew the relation of ideas, and suppose the vice\nto belong to myself. What follows? What is usual. A subsequent change\nof the passion from hatred to humility. This humility I convert into\npride by a new change of the impression; and find, after all, that I\nhave completed the round, and have by these changes brought back the\npassion to that very situation in which I first found it.\n\nBut to make the matter still more certain, I alter the object; and,\ninstead of vice and virtue, make the trial upon beauty and deformity,\nriches and poverty, power and servitude. Each of these objects runs\nthe circle of the passions in the same manner, by a change of their\nrelations: and in whatever order we proceed, whether through pride,\nlove, hatred, humility, or through humility, hatred, love, pride,\nthe experiment is not in the least diversified. Esteem and contempt,\nindeed, arise on some occasions instead of love and hatred; but these\nare, at the bottom, the same passions, only diversified by some causes,\nwhich we shall explain afterwards.\n\n_Fifth experiment_. To give greater authority to these experiments, let\nus change the situation of affairs as much as possible, and place the\npassions and objects in all the different positions of which they are\nsusceptible. Let us suppose, beside the relations above mentioned, that\nthe person, along with whom I make all these experiments, is closely\nconnected with me either by blood or friendship. He is, we shall\nsuppose, my son or brother, or is united to me by a long and familiar\nacquaintance. Let us next suppose, that the cause of the passion\nacquires a double relation of impressions and ideas to this person; and\nlet us see what the effects are of all these complicated attractions\nand relations.\n\nBefore we consider what they are in fact, let us determine what they\nought to be, conformable to my hypothesis. 'Tis plain, that, according\nas the impression is either pleasant or uneasy, the passion of love or\nhatred must arise towards the person who is thus connected to the cause\nof the impression by these double relations which I have all along\nrequired. The virtue of a brother must make me love him, as his vice\nor infamy must excite the contrary passion. But to judge only from the\nsituation of affairs, I should not expect that the affections would\nrest there, and never transfuse themselves into any other impression.\nAs there is here a person, who, by means of a double relation, is the\nobject of my passion, the very same reasoning leads me to think the\npassion will be carried farther. The person has a relation of ideas\nto myself, according to the supposition; the passion of which he is\nthe object, by being either agreeable or uneasy, has a relation of\nimpressions to pride or humility. 'Tis evident, then, that one of these\npassions must arise from the love or hatred.\n\nThis is the reasoning I form in conformity to my hypothesis; and am\npleased to find, upon trial, that every thing answers exactly to my\nexpectation. The virtue or vice of a son or brother not only excites\nlove or hatred, but, by a new transition from similar causes, gives\nrise to pride or humility. Nothing causes greater vanity than any\nshining quality in our relations; as nothing mortifies us more than\ntheir vice or infamy. This exact conformity of experience to our\nreasoning is a convincing proof of the solidity of that hypothesis upon\nwhich we reason.\n\n_Sixth experiment_. This evidence will be still augmented if we reverse\nthe experiment, and, preserving still the same relations, begin only\nwith a different passion. Suppose that, instead of the virtue or vice\nof a son or brother, which causes first love or hatred, and afterwards\npride or humility, we place these good or bad qualities on ourselves,\nwithout any immediate connexion with the person who is related to us,\nexperience shows us, that, by this change of situation, the whole\nchain is broke, and that the mind is not conveyed from one passion to\nanother, as in the preceding instance. We never love or hate a son or\nbrother for the virtue or vice we discern in ourselves; though 'tis\nevident the same qualities in him give us a very sensible pride or\nhumility. The transition from pride or humility to love or hatred,\nis not so natural as from love or hatred to pride or humility. This\nmay at first sight be esteemed contrary to my hypothesis, since the\nrelations of impressions and ideas are in both cases precisely the\nsame. Pride and humility are impressions related to love and hatred.\nMyself am related to the person. It should therefore be expected, that\nlike causes must produce like effects, and a perfect transition arise\nfrom the double relation, as in all other cases. This difficulty we may\neasily solve by the following reflections.\n\n'Tis evident that, as we are at all times intimately conscious of\nourselves, our sentiments and passions, their ideas must strike upon us\nwith greater vivacity than the ideas of the sentiments and passions of\nany other person. But every thing that strikes upon us with vivacity,\nand appears in a full and strong light, forces itself, in a manner,\ninto our consideration, and becomes present to the mind on the smallest\nhint and most trivial relation. For the same reason, when it is once\npresent, it engages the attention, and keeps it from wandering to other\nobjects, however strong may be their relation to our first object.\nThe imagination passes easily from obscure to lively ideas, but with\ndifficulty from lively to obscure. In the one case the relation is\naided by another principle; in the other case, 'tis opposed by it.\n\nNow, I have observed, that those two faculties of the mind, the\nimagination and passions, assist each other in their operation when\ntheir propensities are similar, and when they act upon the same object.\nThe mind has always a propensity to pass from a passion to any other\nrelated to it; and this propensity is forwarded when the object of the\none passion is related to that of the other. The two impulses concur\nwith each other, and render the whole transition more smooth and easy.\nBut if it should happen, that, while the relation of ideas, strictly\nspeaking, continues the same, its influence in causing a transition\nof the imagination should no longer take place, 'tis evident its\ninfluence on the passions must also cease, as being dependent entirely\non that transition. This is the reason why pride or humility is not\ntransfused into love or hatred with the same ease that the latter\npassions are changed into the former. If a person be my brother, I am\nhis likewise: but though the relations be reciprocal, they have very\ndifferent effects on the imagination. The passage is smooth and open\nfrom the consideration of any person related to us to that of ourself,\nof whom we are every moment conscious. But when the affections are once\ndirected to ourself, the fancy passes not with the same facility from\nthat object to any other person, how closely soever connected with us.\nThis easy or difficult transition of the imagination operates upon the\npassions, and facilitates or retards their transition; which is a clear\nproof that these two faculties of the passions and imagination are\nconnected together, and that the relations of ideas have an influence\nupon the affections. Besides innumerable experiments that prove\nthis, we here find, that even when the relation remains; if by any\nparticular circumstance its usual effect upon the fancy in producing an\nassociation or transition of ideas is prevented, its usual effect upon\nthe passions, in conveying us from one to another, is in like manner\nprevented.\n\nSome may, perhaps, find a contradiction betwixt this phenomenon\nand that of sympathy, where the mind passes easily from the idea\nof ourselves to that of any other object related to us. But this\ndifficulty will vanish, if we consider that in sympathy our own person\nis not the object of any passion, nor is there any thing that fixes our\nattention on ourselves, as in the present case, where we are supposed\nto be actuated, with pride or humility. Ourself, independent of the\nperception of every other object, is in reality nothing; for which\nreason we must turn our view to external objects, and 'tis natural for\nus to consider with most attention such as lie contiguous to us, or\nresemble us. But when self is the object of a passion, 'tis not natural\nto quit the consideration of it till the passion be exhausted, in\nwhich case the double relations of impressions and ideas can no longer\noperate.\n\n_Seventh experiment_. To put this whole reasoning to a farther trial,\nlet us make a new experiment; and as we have already seen the effects\nof related passions and ideas, let us here suppose an identity of\npassions along with a relation of ideas; and let us consider the\neffects of this new situation. 'Tis evident a transition of the\npassions from the one object to the other is here in all reason to be\nexpected; since the relation of ideas is supposed still to continue,\nand an identity of impressions must produce a stronger connexion,\nthan the most perfect resemblance that can be imagined. If a double\nrelation, therefore, of impressions and ideas, is able to produce a\ntransition from one to the other, much more an identity of impressions\nwith a relation of ideas. Accordingly, we find, that when we either\nlove or hate any person, the passions seldom continue within their\nfirst bounds; but extend themselves towards all the contiguous\nobjects, and comprehend the friends and relations of him we love or\nhate. Nothing is more natural than to bear a kindness to one brother on\naccount of our friendship for another, without any farther examination\nof his character. A quarrel with one person gives us a hatred for the\nwhole family, though entirely innocent of that which displeases us.\nInstances of this kind are every where to be met with.\n\nThere is only one difficulty in this experiment which it will be\nnecessary to account for, before we proceed any farther. 'Tis evident,\nthat though all passions pass easily from one object to another related\nto it, yet this transition is made with greater facility where the\nmore considerable object is first presented, and the lesser follows\nit, than where this order is reversed, and the lesser takes the\nprecedence. Thus, 'tis more natural for us to love the son upon account\nof the father, than the father upon account of the son; the servant\nfor the master, than the master for the servant; the subject for the\nprince, than the prince for the subject. In like manner we more readily\ncontract a hatred against a whole family, where our first quarrel\nis with the head of it, than where we are displeased with a son, or\nservant, or some inferior member. In short, our passions, like other\nobjects, descend with greater facility than they ascend.\n\nThat we may comprehend wherein consists the difficulty of explaining\nthis phenomenon, we must consider, that the very same reason, which\ndetermines the imagination to pass from remote to contiguous objects\nwith more facility than from contiguous to remote, causes it likewise\nto change with more ease the less for the greater, than the greater for\nthe less. Whatever has the greatest influence is most taken notice of;\nand whatever is most taken notice of, presents itself most readily\nto the imagination. We are more apt to overlook in any subject what\nis trivial, than what appears of considerable moment; but especially\nif the latter takes the precedence, and first engages our attention.\nThus, if any accident makes us consider the satellites of Jupiter, our\nfancy is naturally determined to form the idea of that planet; but if\nwe first reflect on the principal planet, 'tis more natural for us to\noverlook its attendants. The mention of the provinces of any empire\nconveys our thought to the seat of the empire; but the fancy returns\nnot with the same facility to the consideration of the provinces.\nThe idea of the servant makes us think of the master; that of the\nsubject carries our view to the prince. But the same relation has not\nan equal influence in conveying us back again. And on this is founded\nthat reproach of Cornelia to her sons, that they ought to be ashamed\nshe should be more known by the title of the daughter of Scipio,\nthan by that of the mother of the Gracchi. This was, in other words,\nexhorting them to render themselves as illustrious and famous as their\ngrandfather, otherwise the imagination of the people, passing from her\nwho was intermediate, and placed in an equal relation to both, would\nalways leave them, and denominate her by what was more considerable and\nof greater moment. On the same principle is founded that common custom\nof making wives bear the name of their husbands, rather than husbands\nthat of their wives; as also the ceremony of giving the precedency to\nthose whom we honour and respect. We might find many other instances to\nconfirm this principle, were it not already sufficiently evident.\n\nNow, since the fancy finds the same facility in passing from the\nlesser to the greater, as from remote to contiguous, why does not\nthis easy transition of ideas assist the transition of passions in\nthe former case as well as in the latter? The virtues of a friend\nor brother produce first love, and then pride; because in that case\nthe imagination passes from remote to contiguous, according to its\npropensity. Our own virtues produce not first pride, and then love to\na friend or brother; because the passage in that case would be from\ncontiguous to remote, contrary to its propensity. But the love or\nhatred of an inferior, causes not readily any passion to the superior,\nthough that be the natural propensity of the imagination: while the\nlove or hatred of a superior, causes a passion to the inferior,\ncontrary to its propensity. In short, the same facility of transition\noperates not in the same manner upon superior and inferior as upon\ncontiguous and remote. These two phenomena appear contradictory, and\nrequire some attention to be reconciled.\n\nAs the transition of ideas is here made contrary to the natural\npropensity of the imagination, that faculty must be overpowered by\nsome stronger principle of another kind; and as there is nothing ever\npresent to the mind but impressions and ideas, this principle must\nnecessarily lie in the impressions. Now, it has been observed, that\nimpressions or passions are connected only by their resemblance, and\nthat where any two passions place the mind in the same or in similar\ndispositions, it very naturally passes from the one to the other: as on\nthe contrary, a repugnance in the dispositions produces a difficulty\nin the transition of the passions. But, 'tis observable, that this\nrepugnance may arise from a difference of degree as well as of kind;\nnor do we experience a greater difficulty in passing suddenly from a\nsmall degree of love to a small degree of hatred, than from a small to\na great degree of either of these affections. A man, when calm or only\nmoderately agitated, is so different, in every respect, from himself,\nwhen disturbed with a violent passion, that no two persons can be more\nunlike; nor is it easy to pass from the one extreme to the other,\nwithout a considerable interval betwixt them.\n\nThe difficulty is not less, if it be not rather greater in passing\nfrom the strong passion to the weak, than in passing from the weak to\nthe strong, provided the one passion upon its appearance destroys the\nother, and they do not both of them exist at once. But the case is\nentirely altered, when the passions unite together, and actuate the\nmind at the same time. A weak passion, when added to a strong, makes\nnot so considerable change in the disposition, as a strong when added\nto a weak; for which reason there is a closer connexion betwixt the\ngreat degree and the small, than betwixt the small degree and the great.\n\nThe degree of any passion depends upon the nature of its object; and an\naffection directed to a person, who is considerable in our eyes, fills\nand possesses the mind much more than one, which has for its object\na person we esteem of less consequence. Here then, the contradiction\nbetwixt the propensities of the imagination and passion displays\nitself. When we turn our thought to a great and a small object, the\nimagination finds more facility in passing from the small to the great,\nthan from the great to the small; but the affections find a greater\ndifficulty: and, as the affections are a more powerful principle than\nthe imagination, no wonder they prevail over it, and draw the mind to\ntheir side. In spite of the difficulty of passing from the idea of\ngreat to that of little, a passion directed to the former produces\nalways a similar passion towards the latter, when the great and little\nare related together. The idea of the servant conveys our thought most\nreadily to the master; but the hatred or love of the master produces\nwith greater facility anger or good will to the servant. The strongest\npassion in this case takes the precedence; and the addition of the\nweaker making no considerable change on the disposition, the passage is\nby that means rendered more easy and natural betwixt them.\n\nAs, in the foregoing experiment, we found that a relation of ideas,\nwhich, by any particular circumstance, ceases to produce its usual\neffect of facilitating the transition of ideas, ceases likewise to\noperate on the passions; so, in the present experiment, we find the\nsame property of the impressions. Two different degrees of the same\npassion are surely related together; but if the smaller be first\npresent, it has little or no tendency to introduce the greater; and\nthat because the addition of the great to the little produces a more\nsensible alteration on the temper than the addition of the little to\nthe great. These phenomena, when duly weighed, will be found convincing\nproofs of this hypothesis.\n\nAnd these proofs will be confirmed, if we consider the manner in which\nthe mind here reconciles the contradiction I have observed betwixt the\npassions and the imagination. The fancy passes with more facility from\nthe less to the greater, than from the greater to the less. But, on the\ncontrary, a violent passion produces more easily a feeble than that\ndoes a violent. In this opposition, the passion in the end prevails\nover the imagination: but 'tis commonly by complying with it, and\nby seeking another quality, which may counterbalance that principle\nfrom whence the opposition arises. When we love the father or master\nof a family, we think of his children or servants. But when these are\npresent with us, or when it lies any ways in our power to serve them,\nthe nearness and contiguity in this case increases their magnitude,\nor at least removes that opposition which the fancy makes to the\ntransition of the affections. If the imagination finds a difficulty in\npassing from greater to less, it finds an equal facility in passing\nfrom remote to contiguous, which brings the matter to an equality, and\nleaves the way open from the one passion to the other.\n\n_Eighth experiment_. I have observed, that the transition from love or\nhatred to pride or humility, is more easy than from pride or humility\nto love or hatred; and that the difficulty which the imagination finds\nin passing from contiguous to remote, is the cause why we scarce have\nany instance of the latter transition of the affections. I must,\nhowever, make one exception, viz. when the very cause of the pride\nand humility is placed in some other person. For, in that case, the\nimagination is necessitated to consider the person, nor can it possibly\nconfine its view to ourselves. Thus, nothing more readily produces\nkindness and affection to any person than his approbation of our\nconduct and character; as, on the other hand, nothing inspires us with\na stronger hatred than his blame or contempt. Here, 'tis evident, that\nthe original passion is pride or humility, whose object is self; and\nthat this passion is transfused into love or hatred, whose object is\nsome other person, notwithstanding the rule I have already established,\n_that the imagination passes with difficulty from contiguous to\nremote_. But the transition in this case is not made merely on account\nof the relation betwixt ourselves and the person; but because that very\nperson is the real cause of our first passion, and, of consequence, is\nintimately connected with it. 'Tis his approbation that produces pride,\nand disapprobation humility. No wonder, then, the imagination returns\nback again attended with the related passions of love and hatred. This\nis not a contradiction, but an exception to the rule; and an exception\nthat arises from the same reason with the rule itself.\n\nSuch an exception as this is, therefore, rather a confirmation of the\nrule. And indeed, if we consider all the eight experiments I have\nexplained, we shall find that the same principle appears in all of\nthem, and that 'tis by means of a transition arising from a double\nrelation of impressions and ideas, pride and humility, love and hatred\nare produced. An object without a relation,[1] or with but one,[2]\nnever produces either of these passions; and 'tis found[3] that the\npassion always varies in conformity to the relation. Nay we may\nobserve, that where the relation, by any particular circumstance, has\nnot its usual effect of producing a transition either of ideas or of\nimpressions,[4] it ceases to operate upon the passions, and gives\nrise neither to pride nor love, humility nor hatred. This rule we find\nstill to hold good, even under the appearance of its contrary;[5] and\nas relation is frequently experienced to have no effect, which upon\nexamination is found to proceed from some particular circumstance\nthat prevents the transition; so, even in instances where that\ncircumstance, though present, prevents not the transition, 'tis found\nto arise from some other circumstance which counterbalances it. Thus,\nnot only the variations resolve themselves into the general principle,\nbut even the variations of these variations.\n\n\n[1] First experiment.\n\n[2] Second and third experiments.\n\n[3] Fourth experiment.\n\n[4] Sixth experiment.\n\n[5] Seventh and eighth experiments.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III.\n\nDIFFICULTIES SOLVED.\n\n\nAfter so many and such undeniable proofs drawn from daily experience\nand observation, it may seem superfluous to enter into a particular\nexamination of all the causes of love and hatred. I shall therefore\nemploy the sequel of this part, _first_, in removing some difficulties\nconcerning particular causes of these passions; _secondly_, in\nexamining the compound affections, which arise from the mixture of love\nand hatred with other emotions.\n\nNothing is more evident, than that any person acquires our kindness, or\nis exposed to our ill-will, in proportion to the pleasure or uneasiness\nwe receive from him, and that the passions keep pace exactly with the\nsensations in all their changes and variations. Whoever can find the\nmeans, either by his services, his beauty, or his flattery, to render\nhimself useful or agreeable to us, is sure of our affections; as, on\nthe other hand, whoever harms or displeases us never fails to excite\nour anger or hatred. When our own nation is at war with any other,\nwe detest them under the character of cruel, perfidious, unjust, and\nviolent; but always esteem ourselves and allies equitable, moderate,\nand merciful. If the general of our enemies be successful, 'tis with\ndifficulty we allow him the figure and character of a man. He is a\nsorcerer; he has a communication with demons, as is reported of Oliver\nCromwell and the Duke of Luxembourg; he is bloody-minded, and takes a\npleasure in death and destruction. But if the success be on our side,\nour commander has all the opposite good qualities, and is a pattern\nof virtue, as well as of courage and conduct. His treachery we call\npolicy; his cruelty is an evil inseparable from war. In short, every\none of his faults we either endeavour to extenuate, or dignify it with\nthe name of that virtue which approaches it. 'Tis evident the same\nmethod of thinking rims through common life.\n\nThere are some who add another condition, and require not only that the\npain and pleasure arise from the person, but likewise that it arise\nknowingly, and with a particular design and intention. A man who wounds\nand harms us by accident, becomes not our enemy upon that account; nor\ndo we think ourselves bound, by any ties of gratitude, to one who does\nus any service after the same manner. By the intention we judge of the\nactions; and, according as that is good or bad, they become causes of\nlove or hatred.\n\nBut here we must make a distinction. If that quality in another, which\npleases or displeases, be constant and inherent in his person and\ncharacter, it will cause love or hatred, independent of the intention:\nbut otherwise a knowledge and design is requisite, in order to give\nrise to these passions. One that is disagreeable by his deformity or\nfolly, is the object of our aversion, though nothing be more certain,\nthan that he has not the least intention of displeasing us by these\nqualities. But if the uneasiness proceed not from a quality, but an\naction, which is produced and annihilated in a moment, 'tis necessary,\nin order to produce some relation, and connect this action sufficiently\nwith the person, that it be derived from a particular forethought and\ndesign. 'Tis not enough that the action arise from the person, and\nhave him for its immediate cause and author. This relation alone is\ntoo feeble and inconstant to be a foundation for these passions. It\nreaches not the sensible and thinking part, and neither proceeds from\nany thing _durable_ in him, nor leaves any thing behind it, but passes\nin a moment, and is as if it had never been. On the other hand, an\nintention shows certain qualities, which, remaining after the action is\nperformed, connect it with the person, and facilitate the transition\nof ideas from one to the other. We can never think of him without\nreflecting on these qualities, unless repentance and a change of life\nhave produced an alteration in that respect; in which case the passion\nis likewise altered. This, therefore, is one reason why an intention is\nrequisite to excite either love or hatred.\n\nBut we must farther consider, that an intention, besides its\nstrengthening the relation of ideas, is often necessary to produce a\nrelation of impressions, and give rise to pleasure and uneasiness. For\n'tis observable, that the principal part of an injury is the contempt\nand hatred which it shows in the person that injures us; and without\nthat, the mere harm gives us a less sensible uneasiness. In like\nmanner, a good office is agreeable, chiefly because it flatters our\nvanity, and is a proof of the kindness and esteem of the person who\nperforms it. The removal of the intention removes the mortification\nin the one case, and vanity in the other; and must of course cause a\nremarkable diminution in the passions of love and hatred.\n\nI grant, that these effects of the removal of design, hatred, in\ndiminishing the relations of impressions and ideas, are not entire, nor\nable to remove every degree of these relations. But then I ask, if the\nremoval of design be able entirely to remove the passion of love and\nhatred? Experience, I am sure, informs us of the contrary, nor is there\nany thing more certain than that men often fall into a violent anger\nfor injuries which they themselves must own to be entirely involuntary\nand accidental. This emotion, indeed, cannot be of long continuance,\nbut still is sufficient to show, that there is a natural connexion\nbetwixt uneasiness and anger, and that the relation of impressions will\noperate upon a very small relation of ideas. But when the violence of\nthe impression is once a little abated, the defect of the relation\nbegins to be better felt; and as the character of a person is no wise\ninterested in such injuries as are casual and involuntary, it seldom\nhappens that on their account we entertain a lasting enmity.\n\nTo illustrate this doctrine by a parallel instance, we may observe,\nthat not only the uneasiness which proceeds from another by accident,\nhas but little force to excite our passion, but also that which arises\nfrom an acknowledged necessity and duty. One that has a real design of\nharming us, proceeding not from hatred and ill will, but from justice\nand equity, draws not upon him our anger, if we be in any degree\nreasonable; notwithstanding he is both the cause, and the knowing\ncause, of our sufferings. Let us examine a little this phenomenon.\n\n'Tis evident, in the first place, that this circumstance is not\ndecisive; and though it may be able to diminish the passions, 'tis\nseldom it can entirely remove them. How few criminals are there who\nhave no ill will to the person that accuses them, or to the judge that\ncondemns them, even though they be conscious of their own deserts!\nIn like manner our antagonist in a lawsuit, and our competitor for\nany office, are commonly regarded as our enemies, though we must\nacknowledge, if we would but reflect a moment, that their motive is\nentirely as justifiable as our own.\n\nBesides we may consider, that when we receive harm from any person,\nwe are apt to imagine him criminal, and 'tis with extreme difficulty\nwe allow of his justice and innocence. This is a clear proof that,\nindependent of the opinion of iniquity, any harm or uneasiness has a\nnatural tendency to excite our hatred, and that afterwards we seek for\nreasons upon which we may justify and establish the passion. Here the\nidea of injury produces not the passion, but arises from it.\n\nNor is it any wonder that passion should produce the opinion of injury;\nsince otherwise it must suffer a considerable diminution, which all the\npassions avoid as much as possible. The removal of injury may remove\nthe anger, without proving that the anger arises only from the injury.\nThe harm and the justice are two contrary objects, of which the one has\na tendency to produce hatred, and the other love; and 'tis according\nto their different degrees, and our particular turn of thinking, that\neither of the objects prevails and excites its proper passion.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IV.\n\nOF THE LOVE OF RELATIONS.\n\n\nHaving given a reason why several actions that cause a real pleasure or\nuneasiness excite not any degree, or but a small one, of the passion of\nlove or hatred towards the actors, 'twill be necessary to show wherein\nconsists the pleasure or uneasiness of many objects which we find by\nexperience to produce these passions.\n\nAccording to the preceding system, there is always required a double\nrelation of impressions and ideas betwixt the cause and effect, in\norder to produce either love or hatred. But though this be universally\ntrue, 'tis remarkable that the passion of love may be excited by\nonly one _relation_ of a different kind, viz. betwixt ourselves and\nthe object; or, more properly speaking, that this relation is always\nattended with both the others. Whoever is united to us by any connexion\nis always sure of a share of our love, proportioned to the connexion,\nwithout inquiring into his other qualities. Thus, the relation of\nblood produces the strongest tie the mind is capable of in the love of\nparents to their children, and a lesser degree of the same affection\nas the relation lessens. Nor has consanguinity alone this effect, but\nany other relation without exception. We love our countrymen, our\nneighbours, those of the same trade, profession, and even name with\nourselves. Every one of these relations is esteemed some tie, and gives\na title to a share of our affection.\n\nThere is another phenomenon which is parallel to this, viz. that\n_acquaintance_, without any kind of relation, gives rise to love and\nkindness. When we have contracted a habitude and intimacy with any\nperson, though in frequenting his company we have not been able to\ndiscover any very valuable quality of which he is possessed; yet we\ncannot forbear preferring him to strangers of whose superior merit we\nare fully convinced. These two phenomena of the effects of relation\nand acquaintance will give mutual light to each other, and may be both\nexplained from the same principle.\n\nThose who take a pleasure in declaiming against human nature have\nobserved, that man is altogether insufficient to support himself,\nand that, when you loosen all the holds which he has of external\nobjects, he immediately drops down into the deepest melancholy and\ndespair. From this, say they, proceeds that continual search after\namusement in gaming, in hunting, in business, by which we endeavour\nto forget ourselves, and excite our spirits from the languid state\ninto which they fall when not sustained by some brisk and lively\nemotion. To this method of thinking I so far agree, that I own the\nmind to be insufficient, of itself, to its own entertainment, and that\nit naturally seeks after foreign objects which may produce a lively\nsensation, and agitate the spirits. On the appearance of such an object\nit awakes, as it were, from a dream; the blood flows with a new tide;\nthe heart is elevated; and the whole man acquires a vigour which he\ncannot command in his solitary and calm moments. Hence company is\nnaturally so rejoicing, as presenting the liveliest of all objects,\nviz. a rational and thinking being like ourselves, who communicates\nto us all the actions of his mind, makes us privy to his inmost\nsentiments and affections, and lets us see, in the very instant of\ntheir production, all the emotions which are caused by any object.\nEvery lively idea is agreeable, but especially that of a passion,\nbecause such an idea becomes a kind of passion, and gives a more\nsensible agitation to the mind than any other image or conception.\n\nThis being once admitted, all the rest is easy. For as the company of\nstrangers is agreeable to us for _a short time_, by enlivening our\nthought, so the company of our relations and acquaintance must be\npeculiarly agreeable, because it has this effect in a greater degree,\nand is of more _durable_ influence. Whatever is related to us is\nconceived in a lively manner by the easy transition from ourselves\nto the related object. Custom also, or acquaintance, facilitates the\nentrance, and strengthens the conception of any object. The first case\nis parallel to our reasonings from cause and effect; the second to\neducation. And as reasoning and education concur only in producing a\nlively and strong idea of any object, so is this the only particular\nwhich is common to relation and acquaintance. This must therefore be\nthe influencing quality by which they produce all their common effects;\nand love or kindness being one of these effects, it must be from the\nforce and liveliness of conception that the passion is derived. Such a\nconception is peculiarly agreeable, and makes us have an affectionate\nregard for every thing that produces it, when the proper object of\nkindness and good will.\n\n'Tis obvious that people associate together according to their\nparticular tempers and dispositions, and that men of gay tempers\nnaturally love the gay, as the serious bear an affection to the\nserious. This not only happens where they remark this resemblance\nbetwixt themselves and others, but also by the natural course of the\ndisposition, and by a certain sympathy which always arises betwixt\nsimilar characters. Where they remark the resemblance, it operates\nafter the manner of a relation by producing a connexion of ideas. Where\nthey do not remark it, it operates by some other principle; and if this\nlatter principle be similar to the former, it must be received as a\nconfirmation of the foregoing reasoning.\n\nThe idea of ourselves is always intimately present to us, and conveys\na sensible degree of vivacity to the idea of any other object to\nwhich we are related. This lively idea changes by degrees into a real\nimpression; these two kinds of perception being in a great measure the\nsame, and differing only in their degrees of force and vivacity. But\nthis change must be produced with the greater ease, that our natural\ntemper gives us a propensity to the same impression which we observe\nin others, and makes it arise upon any slight occasion. In that case\nresemblance converts the idea into an impression, not only by means\nof the relation, and by transfusing the original vivacity into the\nrelated idea; but also by presenting such materials as take fire from\nthe least spark. And as in both cases a love or affection from the\nresemblance, we may learn that a sympathy with others is agreeable\nonly by giving an emotion to the spirits, since an easy sympathy and\ncorrespondent emotions are alone common to _relation, acquaintance_,\nand _resemblance_.\n\nThe great propensity men have to pride may be considered as another\nsimilar phenomenon. It often happens, that after we have lived\na considerable time in any city, however at first it might be\ndisagreeable to us, yet as we become familiar with the objects, and\ncontract an acquaintance, though merely with the streets and buildings,\nthe aversion diminishes by degrees, and at last changes into the\nopposite passion. The mind finds a satisfaction and ease in the view\nof objects to which it is accustomed, and naturally prefers them to\nothers, which, though perhaps in themselves more valuable, are less\nknown to it. By the same quality of the mind we are seduced into a\ngood opinion of ourselves, and of all objects that belong to us. They\nappear in a stronger light, are more agreeable, and consequently fitter\nsubjects of pride and vanity than any other.\n\nIt may not be amiss, in treating of the affection we bear our\nacquaintance and relations, to observe some pretty curious phenomena\nwhich attend it. 'Tis easy to remark in common life, that children\nesteem their relation to their mother to be weakened, in a great\nmeasure, by her second marriage, and no longer regard her with the same\neye as if she had continued in her state of widowhood. Nor does this\nhappen only when they have felt any inconveniences from her second\nmarriage, or when her husband is much her inferior; but even without\nany of these considerations, and merely because she has become part\nof another family. This also takes place with regard to the second\nmarriage of a father, but in a much less degree; and 'tis certain the\nties of blood are not so much loosened in the latter case as by the\nmarriage of a mother. These two phenomena are remarkable in themselves,\nbut much more so when compared.\n\nIn order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects, 'tis\nrequisite, not only that the imagination be conveyed from one to the\nother, by resemblance, contiguity or causation, but also that it return\nback from the second to the first with the same ease and facility. At\nfirst sight this may seem a necessary and unavoidable consequence.\nIf one object resemble another, the latter object must necessarily\nresemble the former. If one object be the cause of another, the second\nobject is effect to its cause. 'Tis the same with contiguity; and\ntherefore the relation being always reciprocal, it may be thought,\nthat the return of the imagination from the second to the first must\nalso, in every case, be equally natural as its passage from the first\nto the second. But upon farther examination we shall easily discover\nour mistake. For supposing the second object, beside its reciprocal\nrelation to the first, to have also a strong relation to a third\nobject; in that case the thought, passing from the first object to the\nsecond, returns not back with the same facility, though the relation\ncontinues the same, but is readily carried on to the third object,\nby means of the new relation which presents itself, and gives a new\nimpulse to the imagination. This new relation, therefore, weakens the\ntie betwixt the first and second objects. The fancy is, by its very\nnature, wavering and inconstant, and considers always two objects as\nmore strongly related together, where it finds the passage equally easy\nboth in going and returning, than where the transition is easy only in\none of these motions. The double motion is a kind of a double tie, and\nbinds the objects together in the closest and most intimate manner.\n\nThe second marriage of a mother breaks not the relation of child and\nparent; and that relation suffices to convey my imagination from myself\nto her with the greatest ease and facility. But after the imagination\nis arrived at this point of view, it finds its object to be surrounded\nwith so many other relations which challenge its regard, that it knows\nnot which to prefer, and is at a loss what new object to pitch upon.\nThe ties of interest and duty bind her to another family, and prevent\nthat return of the fancy from her to myself which is necessary to\nsupport the union. The thought has no longer the vibration requisite\nto set it perfectly at ease, and indulge its inclination to change.\nIt goes with facility, but returns with difficulty; and by that\ninterruption finds the relation much weakened from what it would be\nwere the passage open and easy on both sides.\n\nNow, to give a reason why this effect follows not in in the same degree\nupon the second marriage of a father; we may reflect on what has been\nproved already, that though the imagination goes easily from the view\nof a lesser object to that of a greater, yet it returns not with the\nsame facility from the greater to the less. When my imagination goes\nfrom myself to my father, it passes not so readily from him to his\nsecond wife, nor considers him as entering into a different family,\nbut as continuing the head of that family of which I am myself a part.\nHis superiority prevents the easy transition of the thought from him\nto his spouse, but keeps the passage still open for a return to myself\nalong the same relation of child and parent. He is not sunk in the new\nrelation he acquires; so that the double motion or vibration of thought\nis still easy and natural. By this indulgence of the fancy in its\ninconstancy, the tie of child and parent still preserves its full force\nand influence.\n\nA mother thinks not her tie to a son weakened because 'tis shared with\nher husband; nor a son his with a parent, because 'tis shared with a\nbrother. The third object is here related to the first as well as to\nthe second: so that the imagination goes and comes along all of them\nwith the greatest facility.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION V.\n\nOF OUR ESTEEM FOR THE RICH AND POWERFUL.\n\n\nNothing has a greater tendency to give us an esteem for any person than\nhis power and riches, or a contempt, than his poverty and meanness:\nand as esteem and contempt are to be considered as species of love and\nhatred, 'twill be proper in this place to explain these phenomena.\n\nHere it happens, most fortunately, that the greatest difficulty is,\nnot to discover a principle capable of producing such an effect,\nbut to chuse the chief and predominant among several that present\nthemselves. The _satisfaction_ we take in the riches of others, and\nthe _esteem_ we have for the possessors, may be ascribed to three\ndifferent causes. _First_, to the objects they possess; such as houses,\ngardens, equipages, which, being agreeable in themselves, necessarily\nproduce a sentiment of pleasure in every one that either considers or\nsurveys them. _Secondly_, to the expectation of advantage from the\nrich and powerful by our sharing their possessions. _Thirdly_, to\nsympathy, which makes us partake of the satisfaction of every one that\napproaches us. All these principles may concur in producing the present\nphenomenon. The question is, to which of them we ought principally to\nascribe it.\n\n'Tis certain that the first principle, viz. the reflection on\nagreeable objects, has a greater influence than what, at first sight,\nwe may be apt to imagine. We seldom reflect on what is beautiful or\nugly, agreeable or disagreeable, without an emotion of pleasure or\nuneasiness; and though these sensations appear not much, in our common\nindolent way of thinking, 'tis easy, either in reading or conversation,\nto discover them. Men of wit always turn the discourse on subjects\nthat are entertaining to the imagination; and poets never present any\nobjects but such as are of the same nature. Mr Philips has chosen\n_Cider_ for the subject of an excellent poem. Beer would not have been\nso proper, as being neither so agreeable to the taste nor eye. But he\nwould certainly have preferred wine to either of them, could his native\ncountry have afforded him so agreeable a liquor. We may learn from\nthence, that every thing which is agreeable to the senses, is also, in\nsome measure, agreeable to the fancy, and conveys to the thought an\nimage of that satisfaction, which it gives by its real application to\nthe bodily organs.\n\nBut, though these reasons may induce us to comprehend this delicacy\nof the imagination among the causes of the respect which we pay the\nrich and powerful, there are many other reasons that may keep us from\nregarding it as the sole or principal. For, as the ideas of pleasure\ncan have an influence only by means of their vivacity, which makes them\napproach impressions, 'tis most natural those ideas should have that\ninfluence, which are favoured by most circumstances, and have a natural\ntendency to become strong and lively; such as our ideas of the passions\nand sensations of any human creature. Every human creature resembles\nourselves, and, by that means, has an advantage above any other object\nin operating on the imagination.\n\nBesides, if we consider the nature of that faculty, and the great\ninfluence which all relations have upon it, we shall easily be\npersuaded, that however the ideas of the pleasant wines, music, or\ngardens, which the rich man enjoys, may become lively and agreeable,\nthe fancy will not confine itself to them, but will carry its view to\nthe related objects, and, in particular, to the person who possesses\nthem. And this is the more natural, that the pleasant idea, or image,\nproduces here a passion towards the person by means of his relation\nto the object; so that 'tis unavoidable but he must enter into the\noriginal conception, since he makes the object of the derivative\npassion. But if he enters into the original conception, and is\nconsidered as enjoying these agreeable objects, 'tis _sympathy_ which\nis properly the cause of the affection; and the _third_ principle is\nmore powerful and universal than the _first_.\n\nAdd to this, that riches and power alone, even though unemployed,\nnaturally cause esteem and respect; and, consequently, these passions\narise not from the idea of any beautiful or agreeable objects. 'Tis\ntrue money implies a kind of representation of such objects by the\npower it affords of obtaining them; and for that reason may still be\nesteemed proper to convey those agreeable images which may give rise to\nthe passion. But as this prospect is very distant, 'tis more natural\nfor us to take a contiguous object, viz. the satisfaction which this\npower affords the person who is possessed of it. And of this we shall\nbe farther satisfied, if we consider that riches represent the goods of\nlife only by means of the will which employs them; and therefore imply,\nin their very nature, an idea of the person, and cannot be considered\nwithout a kind of sympathy with his sensations and enjoyments.\n\nThis we may confirm by a reflection which to some will perhaps appear\ntoo subtile and refined. I have already observed that power, as\ndistinguished from its exercise, has either no meaning at all, or is\nnothing but a possibility or probability of existence, by which any\nobject approaches to reality, and has a sensible influence on the\nmind. I have also observed, that this approach, by an illusion of the\nfancy, appears much greater when we ourselves are possessed of the\npower than when it is enjoyed by another; and that, in the former case,\nthe objects seem to touch upon the very verge of reality, and convey\nalmost an equal satisfaction as if actually in our possession. Now I\nassert, that where we esteem a person upon account of his riches, we\nmust enter into this sentiment of the proprietor, and that, without\nsuch a sympathy, the idea of the agreeable objects, which they give\nhim the power to produce, would have but a feeble influence upon\nus. An avaricious man is respected for his money, though he scarce\nis possessed of a _power_; that is, there scarce is a _probability_\nor even _possibility_ of his employing it in the acquisition of the\npleasures and conveniences of life. To himself alone this power seems\nperfect and entire; and therefore we must receive his sentiments by\nsympathy, before we can have a strong intense idea of these enjoyments,\nor esteem him upon account of them.\n\nThus we have found, that the _first_ principle, viz. _the agreeable\nidea of those objects which riches afford the enjoyment of_, resolves\nitself in a great measure into the _third_, and becomes a _sympathy_\nwith the person we esteem or love. Let us now examine the _second_\nprinciple, viz. _the agreeable expectation of advantage_, and see what\nforce we may justly attribute to it.\n\n'Tis obvious, that, though riches and authority undoubtedly give\ntheir owner a power of doing us service, yet this power is not to be\nconsidered as on the same footing with that which they afford him\nof pleasing himself, and satisfying his own appetites. Self-love\napproaches the power and exercise very near each other in the latter\ncase; but in order to produce a similar effect in the former, we must\nsuppose a friendship and good-will to be conjoined with the riches.\nWithout that circumstance 'tis difficult to conceive on what we can\nfound our hope of advantage from the riches of others, though there\nis nothing more certain than that we naturally esteem and respect the\nrich, even before we discover in them any such favourable disposition\ntowards us.\n\nBut I carry this farther, and observe, not only that we respect the\nrich and powerful where they show no inclination to serve us, but also\nwhen we lie so much out of the sphere of their activity, that they\ncannot even be supposed to be endowed with that power. Prisoners of\nwar are always treated with a respect suitable to their condition; and\n'tis certain riches go very far towards fixing the condition of any\nperson. If birth and quality enter for a share, this still affords us\nan argument of the same kind. For what is it we call a man of birth,\nbut one who is descended from a long succession of rich and powerful\nancestors, and who acquires our esteem by his relation to persons whom\nwe esteem? His ancestors, therefore, though dead, are respected in some\nmeasure on account of their riches, and consequently without any kind\nof expectation.\n\nBut not to go so far as prisoners of war and the dead to find instances\nof this disinterested esteem for riches, let us observe, with a\nlittle attention, those phenomena that occur to us in common life and\nconversation. A man who is himself of a competent fortune, upon coming\ninto a company of strangers, naturally treats them with different\ndegrees of respect and deference, as he is informed of their different\nfortunes and conditions; though 'tis impossible he can ever propose,\nand perhaps would not accept of any advantage from them. A traveller is\nalways admitted into company, and meets with civility in proportion as\nhis train and equipage speak him a man of great or moderate fortune.\nIn short, the different ranks of men are in a great measure regulated\nby riches, and that with regard to superiors as well as inferiors,\nstrangers as well as acquaintance.\n\nThere is, indeed, an answer to these arguments, drawn from the\ninfluence of _general rules_. It may be pretended, that, being\naccustomed to expect succour and protection from the rich and powerful,\nand to esteem them upon that account, we extend the same sentiments to\nthose who resemble them in their fortune, but from whom we can never\nhope for any advantage. The general rule still prevails, and, by giving\na bent to the imagination draws along the passion, in the same manner\nas if its proper object were real and existent.\n\nBut that this principle does not here take place, will easily appear,\nif we consider that, in order to establish a general rule, and extend\nit beyond its proper bounds, there is required a certain uniformity\nin our experience, and a great superiority of those instances, which\nare conformable to the rule, above the contrary. But here the case is\nquite otherwise. Of a hundred men of credit and fortune I meet with,\nthere is not perhaps one from whom I can expect advantage, so that 'tis\nimpossible any custom can ever prevail in the present case.\n\nUpon the whole, there remains nothing which can give us an esteem for\npower and riches, and a contempt for meanness and poverty, except the\npride of _sympathy_, by which we enter into the sentiments of rich\nand poor, and partake of their pleasure and uneasiness. Riches give\nsatisfaction to their possessor; and this satisfaction is conveyed to\nthe beholder by the imagination, which produces an idea resembling\nthe original impression in force and vivacity. This agreeable idea or\nimpression is connected with love, which is an agreeable passion. It\nproceeds from a thinking conscious being, which is the very object of\nlove. From this relation of impressions, and identity of ideas, the\npassion arises according to my hypothesis.\n\nThe best method of reconciling us to this opinion, is to take a general\nsurvey of the universe, and observe the force of sympathy through the\nwhole animal creation, and the easy communication of sentiments from\none thinking being to another. In all creatures that prey not upon\nothers, and are not agitated with violent passions, there appears a\nremarkable desire of company, which associates them together, without\nany advantages they can ever propose to reap from their union. This is\nstill more conspicuous in man, as being the creature of the universe\nwho has the most ardent desire of society, and is fitted for it by\nthe most advantages. We can form no wish which has not a reference to\nsociety. A perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can\nsuffer. Every pleasure languishes when enjoyed apart from company, and\nevery pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. Whatever other passions\nwe may be actuated by, pride, ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge\nor lust, the soul or animating principle of them all is sympathy;\nnor would they have any force, were we to abstract entirely from the\nthoughts and sentiments of others. Let all the powers and elements of\nnature conspire to serve and obey one man; let the sun rise and set\nat his command; the sea and rivers roll as he pleases, and the earth\nfurnish spontaneously whatever may be useful or agreeable to him; he\nwill still be miserable, till you give him some one person at least\nwith whom he may share his happiness, and whose esteem and friendship\nhe may enjoy.\n\nThis conclusion, from a general view of human nature, we may confirm by\nparticular instances, wherein the force of sympathy is very remarkable.\nMost kinds of beauty are derived from this origin; and though our first\nobject be some senseless inanimate piece of matter, 'tis seldom we rest\nthere, and carry not our view to its influence on sensible and rational\ncreatures. A man who shows us any house or building, takes particular\ncare, among other things, to point out the convenience of the\napartments, the advantages of their situation, and the little room lost\nin the stairs, anti-chambers and passages; and indeed 'tis evident the\nchief part of the beauty consists in these particulars. The observation\nof convenience gives pleasure, since convenience is a beauty. But after\nwhat manner does it give pleasure? 'Tis certain our own interest is not\nin the least concerned; and as this is a beauty of interest, not of\nform, so to speak, it must delight us merely by communication, and by\nour sympathizing with the proprietor of the lodging. We enter into his\ninterest by the force of imagination, and feel the same satisfaction\nthat the objects naturally occasion in him.\n\nThis observation extends to tables, chairs, scrutoires, chimneys,\ncoaches, saddles, ploughs, and indeed to every work of art; it being\nan universal rule, that their beauty is chiefly derived from their\nutility, and from their fitness for that purpose, to which they are\ndestined. But this is an advantage that concerns only the owner, nor is\nthere any thing but sympathy, which can interest the spectator.\n\n'Tis evident that nothing renders a field more agreeable than its\nfertility, and that scarce any advantages of ornament or situation will\nbe able to equal this beauty. 'Tis the same case with particular trees\nand plants, as with the field on which they grow. I know not but a\nplain, overgrown with furze and broom, may be, in itself, as beautiful\nas a hill covered with vines or olive trees, though it will never\nappear so to one who is acquainted with the value of each. But this is\na beauty merely of imagination, and has no foundation in what appears\nto the senses. Fertility and value have a plain reference to use; and\nthat to riches, joy, and plenty, in which, though we have no hope of\npartaking, yet we enter into them by the vivacity of the fancy, and\nshare them in some measure with the proprietor.\n\nThere is no rule in painting more reasonable than that of balancing the\nfigures, and placing them with the greatest exactness on their proper\ncentre of gravity.\n\nA figure which is not justly balanced is disagreeable; and that because\nit conveys the ideas of its fall, of harm, and of pain; which ideas are\npainful when by sympathy they acquire any degree of force and vivacity.\n\nAdd to this, that the principal part of personal beauty is an air\nof health and vigour, and such a construction of members as promises\nstrength and activity. This idea of beauty cannot be accounted for but\nby sympathy.\n\nIn general we may remark, that the minds of men are mirrors to one\nanother, not only because they reflect each others emotions, but also\nbecause those rays of passions, sentiments and opinions, may be often\nreverberated, and may decay away by insensible degrees. Thus, the\npleasure which a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown\nupon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem; which sentiments again\nbeing perceived and sympathized with, increase the pleasure of the\npossessor, and, being once more reflected, become a new foundation for\npleasure and esteem in the beholder. There is certainly an original\nsatisfaction in riches derived from that power which they bestow of\nenjoying all the pleasures of life; and as this is their very nature\nand essence, it must be the first source of all the passions which\narise from them. One of the most considerable of these passions is\nthat of love or esteem in others, which, therefore, proceeds from a\nsympathy with the pleasure of the possessor. But the possessor has also\na secondary satisfaction in riches, arising from the love and esteem\nhe acquires by them; and this satisfaction is nothing but a second\nreflection of that original pleasure which proceeded from himself.\nThis secondary satisfaction or vanity becomes one of the principal\nrecommendations of riches, and is the chief reason why we either\ndesire them for ourselves, or esteem them in others. Here then is a\nthird rebound of the original pleasure, after which 'tis difficult to\ndistinguish the images and reflections, by reason of their faintness\nand confusion.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VI.\n\nOF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER.\n\n\nIdeas may be compared to the extension and solidity of matter and\nimpressions, especially reflective ones, to colours, tastes, smells,\nand other sensible qualities. Ideas never admit of a total union, but\nare endowed with a kind of impenetrability by which they exclude each\nother, and are capable of forming a compound by their conjunction,\nnot by their mixture. On the other hand, impressions and passions are\nsusceptible of an entire union, and, like colours, may be blended so\nperfectly together, that each of them may lose itself, and contribute\nonly to vary that uniform impression which arises from the whole. Some\nof the most curious phenomena of the human mind are derived from this\nproperty of the passions.\n\nIn examining those ingredients which are capable of uniting with love\nand hatred, I begin to be sensible, in some measure, of a misfortune\nthat has attended every system of philosophy with which the world\nhas been yet acquainted. 'Tis commonly found, that in accounting\nfor the operations of nature by any particular hypothesis, among a\nnumber of experiments that quadrate exactly with the principles we\nwould endeavour to establish, there is always some phenomenon which\nis more stubborn, and will not so easily bend to our purpose. We need\nnot be surprised that this should happen in natural philosophy. The\nessence and composition of external bodies are so obscure, that we\nmust necessarily, in our reasonings, or rather conjectures concerning\nthem, involve ourselves in contradictions and absurdities. But as\nthe perceptions of the mind are perfectly known, and I have used all\nimaginable caution in forming conclusions concerning them, I have\nalways hoped to keep clear of those contradictions which have attended\nevery other system. Accordingly, the difficulty which I have at present\nin my eye is no wise contrary to my system, but only departs a little\nfrom that simplicity which has been hitherto its principal force and\nbeauty.\n\nThe passions of love and hatred are always followed by, or rather\nconjoined with, benevolence and anger. 'Tis this conjunction which\nchiefly distinguishes these affections from pride and humility. For\npride and humility are pure emotions in the soul, unattended with any\ndesire, and not immediately exciting us to action. But love and hatred\nare not completed within themselves, nor rest in that emotion which\nthey produce, but carry the mind to something farther. Love is always\nfollowed by a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an\naversion to his misery: as hatred produces a desire of the misery,\nand an aversion to the happiness of the person hated. So remarkable a\ndifference betwixt these two sets of passions of pride and humility,\nlove and hatred, which in so many other particulars correspond to each\nother, merits our attention.\n\nThe conjunction of this desire and aversion with love and hatred may\nbe accounted for by two different hypotheses. The first is, that love\nand hatred have not only a _cause_ which excites them, viz. pleasure\nand pain, and an _object_ to which they are directed, viz. a person or\nthinking being, but likewise an _end_ which they endeavour to attain,\nviz. the happiness or misery of the person beloved or hated; all which\nviews, mixing together, make only one passion. According to this\nsystem, love is nothing but the desire of happiness to another person,\nand hatred that of misery. The desire and aversion constitute the very\nnature of love and hatred. They are not only inseparable, but the same.\n\nBut this is evidently contrary to experience. For though 'tis certain\nwe never love any person without desiring his happiness, nor hate any\nwithout wishing his misery, yet these desires arise only upon the ideas\nof the happiness or misery of our friend or enemy being presented by\nthe imagination, and are not absolutely essential to love and hatred.\nThey are the most obvious and natural sentiments of these affections,\nbut not the only ones. The passions may express themselves in a hundred\nways, and may subsist a considerable time, without our reflecting on\nthe happiness or misery of their objects; which clearly proves that\nthese desires are not the same with love and hatred, nor make any\nessential part of them.\n\nWe may therefore infer, that benevolence and anger are passions\ndifferent from love and hatred, and only conjoined with them by the\noriginal constitution of the mind. As nature has given to the body\ncertain appetites and inclinations, which she increases, diminishes,\nor changes according to the situation of the fluids or solids, she\nhas proceeded in the same manner with the mind. According as we\nare possessed with love or hatred, the correspondent desire of the\nhappiness or misery of the person who is the object of these passions,\narises in the mind, and varies with each variation of these opposite\npassions. This order of things, abstractedly considered, is not\nnecessary. Love and hatred might have been unattended with any such\ndesires, or their particular connexion might have been entirely\nreversed. If nature had so pleased, love might have had the same effect\nas hatred, and hatred as love. I see no contradiction in supposing a\ndesire of producing misery annexed to love, and of happiness to hatred.\nIf the sensation of the passion and desire be opposite, nature could\nhave altered the sensation without altering the tendency of the desire,\nand by that means made them compatible with each other.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VII.\n\nOF COMPASSION.\n\n\nBut though the desire of the happiness or misery of others, according\nto the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbitrary and original\ninstinct implanted in our nature, we find it may be counterfeited on\nmany occasions, and may arise from secondary principles. _Pity_ is\na concern for, and _malice_ a joy in, the misery of others, without\nany friendship or enmity to occasion this concern or joy. We pity\neven strangers, and such as are perfectly indifferent to us: and\nif our ill-will to another proceed from any harm or injury, it is\nnot, properly speaking, malice, but revenge. But if we examine these\naffections of pity and malice, we shall find them to be secondary ones,\narising from original affections, which are varied by some particular\nturn of thought and imagination.\n\n'Twill be easy to explain the passion of _pity_, from the precedent\nreasoning concerning _sympathy_. We have a lively idea of every thing\nrelated to us. All human creatures are related to us by resemblance.\nTheir persons, therefore, their interests, their passions, their pains\nand pleasures, must strike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an\nemotion similar to the original one, since a lively idea is easily\nconverted into an impression. If this be true in general, it must be\nmore so of affliction and sorrow. These have always a stronger and more\nlasting influence than any pleasure or enjoyment.\n\nA spectator of a tragedy passes through a long train of grief, terror,\nindignation, and other affections, which the poet represents in the\npersons he introduces. As many tragedies end happily, and no excellent\none can be composed without some reverses of fortune, the spectator\nmust sympathize with all these changes, and receive the fictitious\njoy as well as every other passion. Unless therefore it be asserted,\nthat every distinct passion is communicated by a distinct original\nquality, and is not derived from the general principle of sympathy\nabove explained, it must be allowed that all of them arise from\nthat principle. To except any one in particular must appear highly\nunreasonable. As they are all first present in the mind of one person,\nand afterwards appear in the mind of another; and as the manner of\ntheir appearance, first as an idea, then as an impression, is in every\ncase the same, the transition must arise from the same principle. I am\nat least sure, that this method of reasoning would be considered as\ncertain, either in natural philosophy or common life.\n\nAdd to this, that pity depends, in a great measure, on the contiguity,\nand even sight of the object, which is a proof that 'tis derived from\nthe imagination; not to mention that women and children are most\nsubject to pity, as being most guided by that faculty. The same\ninfirmity, which makes them faint at the sight of a naked sword, though\nin the hands of their best friend, makes them pity extremely those\nwhom they find in any grief or affliction. Those philosophers, who\nderive this passion from I know not what subtile reflections on the\ninstability of fortune, and our being liable to the same miseries we\nbehold, will find this observation contrary to them among a great many\nothers, which it were easy to produce.\n\nThere remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable phenomenon\nof this passion, which is, that the communicated passion of sympathy\nsometimes acquires strength from the weakness of its original, and\neven arises by a transition from affections which have no existence.\nThus, when a person obtains any honourable office, or inherits a\ngreat fortune, we are always the more rejoiced for his prosperity,\nthe less sense he seems to have of it, and the greater equanimity and\nindifference he shows in its enjoyment. In like manner, a man who\nis not dejected by misfortunes is the more lamented on account of\nhis patience; and if that virtue extends so far as utterly to remove\nall sense of uneasiness, it still farther increases our compassion.\nWhen a person of merit falls into what is vulgarly esteemed a great\nmisfortune, we form a notion of his condition; and, carrying our fancy\nfrom the cause to the usual effect, first conceive a lively idea of\nhis sorrow, and then feel an impression of it, entirely overlooking\nthat greatness of mind which elevates him above such emotions, or\nonly considering it so far as to increase our admiration, love, and\ntenderness for him. We find from experience, that such a degree of\npassion is usually connected with such a misfortune; and though there\nbe an exception in the present case, yet the imagination is affected\nby the _general rule_, and makes us conceive a lively idea of the\npassion, or rather feel the passion itself in the same manner as if\nthe person were really actuated by it. From the same principles we\nblush for the conduct of those who behave themselves foolishly before\nus, and that though they show no sense of shame, nor seem in the least\nconscious of their folly. All this proceeds from sympathy, but 'tis\nof a partial kind, and views its objects only on one side, without\nconsidering the other, which has a contrary effect, and would entirely\ndestroy that emotion which arises from the first appearance.\n\nWe have also instances wherein an indifference and insensibility\nunder misfortune increases our concern for the misfortunate, even\nthough the indifference proceed not from any virtue and magnanimity.\n'Tis an aggravation of a murder, that it was committed upon persons\nasleep and in perfect security; as historians readily observe of any\ninfant prince, who is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he is\nmore worthy of compassion the less sensible he is of his miserable\ncondition. As we ourselves are here acquainted with the wretched\nsituation of the person, it gives us a lively idea and sensation of\nsorrow, which is the passion that _generally_ attends it; and this idea\nbecomes still more lively, and the sensation more violent by a contrast\nwith that security and indifference which we observe in the person\nhimself. A contrast of any kind never fails to effect the imagination,\nespecially when presented by the subject; and 'tis on the imagination\nthat pity entirely depends.[6]\n\n\n\n[6] To prevent all ambiguity, I must observe, that where I oppose the\nimagination to the memory, I mean in general the faculty that presents\nour fainter ideas. In all other places, and particularly when it is\nopposed to the understanding, I understand the same faculty, excluding\nonly our demonstrative and probable reasonings.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VIII.\n\nOF MALICE AND ENVY.\n\n\nWe must now proceed to account for the passion of _malice_, which\nimitates the effects of hatred as pity does those of love, and gives us\na joy in the sufferings and miseries of others, without any offence or\ninjury on their part.\n\nSo little are men governed by reason in their sentiments and opinions,\nthat they always judge more of objects by comparison than from their\nintrinsic worth and value. When the mind considers, or is accustomed\nto any degree of perfection, whatever falls short of it, though really\nestimable, has, notwithstanding, the same effect upon the passions as\nwhat is defective and ill. This is an _original_ quality of the soul,\nand similar to what we have every day experience of in our bodies.\nLet a man heat one hand and cool the other; the same water will at\nthe same time seem both hot and cold, according to the disposition\nof the different organs. A small degree of any quality, succeeding a\ngreater, produces the same sensation as if less than it really is, and\neven sometimes as the opposite quality. Any gentle pain that follows a\nviolent one, seems as nothing, or rather becomes a pleasure; as, on the\nother hand, a violent pain succeeding a gentle one, is doubly grievous\nand uneasy.\n\nThis no one can doubt of with regard to our passions and sensations.\nBut there may arise some difficulty with regard to our ideas and\nobjects. When an object augments or diminishes to the eye or\nimagination, from a comparison with others, the image and idea of the\nobject are still the same, and are equally extended in the _retina_,\nand in the brain or organ of perception. The eyes refract the rays of\nlight, and the optic nerves convey the images to the brain in the very\nsame manner, whether a great or small object has preceded; nor does\neven the imagination alter the dimensions of its object on account of\na comparison with others. The question then is, how, from the same\nimpression, and the same idea, we can form such different judgments\nconcerning the same object, and at one time admire its bulk, and at\nanother despise its littleness? This variation in our judgments must\ncertainly proceed from a variation in some perception; but as the\nvariation lies not in the immediate impression or idea of the object,\nit must lie in some other impression that accompanies it.\n\nIn order to explain this matter, I shall just touch upon two\nprinciples, one of which shall be more fully explained in the progress\nof this Treatise; the other has been already accounted for. I believe\nit may safely be established for a general maxim, that no object is\npresented to the senses, nor image formed in the fancy, but what is\naccompanied with some emotion or movement of spirits proportioned\nto it; and however custom may make us insensible of this sensation,\nand cause us to confound it with the object or idea, 'twill be easy,\nby careful and exact experiments, to separate and distinguish them.\nFor, to instance only in the cases of extension and number, 'tis\nevident that any very bulky object, such as the ocean, an extended\nplain, a vast chain of mountains, a wide forest; or any very numerous\ncollection of objects, such as an army, a fleet, a crowd, excite in\nthe mind a sensible emotion; and that the admiration which arises on\nthe appearance of such objects is one of the most lively pleasures\nwhich human nature is capable of enjoying. Now, as this admiration\nincreases or diminishes by the increase or diminution of the objects,\nwe may conclude, according to our foregoing principles,[7] that 'tis\na compound effect, proceeding from the conjunction of the several\neffects which arise from each part of the cause. Every part, then, of\nextension, and every unite of number, has a separate emotion attending\nit when conceived by the mind; and though that emotion be not always\nagreeable, yet, by its conjunction with others, and by its agitating\nthe spirits to a just pitch, it contributes to the production of\nadmiration, which is always agreeable. If this be allowed with respect\nto extension and number, we can make no difficulty with respect to\nvirtue and vice, wit and folly, riches and poverty, happiness and\nmisery, and other objects of that kind, which are always attended with\nan evident emotion.\n\nThe second principle I shall take notice of is that of our adherence\nto _general rules_; which has such a mighty influence on the actions\nand understanding, and is able to impose on the very senses. When an\nobject is found by experience to be always accompanied with another,\nwhenever the first object appears, though changed in very material\ncircumstances, we naturally fly to the conception of the second, and\nform an idea of it in as lively and strong a manner, as if we had\ninferred its existence by the justest and most authentic conclusion\nof our understanding. Nothing can undeceive us, not even our senses,\nwhich, instead of correcting this false judgment, are often perverted\nby it, and seem to authorize its errors.\n\nThe conclusion I draw from these two principles, joined to the\ninfluence of comparison above-mentioned, is very short and decisive.\nEvery object is attended with some emotion proportioned to it; a great\nobject with a great emotion, a small object with a small emotion.\nA great _object_, therefore, succeeding a small one, makes a great\n_emotion_ succeed a small one. Now, a great emotion succeeding a small\none becomes still greater, and rises beyond its ordinary proportion.\nBut as there is a certain degree of an emotion which commonly attends\nevery magnitude of an object, when the emotion increases, we naturally\nimagine that the object has likewise increased. The effect conveys\nour view to its usual cause, a certain degree of emotion to a certain\nmagnitude of the object; nor do we consider, that comparison may\nchange the emotion without changing any thing in the object. Those\nwho are acquainted with the metaphysical part of optics, and know how\nwe transfer the judgments and conclusions of the understanding to the\nsenses, will easily conceive this whole operation.\n\nBut leaving this new discovery of an impression that secretly attends\nevery idea, we must at least allow of that principle from whence the\ndiscovery arose, _that objects appear greater or less by a comparison\nwith others_. We have so many instances of this, that it is impossible\nwe can dispute its veracity; and 'tis from this principle I derive the\npassions of malice and envy.\n\n'Tis evident we must receive a greater or less satisfaction or\nuneasiness from reflecting on our own condition and circumstances,\nin proportion as they appear more or less fortunate or unhappy,\nin proportion to the degrees of riches, and power, and merit, and\nreputation, which we think ourselves possest of. Now, as we seldom\njudge of objects from their intrinsic value, but form our notions of\nthem from a comparison with other objects, it follows, that according\nas we observe a greater or less share of happiness or misery in others,\nwe must make an estimate of our own, and feel a consequent pain or\npleasure. The misery of another gives us a more lively idea of our\nhappiness, and his happiness of our misery. The former, therefore,\nproduces delight, and the latter uneasiness.\n\nHere then is a kind of pity reverst, or contrary sensations arising\nin the beholder, from those which are felt by the person whom he\nconsiders. In general we may observe, that, in all kinds of comparison,\nan object makes us always receive from another, to which it is\ncompared, a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct\nand immediate survey. A small object makes a great one appear still\ngreater. A great object makes a little one appear less. Deformity of\nitself produces uneasiness, but makes us receive new pleasure by its\ncontrast with a beautiful object, whose beauty is augmented by it; as,\non the other hand, beauty, which of itself produces pleasure, makes us\nreceive a new pain by the contrast with any thing ugly, whose deformity\nit augments. The case, therefore, must be the same with happiness and\nmisery. The direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us\npleasure, and therefore produces pain when compared with our own. His\npain, considered in itself, is painful to us, but augments the idea of\nour own happiness, and gives us pleasure.\n\nNor will it appear strange, that we may feel a reverst sensation from\nthe happiness and misery of others, since we find the same comparison\nmay give us a kind of malice against ourselves, and make us rejoice for\nour pains, and grieve for our pleasures. Thus, the prospect of past\npain is agreeable, when we are satisfied with our present condition;\nas, on the other hand, our past pleasures give us uneasiness, when we\nenjoy nothing at present equal to them. The comparison being the same\nas when we reflect on the sentiments of others, must be attended with\nthe same effects.\n\nNay, a person may extend this malice against himself, even to his\npresent fortune, and carry it so far as designedly to seek affliction,\nand increase his pains and sorrows. This may happen upon two occasions.\n_First_, Upon the distress and misfortune of a friend, or person dear\nto him. _Secondly_, Upon the feeling any remorses for a crime of\nwhich he has been guilty. 'Tis from the principle of comparison that\nboth these irregular appetites for evil arise. A person who indulges\nhimself in any pleasure while his friend lies under affliction, feels\nthe reflected uneasiness from his friend more sensibly by a comparison\nwith the original pleasure which he himself enjoys. This contrast,\nindeed, ought also to enliven the present pleasure. But as grief is\nhere supposed to be the predominant passion, every addition falls to\nthat side, and is swallowed up in it, without operating in the least\nupon the contrary affection. 'Tis the same case with those penances\nwhich men inflict on themselves for their past sins and failings. When\na criminal reflects on the punishment he deserves, the idea of it is\nmagnified by a comparison with his present ease and satisfaction, which\nforces him, in a manner, to seek uneasiness, in order to avoid so\ndisagreeable a contrast.\n\nThis reasoning will account for the origin of envy as well as of\nmalice. The only difference betwixt these passions lies in this,\nthat envy is excited by some present enjoyment of another, which, by\ncomparison, diminishes our idea of our own: whereas malice is the\nunprovoked desire of producing evil to another, in order to reap a\npleasure from the comparison. The enjoyment, which is the object of\nenvy, is commonly superior to our own. A superiority naturally seems to\novershade us, and presents a disagreeable comparison. But even in the\ncase of an inferiority, we still desire a greater distance, in order to\naugment still more the idea of ourself. When this distance diminishes,\nthe comparison is, less to our advantage, and consequently gives us\nless pleasure, and is even disagreeable. Hence arises that species of\nenvy which men feel, when they perceive their inferiors approaching or\novertaking them in the pursuit of glory or happiness. In this envy we\nmay see the effects of comparison twice repeated. A man, who compares\nhimself to his inferior, receives a pleasure from the comparison; and\nwhen the inferiority decreases by the elevation of the inferior, what\nshould only have been a decrease of pleasure, becomes a real pain, by a\nnew comparison with its preceding condition.\n\n'Tis worthy of observation concerning that envy which arises from a\nsuperiority in others, that 'tis not the great disproportion betwixt\nourself and another, which produces it; but, on the contrary, our\nproximity. A common soldier bears no such envy to his general as\nto his sergeant or corporal; nor does an eminent writer meet with\nso great jealousy in common hackney scribblers, as in authors that\nmore nearly approach him. It may indeed be thought, that the greater\nthe disproportion is, the greater must be the uneasiness from the\ncomparison. But we may consider on the other hand, that the great\ndisproportion cuts off the relation, and either keeps us from comparing\nourselves, with what is remote from us, or diminishes the effects of\nthe comparison. Resemblance and proximity always produce a relation of\nideas; and where you destroy these ties, however other accidents may\nbring two ideas together, as they have no bond or connecting quality\nto join them in the imagination, 'tis impossible they can remain long\nunited, or have any considerable influence on each other.\n\nI have observed, in considering the nature of ambition, that the great\nfeel a double pleasure in authority, from the comparison of their own\ncondition with that of their slaves; and that this comparison has a\ndouble influence, because 'tis natural, and presented by the subject.\nWhen the fancy, in the comparison of objects, passes not easily from\nthe one object to the other, the action of the mind is in a great\nmeasure broke, and the fancy, in considering the second object, begins,\nas it were, upon a new footing. The impression which attends every\nobject, seems not greater in that case by succeeding a less of the\nsame kind; but these two impressions are distinct, and produce their\ndistinct effects, without any communication together. The want of\nrelation in the ideas breaks the relation of the impressions, and by\nsuch a separation prevents their mutual operation and influence.\n\nTo confirm this we may observe, that the proximity in the degree\nof merit is not alone sufficient to give rise to envy, but must be\nassisted by other relations. A poet is not apt to envy a philosopher,\nor a poet of a different kind, of a different nation, or a different\nage. All these differences prevent or weaken the comparison, and\nconsequently the passion.\n\nThis too is the reason why all objects appear great or little, merely\nby a comparison with those of the same species. A mountain neither\nmagnifies nor diminishes a horse in our eyes; but when a Flemish and a\nWelsh horse are seen together, the one appears greater and the other\nless, then when viewed apart.\n\nFrom the same principle we may account for that remark of historians,\nthat any party in a civil war always choose to call in a foreign enemy\nat any hazard, rather than submit to their fellow-citizens. Guicciardin\napplies this remark to the wars in Italy, where the relations betwixt\nthe different states are, properly speaking, nothing but of name,\nlanguage, and contiguity. Yet even these relations, when joined with\nsuperiority, by making the comparison more natural, make it likewise\nmore grievous, and cause men to search for some other superiority,\nwhich may be attended with no relation, and by that means may have a\nless sensible influence on the imagination. The mind quickly perceives\nits several advantages and disadvantages; and finding its situation to\nbe most uneasy, where superiority is conjoined with other relations,\nseeks its repose as much as possible by their separation, and by\nbreaking that association of ideas, which renders the comparison\nso much more natural and efficacious. When it cannot break the\nassociation, it feels a stronger desire to remove the superiority;\nand this is the reason why travellers are commonly so lavish of their\npraises to the Chinese and Persians, at the same time that they\ndepreciate those neighbouring nations which may stand upon a foot of\nrivalship with their native country.\n\nThese examples from history and common experience are rich and\ncurious; but we may find parallel ones in the arts, which are no less\nremarkable. Should an author compose a treatise, of which one part\nwas serious and profound, another light and humorous, every one would\ncondemn so strange a mixture, and would accuse him of the neglect\nof all rules of art and criticism. These rules of art are founded\non the qualities of human nature; and the quality of human nature,\nwhich requires a consistency in every performance, is that which\nrenders the mind incapable of passing in a moment from one passion and\ndisposition to a quite different one. Yet this makes us not blame Mr\nPrior for joining his Alma and his Solomon in the same volume; though\nthat admirable poet has succeeded perfectly well in the gaiety of the\none, as well as in the melancholy of the other. Even supposing the\nreader should peruse these two compositions without any interval, he\nwould feel little or no difficulty in the change of passions: why? but\nbecause he considers these performances as entirely different, and, by\nthis break in the ideas, breaks the progress of the affections, and\nhinders the one from influencing or contradicting the other.\n\nAn heroic and burlesque design, united in one picture, would be\nmonstrous; though we place two pictures of so opposite a character in\nthe same chamber, and even close by each other, without any scruple or\ndifficulty.\n\nIn a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by comparison, or by\nthe passions they separately produce, unless they be united together\nby some relation which may cause an easy transition of the ideas, and\nconsequently of the emotions or impressions attending the ideas, and\nmay preserve the one impression in the passage of the imagination\nto the object of the other. This principle is very remarkable,\nbecause it is analogous to what we have observed both concerning the\n_understanding_ and the _passions_. Suppose two objects to be presented\nto me, which are not connected by any kind of relation. Suppose that\neach of these objects separately produces a passion, and that these\ntwo passions are in themselves contrary; we find from experience,\nthat the want of relation in the objects or ideas hinders the natural\ncontrariety of the passions, and that the break in the transition of\nthe thought removes the affections from each other, and prevents their\nopposition. 'Tis the same case with comparison; and from both these\nphenomena we may safely conclude, that the relation of ideas must\nforward the transition of impressions, since its absence alone is able\nto prevent it, and to separate what naturally should have operated\nupon each other. When the absence of an object or quality removes any\nusual or natural effect, we may certainly conclude that its presence\ncontributes to the production of the effect.\n\n\n[7] Book I. Part III. Sect. 15.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IX.\n\nOF THE MIXTURE OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER\n\nWITH COMPASSION AND MALICE.\n\n\nThus we have endeavoured to account for _pity_ and _malice_. Both these\naffections arise from the imagination, according to the light in which\nit places its object. When our fancy considers directly the sentiments\nof others, and enters deep into them, it makes us sensible of all the\npassions it surveys, but in a particular manner of grief or sorrow.\nOn the contrary, when we compare the sentiments of others to our own,\nwe feel a sensation directly opposite to the original one, viz. a joy\nfrom the grief of others, and a grief from their joy. But these are\nonly the first foundations of the affections of pity and malice. Other\npassions are afterwards confounded with them. There is always a mixture\nof love or tenderness with pity, and of hatred or anger with malice.\nBut it must be confessed, that this mixture seems at first sight to be\ncontradictory to my system. For as pity is an uneasiness, and malice a\njoy, arising from the misery of others, pity should naturally, as in\nall other cases, produce hatred, and malice, love. This contradiction I\nendeavour to reconcile, after the following manner.\n\nIn order to cause a transition of passions, there is required a double\nrelation of impressions and ideas; nor is one relation sufficient to\nproduce this effect. But that we may understand the full force of this\ndouble relation, we must consider, that 'tis not the present sensation\nalone or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of\nany passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginning\nto the end. One impression may be related to another, not only when\ntheir sensations are resembling, as we have all along supposed in the\npreceding cases, but also when their impulses or directions are similar\nand correspondent. This cannot take place with regard to pride and\nhumility, because these are only pure sensations, without any direction\nor tendency to action. We are, therefore, to look for instances of\nthis peculiar relation of impressions only in such affections as are\nattended with a certain appetite or desire, such as those of love and\nhatred.\n\nBenevolence, or the appetite which attends love, is a desire of the\nhappiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery, as\nanger, or the appetite which attends hatred, is a desire of the misery\nof the person hated, and an aversion to his happiness. A desire,\ntherefore, of the happiness of another, and aversion to his misery,\nare similar to benevolence; and a desire of his misery and aversion\nto his happiness, are correspondent to anger. Now, pity is a desire\nof happiness to another, and aversion to his misery, as malice is the\ncontrary appetite. Pity, then, is related to benevolence, and malice to\nanger; and as benevolence has been already found to be connected with\nlove, by a natural and original quality, and anger with hatred, 'tis by\nthis chain the passions of pity and malice are connected with love and\nhatred.\n\nThis hypothesis is founded on sufficient experience. A man, who, from\nany motives, has entertained a resolution of performing an action,\nnaturally runs into every other view or motive which may fortify that\nresolution, and give it authority and influence on the mind. To confirm\nus in any design, we search for motives drawn from interest, from\nhonour, from duty. What wonder, then, that pity and benevolence, malice\nand anger, being the same desires arising from different principles,\nshould so totally mix together as to be undistinguishable? As to\nthe connexion betwixt benevolence and love, anger and hatred, being\n_original_ and primary, it admits of no difficulty.\n\nWe may add to this another experiment, viz. that benevolence and anger,\nand, consequently, love and hatred, arise when our happiness or misery\nhave any dependence on the happiness or misery of another person,\nwithout any farther relation. I doubt not but this experiment will\nappear so singular as to excuse us for stopping a moment to consider it.\n\nSuppose that two persons of the same trade should seek employment in a\ntown that is not able to maintain both, 'tis plain the success of one\nis perfectly incompatible with that of the other; and that whatever\nis for the interest of either is contrary to that of his rival, and\nso _vice versa_. Suppose, again, that two merchants, though living\nin different parts of the world, should enter into co-partnership\ntogether, the advantage or loss of one becomes immediately the\nadvantage or loss of his partner, and the same fortune necessarily\nattends both. Now, 'tis evident, that, in the first case, hatred\nalways follows upon the contrariety of interests; as, in the second,\nlove arises from their union. Let us consider to what principle we can\nascribe these passions.\n\n'Tis plain they arise, not from the double relations of impressions and\nideas, if we regard only the present sensation. For, taking the first\ncase of rivalship, though the pleasure and advantage of an antagonist\nnecessarily causes my pain and loss, yet, to counterbalance this,\nhis pain and loss causes my pleasure and advantage; and, supposing\nhim to be unsuccessful, I may, by this means, receive from him a\nsuperior degree of satisfaction. In the same manner the success of a\npartner rejoices me, but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal\nproportion; and 'tis easy to imagine that the latter sentiment may, in\nsome cases, preponderate. But whether the fortune of a rival or partner\nbe good or bad, I always hate the former and love the latter.\n\nThis love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation or connexion\nbetwixt us, in the same manner as I love a brother or countryman. A\nrival has almost as close a relation to me as a partner. For, as the\npleasure of the latter causes my pleasure, and his pain my pain; so the\npleasure of the former causes my pain, and his pain my pleasure. The\nconnexion, then, of cause and effect, is the same in both cases; and\nif, in the one case, the cause and effect has a farther relation of\nresemblance, they have that of contrariety in the other; which, being\nalso a species of resemblance, leaves the matter pretty equal.\n\nThe only explication, then, we can give of this phenomenon, is derived\nfrom that principle of a parallel direction above-mentioned. Our\nconcern for our own interest gives us a pleasure in the pleasure, and\na pain in the pain of a partner, after the same manner as by sympathy\nwe feel a sensation correspondent to those which appear in any person\nwho is present with us. On the other hand, the same concern for our\ninterest makes us feel a pain in the pleasure, and a pleasure in the\npain of a rival; and, in short, the same contrariety of sentiments\nas arises from comparison and malice. Since, therefore, a parallel\ndirection of the affections, proceeding from interest, can give rise to\nbenevolence or anger, no wonder the same parallel direction, derived\nfrom sympathy and from comparison, should have the same effect.\n\nIn general we may observe, that 'tis impossible to do good to others,\nfrom whatever motive, without feeling some touches of kindness and\ngood will towards them; as the injuries we do not only cause hatred in\nthe person who suffers them, but even in ourselves. These phenomena,\nindeed, may in part be accounted for from other principles.\n\nBut here there occurs a considerable objection, which 'twill be\nnecessary to examine before we proceed any farther. I have endeavoured\nto prove that power and riches, or poverty and meanness, which give\nrise to love or hatred, without producing any original pleasure or\nuneasiness, operate upon us by means of a secondary sensation derived\nfrom a sympathy with that pain or satisfaction which they produce in\nthe person who possesses them. From a sympathy with his pleasure there\narises love; from that with his uneasiness, hatred. But 'tis a maxim\nwhich I have just now established, and which is absolutely necessary\nto the explication of the phenomena of pity and malice, \"That 'tis not\nthe present sensation or momentary pain or pleasure which determines\nthe character of any passion, but the general bent or tendency of it\nfrom the beginning to the end.\" For this reason, pity or a sympathy\nwith pain produces love, and that because it interests us in the\nfortunes of others, good or bad, and gives us a secondary sensation\ncorrespondent to the primary, in which it has the same influence with\nlove and benevolence. Since, then, this rule holds good in one case,\nwhy does it not prevail throughout, and why does sympathy in uneasiness\never produce any passion beside good will and kindness? Is it becoming\na philosopher to alter his method of reasoning, and run from one\nprinciple to its contrary, according to the particular phenomenon which\nhe would explain?\n\nI have mentioned two different causes from which a transition of\npassion may arise, viz. a double relation of ideas and impressions,\nand, what is similar to it, a conformity in the tendency and direction\nof any two desires which arise from different principles. Now I\nassert, that when a sympathy with uneasiness is weak, it produces\nhatred or contempt by the former cause; when strong, it produces love\nor tenderness by the latter. This is the solution of the foregoing\ndifficulty, which seems so urgent; and this is a principle founded on\nsuch evident arguments, that we ought to have established it, even\nthough it were not necessary to the explication of any phenomenon.\n\n'Tis certain, that sympathy is not always limited to the present\nmoment, but that we often feel, by communication, the pains and\npleasures of others which are not in being, and which we only\nanticipate by the force of imagination. For, supposing I saw a person\nperfectly unknown to me, who, while asleep in the fields, was in danger\nof being trod under foot by horses, I should immediately run to his\nassistance; and in this I should be actuated by the same principle\nof sympathy which makes me concerned for the present sorrows of a\nstranger. The bare mention of this is sufficient. Sympathy being\nnothing but a lively idea converted into an impression, 'tis evident\nthat, in considering the future possible or probable condition of any\nperson, we may enter into it with so vivid a conception as to make it\nour own concern, and by that means be sensible of pains and pleasures\nwhich neither belong to ourselves, nor at the present instant have any\nreal existence.\n\nBut however we may look forward to the future in sympathizing with any\nperson, the extending of our sympathy depends in a great measure upon\nour sense of his present condition. 'Tis a great effort of imagination\nto form such lively ideas even of the present sentiments of others as\nto feel these very sentiments; but 'tis impossible we could extend this\nsympathy to the future without being aided by some circumstance in the\npresent, which strikes upon us in a lively manner. When the present\nmisery of another has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the\nconception is not confined merely to its immediate object, but diffuses\nits influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion\nof all the circumstances of that person, whether past, present, or\nfuture; possible, probable, or certain. By means of this lively notion\nI am interested in them, take part with them, and feel a sympathetic\nmotion in my breast, conformable to whatever I imagine in his. If I\ndiminish the vivacity of the first conception, I diminish that of the\nrelated ideas; as pipes can convey no more water than what arises at\nthe fountain. By this diminution I destroy the future prospect which\nis necessary to interest me perfectly in the fortune of another. I may\nfeel the present impression, but carry my sympathy no farther, and\nnever transfuse the force of the first conception into my ideas of the\nrelated objects. If it be another's misery which is presented in this\nfeeble manner, I receive it by communication, and am affected with all\nthe passions related to it: but as I am not so much interested as to\nconcern myself in his good fortune as well as his bad, I never feel the\nextensive sympathy, nor the passions related to _it_.\n\nNow, in order to know what passions are related to these different\nkinds of sympathy, we must consider that benevolence is an original\npleasure arising from the pleasure of the person beloved, and a pain\nproceeding from his pain: from which correspondence of impressions\nthere arises a subsequent desire of his pleasure, and aversion to his\npain. In order, then, to make a passion run parallel with benevolence,\n'tis requisite we should feel these double impressions, correspondent\nto those of the person whom we consider; nor is any one of them\nalone sufficient for that purpose. When we sympathize only with one\nimpression, and that a painful one, this sympathy is related to anger\nand to hatred, upon account of the uneasiness it conveys to us. But as\nthe extensive or limited sympathy depends upon the force of the first\nsympathy, it follows that the passion of love or hatred depends upon\nthe same principle. A strong impression, when communicated, gives a\ndouble tendency of the passions, which is related to benevolence and\nlove by a similarity of direction, however painful the first impression\nmight have been. A weak impression that is painful is related to\nanger and hatred by the resemblance of sensations. Benevolence,\ntherefore, arises from a great degree of misery, or any degree strongly\nsympathized with: hatred or contempt from a small degree, or one weakly\nsympathized with; which is the principle I intended to prove and\nexplain.\n\nNor have we only our reason to trust to for this principle, but\nalso experience. A certain degree of poverty produces contempt; but\na degree beyond causes compassion and good will. We may undervalue\na peasant or servant; but when the misery of a beggar appears very\ngreat, or is painted in very lively colours, we sympathize with him\nin his afflictions, and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and\nbenevolence. The same object causes contrary passions, according to its\ndifferent degrees. The passions, therefore, must depend upon principles\nthat operate in such certain degrees, according to my hypothesis. The\nincrease of the sympathy has evidently the same effect as the increase\nof the misery.\n\nA barren or desolate country always seems ugly and disagreeable,\nand commonly inspires us with contempt for the inhabitants. This\ndeformity, however, proceeds in a great measure from a sympathy\nwith the inhabitants, as has been already observed; but it is only\na weak one, and reaches no farther than the immediate sensation,\nwhich is disagreeable. The view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent\nsentiments; because we there enter so deep into the interests of the\nmiserable inhabitants, as to wish for their prosperity, as well as feel\ntheir adversity.\n\nBut though the force of the impression generally produces pity and\nbenevolence, 'tis certain that, by being carried too far, it ceases\nto have that effect. This, perhaps, may be worth our notice. When the\nuneasiness is either small in itself, or remote from us, it engages\nnot the imagination, nor is able to convey an equal concern for the\nfuture and contingent good, as for the present and real evil. Upon its\nacquiring greater force, we become so interested in the concerns of the\nperson, as to be sensible both of his good and bad fortune; and from\nthat complete sympathy there arises pity and benevolence. But 'twill\neasily be imagined, that where the present evil strikes with more than\nordinary force, it may entirely engage our attention, and prevent that\ndouble sympathy above mentioned. Thus we find, that though every one,\nbut especially women, are apt to contract a kindness for criminals who\ngo to the scaffold, and readily imagine them to be uncommonly handsome\nand well-shaped; yet one who is present at the cruel execution of the\nrack, feels no such tender emotions; but is in a manner overcome with\nhorror, and has no leisure to temper this uneasy sensation by any\nopposite sympathy.\n\nBut the instance which makes the most clearly for my hypothesis, is\nthat wherein, by a change of the objects, we separate the double\nsympathy even from a middling degree of the passion; in which case we\nfind that pity, instead of producing love and tenderness as usual,\nalways gives rise to the contrary affection. When we observe a person\nin misfortune, we are affected with pity and love; but the author of\nthat misfortune becomes the object of our strongest hatred, and is the\nmore detested in proportion to the degree of our compassion. Now, for\nwhat reason should the same passion of pity produce love to the person\nwho suffers the misfortune, and hatred to the person who causes it;\nunless it be because, in the latter case, the author bears a relation\nonly to the misfortune; whereas, in considering the sufferer, we carry\nour view on every side, and wish for his prosperity, as well as are\nsensible of his affliction?\n\nI shall just observe, before I leave the present subject, that this\nphenomenon of the double sympathy, and its tendency to cause love,\nmay contribute to the production of the kindness which we naturally\nbear our relations and acquaintance. Custom and relation make us enter\ndeeply into the sentiments of others; and whatever fortune we suppose\nto attend them, is rendered present to us by the imagination, and\noperates as if originally our own. We rejoice in their pleasures, and\ngrieve for their sorrows, merely from the force of sympathy. Nothing\nthat concerns them is indifferent to us; and as this correspondence of\nsentiments is the natural attendant of love, it readily produces that\naffection.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION X.\n\nOF RESPECT AND CONTEMPT.\n\n\nThere now remains only to explain the passions of _respect_ and\n_contempt_, along with the _amorous_ affection, in order to understand\nall the passions which have any mixture of love or hatred. Let us begin\nwith respect and contempt.\n\nIn considering the qualities and circumstances of others, we may either\nregard them as they really are in themselves; or may make a comparison\nbetwixt them and our own qualities and circumstances; or may join these\ntwo methods of consideration. The good qualities of others, from the\nfirst point of view, produce love; from the second, humility; and, from\nthe third, respect; which is a mixture of these two passions. Their bad\nqualities, after the same manner, cause either hatred, or pride, or\ncontempt, according to the light in which we survey them.\n\nThat there is a mixture of pride in contempt, and of humility in\nrespect, is, I think, too evident, from their very feeling or\nappearance, to require any particular proof. That this mixture arises\nfrom a tacit comparison of the person contemned or respected with\nourselves, is no less evident. The same man may cause either respect,\nlove, or contempt, by his condition and talents, according as the\nperson who considers him, from his inferior, becomes his equal or\nsuperior. In changing the point of view, though the object may remain\nthe same, its proportion to ourselves entirely alters; which is the\ncause of an alteration in the passions. These passions, therefore,\narise from our observing the proportion, that is, from a comparison.\n\nI have already observed, that the mind has a much stronger propensity\nto pride than to humility, and have endeavoured, from the principles\nof human nature, to assign a cause for this phenomenon. Whether my\nreasoning be received or not, the phenomenon is undisputed, and appears\nin many instances. Among the rest, 'tis the reason why there is a much\ngreater mixture of pride in contempt, than of humility in respect, and\nwhy we are more elevated with the view of one below us, than mortified\nwith the presence of one above us. Contempt or scorn has so strong a\ntincture of pride, that there scarce is any other passion discernible:\nWhereas in esteem or respect, love makes a more considerable ingredient\nthan humility. The passion of vanity is so prompt, that it rouses at\nthe least call; while humility requires a stronger impulse to make it\nexert itself.\n\nBut here it may reasonably be asked, why this mixture takes place only\nin some cases, and appears not on every occasion. All those objects\nwhich cause love, when placed on another person, are the causes of\npride when transferred to ourselves; and consequently ought to be\ncauses of humility as well as love while they belong to others, and are\nonly compared to those which we ourselves possess. In like manner every\nquality, which, by being directly considered, produces hatred, ought\nalways to give rise to pride by comparison, and, by a mixture of these\npassions of hatred and pride, ought to excite contempt or scorn. The\ndifficulty then is, why any objects ever cause pure love or hatred,\nand produce not always the mixt passions of respect and contempt.\n\nI have supposed all along that the passions of love and pride, and\nthose of humility and hatred, are similar in their sensations, and that\nthe two former are always agreeable, and that the two latter painful.\nBut though this be universally true, 'tis observable, that the two\nagreeable as well as the two painful passions, have some differences,\nand even contrarieties, which distinguish them. Nothing invigorates and\nexalts the mind equally with pride and vanity; though at the same time\nlove or tenderness is rather found to weaken and enfeeble it. The same\ndifference is observable betwixt the uneasy passions. Anger and hatred\nbestow a new force on all our thoughts and actions; while humility and\nshame deject and discourage us. Of these qualities of the passions,\n'twill be necessary to form a distinct idea. Let us remember that pride\nand hatred invigorate the soul, and love and humility enfeeble it.\n\nFrom this it follows, that though the conformity betwixt love and\nhatred in the agreeableness of their sensation makes them always be\nexcited by the same objects, yet this other contrariety is the reason\nwhy they are excited in very different degrees. Genius and learning are\n_pleasant_ and _magnificent_ objects, and by both these circumstances\nare adapted to pride and vanity, but have a relation to love by their\npleasure only. Ignorance and simplicity are _disagreeable_ and _mean_,\nwhich in the same manner gives them a double connexion with humility,\nand a single one with hatred. We may, therefore, consider it as\ncertain, that though the same object always produces love and pride,\nhumility and hatred, according to its different situations, yet it\nseldom produces either the two former or the two latter passions in the\nsame proportion.\n\n'Tis here we must seek for a solution of the difficulty\nabove-mentioned, why any object ever excites pure love or hatred, and\ndoes not always produce respect or contempt, by a mixture of humility\nor pride. No quality in another gives rise to humility by comparison,\nunless it would have produced pride by being placed in ourselves;\nand, _vice versa_, no object excites pride by comparison, unless it\nwould have produced humility by the direct survey. This is evident,\nobjects always produce by _comparison_ a sensation directly contrary to\ntheir _original_ one. Suppose, therefore, an object to be presented,\nwhich is peculiarly fitted to produce love, but imperfectly to excite\npride, this object, belonging to another, gives rise directly to a\ngreat degree of love, but to a small one of humility by comparison;\nand consequently that latter passion is scarce felt in the compound,\nnor is able to convert the love into respect. This is the case with\ngood nature, good humour, facility, generosity, beauty, and many other\nqualities. These have a peculiar aptitude to produce love in others;\nbut not so great a tendency to excite pride in ourselves: for which\nreason the view of them, as belonging to another person, produces pure\nlove, with but a small mixture of humility and respect. 'Tis easy to\nextend the same reasoning to the opposite passions.\n\nBefore we leave this subject, it may not be amiss to account for a\npretty curious phenomenon, viz. why we commonly keep at a distance\nsuch as we contemn, and allow not our inferiors to approach too near\neven in place and situation. It has already been observed, that almost\nevery kind of ideas is attended with some emotion, even the ideas of\nnumber and extension, much more those of such objects as are esteemed\nof consequence in life, and fix our attention. 'Tis not with entire\nindifference we can survey either a rich man or a poor one, but must\nfeel some faint touches, at least, of respect in the former case, and\nof contempt in the latter. These two passions are contrary to each\nother; but in order to make this contrariety be felt, the objects must\nbe someway related; otherwise the affections are totally separate and\ndistinct, and never encounter. The relation takes place wherever the\npersons become contiguous; which is a general reason why we are uneasy\nat seeing such disproportioned objects as a rich man and a poor one, a\nnobleman and a porter, in that situation.\n\nThis uneasiness, which is common to every spectator, must be more\nsensible to the superior; and that because the near approach of the\ninferior is regarded as a piece of ill breeding, and shows that he is\nnot sensible of the disproportion, and is no way affected by it. A\nsense of superiority in another breeds in all men an inclination to\nkeep themselves at a distance from him, and determines them to redouble\nthe marks of respect and reverence, when they are obliged to approach\nhim; and where they do not observe that conduct, 'tis a proof they are\nnot sensible of his superiority. From hence too it proceeds, that any\ngreat _difference_ in the degrees of any quality is called a _distance_\nby a common metaphor, which, however trivial it may appear, is founded\non natural principles of the imagination. A great difference inclines\nus to produce a distance. The ideas of distance and difference are,\ntherefore, connected together. Connected ideas are readily taken for\neach other; and this is in general the source of the metaphor, as we\nshall have occasion to observe afterwards.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION XI.\n\nOF THE AMOROUS PASSION, OR LOVE BETWIXT THE SEXES.\n\n\nOf all the compound passions which proceed from a mixture of love and\nhatred with other affections, no one better deserves our attention,\nthan that love which arises betwixt the sexes, as well on account of\nits force and violence, as those curious principles of philosophy, for\nwhich it affords us an uncontestable argument. 'Tis plain that this\naffection, in its most natural state, is derived from the conjunction\nof three different impressions or passions, viz. the pleasing sensation\narising from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation; and a generous\nkindness or good will. The origin of kindness from beauty may be\nexplained from the foregoing reasoning. The question is, how the bodily\nappetite is excited by it.\n\nThe appetite of generation, when confined to a certain degree, is\nevidently of the pleasant kind, and has a strong connexion with all\nthe agreeable emotions. Joy, mirth, vanity, and kindness, are all\nincentives to this desire, as well as music, dancing, wine, and good\ncheer. On the other hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility are\ndestructive of it. From this quality, 'tis easily conceived why it\nshould be connected with the sense of beauty.\n\nBut there is another principle that contributes to the same effect.\nI have observed that the parallel direction of the desires is a real\nrelation, and, no less than a resemblance in their sensation, produces\na connexion among them. That we may fully comprehend the extent of\nthis relation, we must consider that any principal desire may be\nattended with subordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to\nwhich, if other desires are parallel, they are by that means related to\nthe principal one. Thus, hunger may oft be considered as the primary\ninclination of the soul, and the desire of approaching the meat as the\nsecondary one, since 'tis absolutely necessary to the satisfying that\nappetite. If an object, therefore, by any separate qualities, inclines\nus to approach the meat, it naturally increases our appetite; as on the\ncontrary, whatever inclines us to set our victuals at a distance, is\ncontradictory to hunger, and diminishes our inclination to them. Now,\n'tis plain, that beauty has the first effect, and deformity the second;\nwhich is the reason why the former gives us a keener appetite for\nour victuals, and the latter is sufficient to disgust us at the most\nsavoury dish that cookery has invented. All this is easily applicable\nto the appetite for generation.\n\nFrom these two relations, viz. resemblance and a parallel desire,\nthere arises such a connexion betwixt the sense of beauty, the bodily\nappetite, and benevolence, that they become in a manner inseparable;\nand we find from experience, that 'tis indifferent which of them\nadvances first, since any of them is almost sure to be attended with\nthe related affections. One who is inflamed with lust, feels at least\na momentary kindness towards the object of it, and at the same time\nfancies her more beautiful than ordinary; as there are many, who\nbegin with kindness and esteem for the wit and merit of the person,\nand advance from that to the other passions. But the most common\nspecies of love is that which first arises from beauty, and afterwards\ndiffuses itself into kindness, and into the bodily appetite. Kindness\nor esteem, and the appetite to generation, are too remote to unite\neasily together. The one is, perhaps, the most refined passion of the\nsoul, the other the most gross and vulgar. The love of beauty is placed\nin a just medium betwixt them, and partakes of both their natures; from\nwhence it proceeds, that 'tis so singularly fitted to produce both.\n\nThis account of love is not peculiar to my system, but is unavoidable\non any hypothesis. The three affections which compose this passion are\nevidently distinct, and has each of them its distinct object. 'Tis\ncertain, therefore, that 'tis only by their relation they produce each\nother. But the relation of passions is not alone sufficient. 'Tis\nlikewise necessary there should be a relation of ideas. The beauty of\none person never inspires us with love for another. This then is a\nsensible proof of the double relation of impressions and ideas. From\none instance so evident as this we may form a judgment of the rest.\n\nThis may also serve in another view to illustrate what I have insisted\non concerning the origin of pride and humility, love and hatred. I have\nobserved, that though self be the object of the first set of passions,\nand some other person of the second, yet these objects cannot alone\nbe the causes of the passions, as having each of them a relation to\ntwo contrary affections, which must from the very first moment destroy\neach other. Here then is the situation of the mind, as I have already\ndescribed it. It has certain organs naturally fitted to produce a\npassion; that passion, when produced, naturally turns the view to a\ncertain object. But this not being sufficient to produce the passion,\nthere is required some other emotion, which, by a double relation of\nimpressions and ideas, may set these principles in action, and bestow\non them their first impulse. This situation is still more remarkable\nwith regard to the appetite of generation. Sex is not only the object,\nbut also the cause of the appetite. We not only turn our view to it,\nwhen actuated by that appetite, but the reflecting on it suffices to\nexcite the appetite. But as this cause loses its force by too great\nfrequency, 'tis necessary it should be quickened by some new impulse;\nand that impulse we find to arise from the _beauty_ of the _person_;\nthat is, from a double relation of impressions and ideas. Since this\ndouble relation is necessary where an affection has both a distinct\ncause and object, how much more so where it has only a distinct object\nwithout any determinate cause!\n\n\n\n\nSECTION XII.\n\nOF THE LOVE AND HATRED OF ANIMALS.\n\n\nBut to pass from the passions of love and hatred, and from their\nmixtures and compositions, as they appear in man, to the same\naffections as they display themselves in brutes, we may observe, not\nonly that love and hatred are common to the whole sensitive creation,\nbut likewise that their causes, as above explained, are of so simple\na nature that they may easily be supposed to operate on mere animals.\nThere is no force of reflection or penetration required. Every thing\nis conducted by springs and principles, which are not peculiar to man,\nor any one species of animals. The conclusion from this is obvious in\nfavour of the foregoing system.\n\nLove, in animals, has not for its only object animals of the same\nspecies, but extends itself farther, and comprehends almost every\nsensible and thinking being. A dog naturally loves a man above his own\nspecies, and very commonly meets with a return of affection.\n\nAs animals are but little susceptible either of the pleasures or pains\nof the imagination, they can judge of objects only by the sensible\ngood or evil which they produce, and from _that_ must regulate their\naffections towards them. Accordingly we find, that by benefits or\ninjuries we produce their love or hatred; and that, by feeding and\ncherishing any animal, we quickly acquire his affections; as by beating\nand abusing him we never fail to draw on us his enmity and ill-will.\n\nLove in beasts is not caused so much by relation as in our species; and\nthat because their thoughts are not so active as to trace relations,\nexcept in very obvious instances. Yet 'tis easy to remark, that on\nsome occasions it has a considerable influence upon them. Thus,\nacquaintance, which has the same effect as relation, always produces\nlove in animals, either to men or to each other. For the same reason,\nany likeness among them is the source of affection. An ox confined to a\npark with horses, will naturally join their company, if I may so speak,\nbut always leaves it to enjoy that of his own species, where he has the\nchoice of both.\n\nThe affection of parents to their young proceeds from a peculiar\ninstinct in animals, as well as in our species.\n\n'Tis evident that _sympathy_, or the communication of passions, takes\nplace among animals, no less than among men. Fear, anger, courage,\nand other affections, are frequently communicated from one animal to\nanother, without their knowledge of that cause which produced the\noriginal passion. Grief likewise is received by sympathy, and produces\nalmost all the same consequences, and excites the same emotions, as in\nour species. The howlings and lamentations of a dog produce a sensible\nconcern in his fellows. And 'tis remarkable, that though almost all\nanimals use in play the same member, and nearly the same action as\nin fighting; a lion, a tiger, a cat, their paws; an ox, his horns;\na dog, his teeth; a horse, his heels: yet they most carefully avoid\nharming their companion, even though they have nothing to fear from his\nresentment; which is an evident proof of the sense brutes have of each\nother's pain and pleasure.\n\nEvery one has observed how much more dogs are animated when they hunt\nin a pack, than when they pursue their game apart; and 'tis evident\nthis can proceed from nothing but from sympathy. 'Tis also well known\nto hunters, that this effect follows in a greater degree, and even in\ntoo great a degree, where too packs that are strangers to each other\nare joined together. We might, perhaps, be at a loss to explain this\nphenomenon, if we had not experience of a similar in ourselves.\n\nEnvy and malice are passions very remarkable in animals. They are\nperhaps more common than pity; as requiring less effort of thought and\nimagination.\n\n\n\n\nPART III.\n\nOF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I.\n\nOF LIBERTY AND NECESSITY.\n\n\nWe come now to explain the _direct_ passions, or the impressions which\narise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. Of this\nkind are, _desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear._\n\nOf all the immediate effects of pain and pleasure, there is none more\nremarkable than the _will_; and though, properly speaking, it be not\ncomprehended among the passions, yet, as the full understanding of its\nnature and properties is necessary to the explanation of them, we shall\nhere make it the subject of our inquiry. I desire it may be observed,\nthat, by the _will_, I mean nothing but _the internal impression we\nfeel, and are conscious of, when we knowingly give rise to any new\nmotion of our body, or new perception of our mind_. This impression,\nlike the preceding ones of pride and humility, love and hatred, 'tis\nimpossible to define, and needless to describe any farther; for\nwhich reason we shall cut off all those definitions and distinctions\nwith which philosophers are wont to perplex rather than clear up this\nquestion; and entering at first upon the subject, shall examine that\nlong-disputed question concerning _liberty and necessity_, which occurs\nso naturally in treating of the will.\n\n'Tis universally acknowledged that the operations of external bodies\nare necessary; and that, in the communication of their motion, in their\nattraction, and mutual cohesion, there are not the least traces of\nindifference or liberty. Every object is determined by an absolute fate\nto a certain degree and direction of its motion, and can no more depart\nfrom that precise line in which it moves, than it can convert itself\ninto an angel, or spirit, or any superior substance. The actions,\ntherefore, of matter, are to be regarded as instances of necessary\nactions; and whatever is, in this respect, on the same footing with\nmatter, must be acknowledged to be necessary. That we may know whether\nthis be the case with the actions of the mind, we shall begin with\nexamining matter, and considering on what the idea of a necessity in\nits operations are founded, and why we conclude one body or action to\nbe the infallible cause of another.\n\nIt has been observed already, that in no single instance the ultimate\nconnexion of any objects is discoverable either by our senses or\nreason, and that we can never penetrate so far into the essence and\nconstruction of bodies, as to perceive the principle on which their\nmutual influence depends. 'Tis their constant union alone with which\nwe are acquainted; and 'tis from the constant union the necessity\narises. If objects had not an uniform and regular conjunction with\neach other, we should never arrive at any idea of cause and effect;\nand even after all, the necessity which enters into that idea, is\nnothing but a determination of the mind to pass from one object to\nits usual attendant, and infer the existence of one from that of the\nother. Here then are two particulars which we are to consider as\nessential to necessity, viz. the constant _union_ and the _inference_\nof the mind; and wherever we discover these, we must acknowledge a\nnecessity. As the actions of matter have no necessity but what is\nderived from these circumstances, and it is not by any insight into\nthe essence of bodies we discover their connexion, the absence of\nthis insight, while the union and inference remain, will never, in\nany case, remove the necessity. 'Tis the observation of the union\nwhich produces the inference; for which reason it might be thought\nsufficient, if we prove a constant union in the actions of the mind,\nin order to establish the inference along with the necessity of these\nactions. But that I may bestow a greater force on my reasoning, I shall\nexamine these particulars apart, and shall first prove from experience\nthat our actions have a constant union with our motives, tempers, and\ncircumstances, before I consider the inferences we draw from it.\n\nTo this end a very slight and general view of the common course of\nhuman affairs will be sufficient. There is no light in which we can\ntake them that does not confirm this principle. Whether we consider\nmankind according to the difference of sexes, ages, governments,\nconditions, or methods of education; the same uniformity and regular\noperation of natural principles are discernible. Like causes still\nproduce like effects; in the same manner as in the mutual action of the\nelements and powers of nature.\n\nThere are different trees which regularly produce fruit, whose relish\nis different from each other; and this regularity will be admitted as\nan instance of necessity and causes in external bodies. But are the\nproducts of Guienne and of Champagne more regularly different than\nthe sentiments, actions, and passions of the two sexes, of which the\none are distinguished by their force and maturity, the other by their\ndelicacy and softness?\n\nAre the changes of our body from infancy to old age more regular and\ncertain than those of our mind and conduct? And would a man be more\nridiculous, who would expect that an infant of four years old will\nraise a weight of three hundred pounds, than one who, from a person of\nthe same age, would look for a philosophical reasoning, or a prudent\nand well concerted action?\n\nWe must certainly allow, that the cohesion of the parts of matter\narises from natural and necessary principles, whatever difficulty we\nmay find in explaining them: and for a like reason we must allow, that\nhuman society is founded on like principles; and our reason in the\nlatter case is better than even that in the former; because we not\nonly observe that men _always_ seek society, but can also explain the\nprinciples on which this universal propensity is founded. For it is\nmore certain that two flat pieces of marble will unite together, than\ntwo young savages of different sexes will copulate? Do the children\narise from this copulation more uniformly, than does the parents' care\nfor their safety and preservation? And after they have arrived at years\nof discretion by the care of their parents, are the inconveniences\nattending their separation more certain than their foresight of these\ninconveniences, and their care of avoiding them by a close union and\nconfederacy?\n\nThe skin, pores, muscles, and nerves of a day-labourer, are different\nfrom those of a man of quality: so are his sentiments, actions, and\nmanners. The different stations of life influence the whole fabric,\nexternal and internal; and these different stations arise necessarily,\nbecause uniformly, from the necessary and uniform principles of human\nnature. Men cannot live without society, and cannot be associated\nwithout government. Government makes a distinction of property, and\nestablishes the different ranks of men. This produces industry,\ntraffic, manufactures, lawsuits, war, leagues, alliances, voyages,\ntravels, cities, fleets, ports, and all those other actions and objects\nwhich cause such a diversity, and at the same time maintain such an\nuniformity in human life.\n\nShould a traveller, returning from a far country, tell us, that he had\nseen a climate in the fiftieth degree of northern latitude, where all\nthe fruits ripen and come to perfection in the winter, and decay in the\nsummer, after the same manner as in England they are produced and decay\nin the contrary seasons, he would find few so credulous as to believe\nhim. I am apt to think a traveller would meet with as little credit,\nwho should inform us of people exactly of the same character with those\nin Plato's republic on the one hand, or those in Hobbes's _Leviathan_\non the other. There is a general course of nature in human actions, as\nwell as in the operations of the sun and the climate. There are also\ncharacters peculiar to different nations and particular persons, as\nwell as common to mankind. The knowledge of these characters is founded\non the observation of an uniformity in the actions that flow from them;\nand this uniformity forms the very essence of necessity.\n\nI can imagine only one way of eluding this argument, which is by\ndenying that uniformity of human actions, on which it is founded. As\nlong as actions have a constant union and connexion with the situation\nand temper of the agent, however we may in words refuse to acknowledge\nthe necessity, we really allow the thing. Now, some may perhaps find\na pretext to deny this regular union and connexion. For what is more\ncapricious than human actions? What more inconstant than the desires\nof man? And what creature departs more widely, not only from right\nreason, but from his own character and disposition? An hour, a moment\nis sufficient to make him change from one extreme to another, and\noverturn what cost the greatest pain and labour to establish. Necessity\nis regular and certain. Human conduct is irregular and uncertain. The\none therefore proceeds not from the other.\n\nTo this I reply, that in judging of the actions of men we must proceed\nupon the same maxims, as when we reason concerning external objects.\nWhen any phenomena are constantly and invariably conjoined together,\nthey acquire such a connexion in the imagination, that it passes from\none to the other without any doubt or hesitation. But below this there\nare many inferior degrees of evidence and probability, nor does one\nsingle contrariety of experiment entirely destroy all our reasoning.\nThe mind balances the contrary experiments, and, deducting the inferior\nfrom the superior, proceeds with that degree of assurance or evidence,\nwhich remains. Even when these contrary experiments are entirely equal,\nwe remove not the notion of causes and necessity; but, supposing that\nthe usual contrariety proceeds from the operation of contrary and\nconcealed causes, we conclude, that the chance or indifference lies\nonly in our judgment on account of our imperfect knowledge, not in the\nthings themselves, which are in every case equally necessary, though,\nto appearance, not equally constant or certain. No union can be more\nconstant and certain than that of some actions with some motives and\ncharacters; and if, in other cases, the union is uncertain, 'tis no\nmore than what happens in the operations of body; nor can we conclude\nany thing from the one irregularity which will not follow equally from\nthe other.\n\n'Tis commonly allowed that madmen have no liberty. But, were we to\njudge by their actions, these have less regularity and constancy than\nthe actions of wise men, and consequently are farther removed from\nnecessity. Our way of thinking in this particular is, therefore,\nabsolutely inconsistent; but is a natural consequence of these confused\nideas and undefined terms, which we so commonly make use of in our\nreasonings, especially on the present subject.\n\nWe must now show, that, as the _union_ betwixt motives and actions has\nthe same constancy as that in any natural operations, so its influence\non the understanding is also the same, in _determining_ us to infer\nthe existence of one from that of another. If this shall appear, there\nis no known circumstance that enters into the connexion and production\nof the actions of matter that is not to be found in all the operations\nof the mind; and consequently we cannot, without a manifest absurdity,\nattribute necessity to the one, and refuse it to the other.\n\nThere is no philosopher, whose judgment is so rivetted to this\nfantastical system of liberty, as not to acknowledge the force of\n_moral evidence_, and both in speculation and practice proceed upon\nit as upon a reasonable foundation. Now, moral evidence is nothing\nbut a conclusion concerning the actions of men, derived from the\nconsideration of their motives, temper, and situation. Thus, when we\nsee certain characters or figures described upon paper, we infer that\nthe person who produced them would affirm such facts, the death of\nC\u00e6sar, the success of Augustus, the cruelty of Nero; and, remembering\nmany other concurrent testimonies, we conclude that those facts were\nonce really existent, and that so many men, without any interest,\nwould never conspire to deceive us; especially since they must, in the\nattempt, expose themselves to the derision of all their contemporaries,\nwhen these facts were asserted to be recent and universally known. The\nsame kind of reasoning runs through politics, war, commerce, economy,\nand indeed mixes itself so entirely in human life, that 'tis impossible\nto act or subsist a moment without having recourse to it. A prince who\nimposes a tax upon his subjects, expects their compliance. A general\nwho conducts an army, makes account of a certain degree of courage. A\nmerchant looks for fidelity and skill in his factor or supercargo. A\nman who gives orders for his dinner, doubts not of the obedience of\nhis servants. In short, as nothing more nearly interests us than our\nown actions and those of others, the greatest part of our reasonings\nis employed in judgments concerning them. Now I assert, that whoever\nreasons after this manner, does _ipso facto_ believe the actions of the\nwill to arise from necessity, and that he knows not what he means when\nhe denies it.\n\nAll those objects, of which we call the one _cause_ and the other\n_effect_, considered in themselves, are as distinct and separate from\neach other as any two things in nature; nor can we ever, by the most\naccurate survey of them, infer the existence of the one from that\nof the other. 'Tis only from experience and the observation of their\nconstant union, that we are able to form this inference; and even\nafter all, the inference is nothing but the effects of custom on the\nimagination. We must not here be content with saying, that the idea\nof cause and effect arises from objects constantly united; but must\naffirm, that 'tis the very same with the idea of these objects, and\nthat the _necessary connexion_ is not discovered by a conclusion of\nthe understanding, but is merely a perception of the mind. Wherever,\ntherefore, we observe the same union, and wherever the union operates\nin the same manner upon the belief and opinion, we have the idea of\ncauses and necessity, though perhaps we may avoid those expressions.\nMotion in one body, in all past instances that have fallen under our\nobservation, is followed upon impulse by motion in another. 'Tis\nimpossible for the mind to penetrate farther. From this constant union\nit _forms_ the idea of cause and effect, and by its influence _feels_\nthe necessity. As there is the same constancy, and the same influence,\nin what we call moral evidence, I ask no more. What remains can only be\na dispute of words.\n\nAnd indeed, when we consider how aptly _natural_ and _moral_ evidence\ncement together, and form only one chain of argument betwixt them, we\nshall make no scruple to allow, that they are of the same nature, and\nderived from the same principles. A prisoner, who has neither money nor\ninterest, discover the impossibility of his escape, as well from the\nobstinacy of the gaoler, as from the walls and bars with which he is\nsurrounded; and in all attempts for his freedom, chooses rather to work\nupon the stone and iron of the one, than upon the inflexible nature\nof the other. The same prisoner, when conducted to the scaffold,\nforesees his death as certainly from the constancy and fidelity of\nhis guards, as from the operation of the axe or wheel. His mind runs\nalong a certain train of ideas: the refusal of the soldiers to consent\nto his escape; the action of the executioner; the separation of the\nhead and body, bleeding, convulsive motions, and death. Here is a\nconnected chain of natural causes and voluntary actions; but the mind\nfeels no difference betwixt them in passing from one link to another;\nnor is less certain of the future event than if it were connected\nwith the present impressions of the memory and senses by a train of\ncauses cemented together by what we are pleased to call a _physical\nnecessity_. The same experienced union has the same effect on the mind,\nwhether the united objects be motives, volitions and actions, or figure\nand motion. We may change the names of things, but their nature and\ntheir operation on the understanding never change.\n\nI dare be positive no one will ever endeavour to refute these\nreasonings otherwise than by altering my definitions, and assigning a\ndifferent meaning to the terms of _cause, and effect, and necessity,\nand liberty, and chance_. According to my definitions, necessity makes\nan essential part of causation; and consequently liberty, by removing\nnecessity, removes also causes, and is the very same thing with chance.\nAs chance is commonly thought to imply a contradiction, and is at least\ndirectly contrary to experience, there are always the same arguments\nagainst liberty or free-will. If any one alters the definitions, I\ncannot pretend to argue with him till I know the meaning he assigns to\nthese terms.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II.\n\nTHE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.\n\n\nI believe we may assign the three following reasons for the prevalence\nof the doctrine of liberty, however absurd it may be in one sense,\nand unintelligible in any other. First, after we have performed any\naction, though we confess we were influenced by particular views and\nmotives, 'tis difficult for us to persuade ourselves we were governed\nby necessity, and that 'twas utterly impossible for us to have acted\notherwise, the idea of necessity seeming to imply something of force,\nand violence, and constraint, of which we are not sensible. Few are\ncapable of distinguishing betwixt the liberty of _spontaneity_, as it\nis called in the schools, and the liberty of _indifference_; betwixt\nthat which is opposed to violence, and that which means a negation of\nnecessity and causes. The first is even the most common sense of the\nword; and as 'tis only that species of liberty which it concerns us to\npreserve, our thoughts have been principally turned towards it, and\nhave almost universally confounded it with the other.\n\nSecondly, there is a _false sensation or experience_ even of the\nliberty of indifference, which is regarded as an argument for its real\nexistence. The necessity of any action, whether of matter or of the\nmind, is not properly a quality in the agent, but in any thinking or\nintelligent being, who may consider the action, and consists in the\ndetermination of his thought to infer its existence from some preceding\nobjects: as liberty or chance, on the other hand, is nothing but the\nwant of that determination, and a certain looseness, which we feel\nin passing or not passing from the idea of one to that of the other.\nNow, we may observe, that though in reflecting on human actions, we\nseldom feel such a looseness or indifference, yet it very commonly\nhappens, that, in performing the actions themselves, we are sensible of\nsomething like it: and as all related or resembling objects are readily\ntaken for each other, this has been employed as a demonstrative, or\neven an intuitive proof of human liberty. We feel that our actions\nare subject to our will on most occasions, and imagine we feel that\nthe will itself is subject to nothing; because when, by a denial of\nit, we are provoked to try, we feel that it moves easily every way,\nand produces an image of itself even on that side on which it did not\nsettle. This image or faint motion, we persuade ourselves, could have\nbeen completed into the thing itself; because, should that be denied,\nwe find, upon a second trial, that it can. But these efforts are all in\nvain; and whatever capricious and irregular actions we may perform, as\nthe desire of showing our liberty is the sole motive of our actions, we\ncan never free ourselves from the bonds of necessity. We may imagine\nwe feel a liberty within ourselves, but a spectator can commonly infer\nour actions from our motives and character; and even where he cannot,\nhe concludes in general that he might, were he perfectly acquainted\nwith every circumstance of our situation and temper, and the most\nsecret springs of our complexion and disposition. Now, this is the very\nessence of necessity, according to the foregoing doctrine.\n\nA third reason why the doctrine of liberty has generally been better\nreceived in the world than its antagonist, proceeds from _religion_,\nwhich has been very unnecessarily interested in this question. There\nis no method of reasoning more common, and yet none more blameable,\nthan in philosophical debates to endeavour to refute any hypothesis\nby a pretext of its dangerous consequences to religion and morality.\nWhen any opinion leads us into absurdities, 'tis certainly false;\nbut 'tis not certain an opinion is false, because 'tis of dangerous\nconsequence. Such topics, therefore, ought entirely to be foreborn,\nas serving nothing to the discovery of truth, but only to make the\nperson of an antagonist odious. This I observe in general, without\npretending to draw any advantage from it. I submit myself frankly to an\nexamination of this kind, and dare venture to affirm, that the doctrine\nof necessity, according to my explication of it, is not only innocent,\nbut even advantageous to religion and morality.\n\nI define necessity two ways, conformable to the two definitions of\n_cause_, of which it makes an essential part. I place it either in the\nconstant union and conjunction of like objects, or in the inference\nof the mind from the one to the other. Now, necessity, in both these\nsenses, has universally, though tacitly, in the schools, in the pulpit,\nand in common life, been allowed to belong to the will of man; and no\none has ever pretended to deny, that we can draw inferences concerning\nhuman actions, and that those inferences are founded on the experienced\nunion of like actions with like motives and circumstances. The only\nparticular in which any one can differ from me is, either that perhaps\nhe will refuse to call this necessity; but as long as the meaning is\nunderstood, I hope the word can do no harm; or, that he will maintain\nthere is something else in the operations of matter. Now, whether it\nbe so or not, is of no consequence to religion, whatever it may be to\nnatural philosophy. I may be mistaken in asserting, that we have no\nidea of any other connexion in the actions of body, and shall be glad\nto be farther instructed on that head: but sure I am, I ascribe nothing\nto the actions of the mind, but what must readily be allowed of. Let no\none, therefore, put an invidious construction on my words, by saying\nsimply, that I assert the necessity of human actions, and place them\non the same footing with the operations of senseless matter. I do not\nascribe to the will that unintelligible necessity, which is supposed\nto lie in matter. But I ascribe to matter that intelligible quality,\ncall it necessity or not, which the most rigorous orthodoxy does or\nmust allow to belong to the will. I change, therefore, nothing in the\nreceived systems, with regard to the will, but only with regard to\nmaterial objects.\n\nNay, I shall go farther, and assert, that this kind of necessity is so\nessential to religion and morality, that without it there must ensue\nan absolute subversion of both, and that every other supposition is\nentirely destructive to all laws, both _divine_ and _human_. 'Tis\nindeed certain, that as all human laws are founded on rewards and\npunishments, 'tis supposed as a fundamental principle, that these\nmotives have an influence on the mind, and both produce the good and\nprevent the evil actions. We may give to this influence what name we\nplease; but as 'tis usually conjoined with the action, common sense\nrequires it should be esteemed a cause, and be looked upon as an\ninstance of that necessity, which I would establish.\n\nThis reasoning is equally solid, when applied to _divine_ laws,\nso far as the Deity is considered as a legislator, and is supposed\nto inflict punishment and bestow rewards with a design to produce\nobedience. But I also maintain, that even where he acts not in his\nmagisterial capacity, is regarded as the avenger of crimes merely on\naccount of their odiousness and deformity, not only 'tis impossible,\nwithout the necessary connexion of cause and effect in human actions,\nthat punishments could be inflicted compatible with justice and moral\nequity; but also that it could ever enter into the thoughts of any\nreasonable being to inflict them. The constant and universal object\nof hatred or anger is a person or creature endowed with thought and\nconsciousness; and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that\npassion, 'tis only by their relation to the person or connexion with\nhim. But according to the doctrine of liberty or chance, this connexion\nis reduced to nothing, nor are men more accountable for those actions,\nwhich are designed and premeditated, than for such as are the most\ncasual and accidental. Actions are, by their very nature, temporary and\nperishing; and where they proceed not from some cause in the characters\nand disposition of the person who performed them, they infix not\nthemselves upon him, and can neither redound to his honour, if good,\nnor infamy, if evil. The action itself may be blameable; it may be\ncontrary to all the rules of morality and religion: but the person is\nnot responsible for it; and as it proceeded from nothing in him that is\ndurable or constant, and leaves nothing of that nature behind it, 'tis\nimpossible he can, upon its account, become the object of punishment or\nvengeance. According to the hypothesis of liberty, therefore, a man is\nas pure and untainted, after having committed the most horrid crimes,\nas at the first moment of his birth, nor is his character any way\nconcerned in his actions, since they are not derived from it, and the\nwickedness of the one can never be used as a proof of the depravity of\nthe other. 'Tis only upon the principles of necessity, that a person\nacquires any merit or demerit from his actions, however the common\nopinion may incline to the contrary.\n\nBut so inconsistent are men with themselves, that though they often\nassert that necessity utterly destroys all merit and demerit either\ntowards mankind or superior powers, yet they continue still to reason\nupon these very principles of necessity in all their judgments\nconcerning this matter. Men are not blamed for such evil actions\nas they perform ignorantly and casually, whatever may be their\nconsequences. Why? but because the causes of these actions are only\nmomentary, and terminate in them alone. Men are less blamed for such\nevil actions as they perform hastily and unpremeditately, than for such\nas proceed from thought and deliberation. For what reason? but because\na hasty temper, though a constant cause in the mind, operates only by\nintervals, and infects not the whole character. Again, repentance wipes\noff every crime, especially if attended with an evident reformation of\nlife and manners. How is this to be accounted for? but by asserting\nthat actions render a person criminal, merely as they are proofs\nof criminal passions or principles in the mind; and when, by any\nalteration of these principles, they cease to be just proofs, they\nlikewise cease to be criminal. But according the doctrine of _liberty_\nor _chance_, they never were just proofs, and consequently never were\ncriminal.\n\nHere then I turn to my adversary, and desire him to free his own system\nfrom these odious consequences before he charge them upon others.\nOr, if he rather chooses that this question should be decided by fair\narguments before philosophers, than by declamations before the people,\nlet him return to what I have advanced to prove that liberty and chance\nare synonymous; and concerning the nature of moral evidence and the\nregularity of human actions. Upon a review of these reasonings, I\ncannot doubt of an entire victory; and therefore, having proved that\nall actions of the will have particular causes, I proceed to explain\nwhat these causes are, and how they operate.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III.\n\nOF THE INFLUENCING MOTIVES OF THE WILL.\n\n\nNothing is more usual in philosophy, and even in common life, than to\ntalk of the combat of passion and reason, to give the preference to\nreason, and assert that men are only so far virtuous as they conform\nthemselves to its dictates. Every rational creature, 'tis said, is\nobliged to regulate his actions by reason; and if any other motive or\nprinciple challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to oppose\nit, 'till it be entirely subdued, or at least brought to a conformity\nwith that superior principle. On this method of thinking the greatest\npart of moral philosophy, ancient and modern, seems to be founded;\nnor is there an ampler field, as well for metaphysical arguments, as\npopular declamations, than this supposed pre-eminence of reason above\npassion. The eternity, invariableness, and divine origin of the former,\nhave been displayed to the best advantage: the blindness, inconstancy,\nand deceitfulness of the latter, have been as strongly insisted on. In\norder to show the fallacy of all this philosophy, I shall endeavour to\nprove _first_, that reason alone can never be a motive to any action\nof the will; and _secondly_, that it can never oppose passion in the\ndirection of the will.\n\nThe understanding exerts itself after two different ways, as the judges\nfrom demonstration or probability; as it regards the abstract relations\nof our ideas, or those relations of objects of which experience only\ngives us information. I believe it scarce will be asserted, that the\nfirst species of reasoning alone is ever the cause of any action. As\nits proper province is the world of ideas, and as the will always\nplaces us in that of realities, demonstration and volition seem upon\nthat account to be totally removed from each other. Mathematics,\nindeed, are useful in all mechanical operations, and arithmetic in\nalmost every art and profession: but 'tis not of themselves they have\nany influence. Mechanics are the art of regulating the motions of\nbodies _to some designed end or purpose_; and the reason why we employ\narithmetic in fixing the proportions of numbers, is only that we may\ndiscover the proportions of their influence and operation. A merchant\nis desirous of knowing the sum total of his accounts with any person:\nwhy? but that he may learn what sum will have the same _effects_ in\npaying his debt, and going to market, as all the particular articles\ntaken together. Abstract or demonstrative reasoning, therefore, never\ninfluences any of our actions, but only as it directs our judgment\nconcerning causes and effects; which leads us to the second operation\nof the understanding.\n\n'Tis obvious, that when we have the prospect of pain or pleasure from\nany object, we feel a consequent emotion of aversion or propensity,\nand are carried to avoid or embrace what will give us this uneasiness\nor satisfaction. 'Tis also obvious, that this emotion rests not here,\nbut, making us cast our view on every side, comprehends whatever\nobjects are connected with its original one by the relation of cause\nand effect. Here then reasoning takes place to discover this relation;\nand according as our reasoning varies, our actions receive a subsequent\nvariation. But 'tis evident, in this case, that the impulse arises not\nfrom reason, but is only directed by it. 'Tis from the prospect of pain\nor pleasure that the aversion or propensity arises towards any object:\nand these emotions extend themselves to the causes and effects of that\nobject, as they are pointed out to us by reason and experience. It can\nnever in the least concern us to know, that such objects are causes,\nand such others effects, if both the causes and effects be indifferent\nto us. Where the objects themselves do not affect us, their connexion\ncan never give them any influence; and 'tis plain that, as reason is\nnothing but the discovery of this connexion, it cannot be by its means\nthat the objects are able to affect us.\n\nSince reason alone can never produce any action, or give rise to\nvolition, I infer, that the same faculty is as incapable of preventing\nvolition, or of disputing the preference with any passion or emotion.\nThis consequence is necessary. 'Tis impossible reason could have the\nlatter effect of preventing, volition, but by giving an impulse in a\ncontrary direction to our passion; and that impulse, had it operated\nalone, would have been able to produce volition. Nothing can oppose or\nretard the impulse of passion, but a contrary impulse; and if this\ncontrary impulse ever arises from reason, that latter faculty must\nhave an original influence on the will, and must be able to cause, as\nwell as hinder, any act of volition. But if reason has no original\ninfluence, 'tis impossible it can withstand any principle which has\nsuch an efficacy, or ever keep the mind in suspence a moment. Thus,\nit appears, that the principle which opposes our passion, cannot be\nthe same with reason, and is only called so in an improper sense. We\nspeak not strictly and philosophically, when we talk of the combat of\npassion and of reason. Reason is, and ought only to be, the slave of\nthe passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve\nand obey them. As this opinion may appear somewhat extraordinary, it\nmay not be improper to confirm it by some other considerations.\n\nA passion is an original existence, or, if you will, modification of\nexistence, and contains not any representative quality, which renders\nit a copy of any other existence or modification. When I am angry, I\nam actually possest with the passion, and in that emotion have no more\na reference to any other object, than when I am thirsty, or sick, or\nmore than five feet high. 'Tis impossible, therefore, that this passion\ncan be opposed by, or be contradictory to, truth and reason; since this\ncontradiction consists in the disagreement of ideas, considered as\ncopies, with those objects which they represent.\n\nWhat may at first occur on this head is, that as nothing can be\ncontrary to truth or reason, except what has a reference to it, and as\nthe judgments of our understanding only have this reference, it must\nfollow, that passions can be contrary to reason only, so far as they\nare _accompanied_ with some judgment or opinion. According to this\nprinciple, which is so obvious and natural, 'tis only in two senses\nthat any affection can be called unreasonable. First, When a passion,\nsuch as hope or fear, grief or joy, despair or security, is founded\non the supposition of the existence of objects, which really do not\nexist. Secondly, When in exerting any passion in action, we choose\nmeans sufficient for the designed end, and deceive ourselves in our\njudgment of causes and effects. Where a passion is neither founded on\nfalse suppositions, nor chooses means insufficient for the end, the\nunderstanding can neither justify nor condemn it. 'Tis not contrary to\nreason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching\nof my finger. 'Tis not contrary to reason for me to choose my total\nruin, to prevent the least uneasiness of an Indian, or person wholly\nunknown to me. 'Tis as little contrary to reason to prefer even my\nown acknowledged lesser good to my greater, and have a more ardent\naffection for the former than the latter. A trivial good may, from\ncertain circumstances, produce a desire superior to what arises from\nthe greatest and most valuable enjoyment; nor is there any thing more\nextraordinary in this, than in mechanics to see one pound weight raise\nup a hundred by the advantage of its situation. In short, a passion\nmust be accompanied with some false judgment, in order to its being\nunreasonable; and even then, 'tis not the passion, properly speaking,\nwhich is unreasonable, but the judgment.\n\nThe consequences are evident. Since a passion can never, in any sense,\nbe called unreasonable, but when founded on a false supposition,\nor when it chuses means insufficient for the designed end, 'tis\nimpossible, that reason and passion can ever oppose each other, or\ndispute for the government of the will and actions. The moment we\nperceive the falsehood of any supposition, or the insufficiency of\nany means, our passions yield to our reason without any opposition.\nI may desire any fruit as of an excellent relish; but whenever\nyou convince me of my mistake, my longing ceases. I may will the\nperformance of certain actions as means of obtaining any desired good;\nbut as my willing of these actions is only secondary, and founded on\nthe supposition that they are causes of the proposed effect; as soon\nas I discover the falsehood of that supposition, they must become\nindifferent to me.\n\n'Tis natural for one, that does not examine objects with a strict\nphilosophic eye, to imagine, that those actions of the mind are\nentirely the same, which produce not a different sensation, and are\nnot immediately distinguishable to the feeling and perception. Reason,\nfor instance, exerts itself without producing any sensible emotion;\nand except in the more sublime disquisitions of philosophy, or in the\nfrivolous subtilties of the schools, scarce ever conveys any pleasure\nor uneasiness. Hence it proceeds, that every action of the mind which\noperates with the same calmness and tranquillity, is confounded\nwith reason by all those who judge of things from the first view\nand appearance. Now 'tis certain there are certain calm desires and\ntendencies, which, though they be real passions, produce little emotion\nin the mind, and are more known by their effects than by the immediate\nfeeling or sensation. These desires are of two kinds; either certain\ninstincts originally implanted in our natures, such as benevolence and\nresentment, the love of life, and kindness to children; or the general\nappetite to good, and aversion to evil, considered merely as such. When\nany of these passions are calm, and cause no disorder in the soul,\nthey are very readily taken for the determinations of reason, and are\nsupposed to proceed from the same faculty with that which judges of\ntruth and falsehood. Their nature and principles have been supposed the\nsame, because their sensations are not evidently different.\n\nBeside these calm passions, which often determine the will, there are\ncertain violent emotions of the same kind, which have likewise a great\ninfluence on that faculty. When I receive any injury from another, I\noften feel a violent passion of resentment, which makes me desire his\nevil and punishment, independent of all considerations of pleasure and\nadvantage to myself. When I am immediately threatened with any grievous\nill, my fears, apprehensions and aversions rise to a great height, and\nproduce a sensible emotion.\n\nThe common error of metaphysicians has lain in ascribing the direction\nof the will entirely to one of these principles, and supposing the\nother to have no influence. Men often act knowingly against their\ninterest; for which reason, the view of the greatest possible good\ndoes not always influence them. Men often counteract a violent passion\nin prosecution of their interests and designs; 'tis not, therefore,\nthe present uneasiness alone which determines them. In general we may\nobserve, that both these principles, operate on the will; and where\nthey are contrary, that either of them prevails, according to the\n_general_ character or _present_ disposition of the person. What we\ncall strength of mind, implies the prevalence of the calm passions\nabove the violent; though we may easily observe, there is no man so\nconstantly possessed of this virtue, as never on any occasion to yield\nto the solicitations of passion and desire. From these variations\nof temper proceeds the great difficulty of deciding concerning the\nactions and resolutions of men, where there is any contrariety of\nmotives and passions.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IV.\n\nOF THE CAUSES OF THE VIOLENT PASSIONS.\n\n\nThere is not in philosophy a subject of more nice speculation than\nthis, of the different _causes_ and _effects_ of the calm and violent\npassions. 'Tis evident, passions influence not the will in proportion\nto their violence, or the disorder they occasion in the temper;\nbut, on the contrary, that when a passion has once become a settled\nprinciple of action, and is the predominant inclination of the soul,\nit commonly produces no longer any sensible agitation. As repeated\ncustom and its own force have made every thing yield to it, it directs\nthe actions and conduct without that opposition and emotion which so\nnaturally attend every momentary gust of passion. We must, therefore,\ndistinguish betwixt a calm and a weak passion; betwixt a violent and\na strong one. But notwithstanding this, 'tis certain that, when we\nwould govern a man, and push him to any action, 'twill commonly be\nbetter policy to work upon the violent than the calm passions, and\nrather take him by his inclination, than what is vulgarly called his\n_reason_. We ought to place the object in such particular situations\nas are proper to increase the violence of the passion. For we may\nobserve, that all depends upon the situation of the object, and that a\nvariation in this particular will be able to change the calm and the\nviolent passions into each other. Both these kinds of passions pursue\ngood, and avoid evil; and both of them are increased or diminished by\nthe increase or diminution of the good or evil. But herein lies the\ndifference betwixt them: the same good, when near, will cause a violent\npassion, which, when remote, produces only a calm one. As this subject\nbelongs very properly to the present question concerning the will, we\nshall here examine it to the bottom, and shall consider some of those\ncircumstances and situations of objects, which render a passion either\ncalm or violent.\n\n'Tis a remarkable property of human nature, that any emotion which\nattends a passion, is easily converted into it, though in their\nnatures they be originally different from, and even contrary to, each\nother. 'Tis true, in order to make a perfect union among the passions,\nthere is always required a double relation of impressions and ideas;\nnor is one relation sufficient for that purpose. But though this be\nconfirmed by undoubted experience, we must understand it with its\nproper limitations, and must regard the double relation as requisite\nonly to make one passion produce another. When two passions are already\nproduced by their separate causes, and are both present in the mind,\nthey readily mingle and unite, though they have but one relation,\nand sometimes without any. The predominant passion swallows up the\ninferior, and converts it into itself. The spirits, when once excited,\neasily receive a change in their direction; and 'tis natural to imagine\nthis change will come from the prevailing affection. The connexion is\nin many respects closer betwixt any two passions, than betwixt any\npassion and indifference.\n\nWhen a person is once heartily in love, the little faults and caprice\nof his mistress, the jealousies and quarrels to which that commerce is\nso subject, however unpleasant, and related to anger and hatred, are\nyet found to give additional force to the prevailing passion. 'Tis a\ncommon artifice of politicians, when they would affect any person very\nmuch by a matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, first to\nexcite his curiosity, delay as long as possible the satisfying it, and\nby that means raise his anxiety and impatience to the utmost, before\nthey give him a full insight into the business. They know that his\ncuriosity will precipitate him into the passion they design to raise,\nand assist the object in its influence on the mind. A soldier advancing\nto the battle, is naturally inspired with courage and confidence,\nwhen he thinks on his friends and fellow-soldiers; and is struck with\nfear and terror, when he reflects on the enemy. Whatever new emotion,\ntherefore, proceeds from the former, naturally increases the courage;\nas the same emotion, proceeding from the latter, augments the fear,\nby the relation of ideas, and the conversion of the inferior emotion\ninto the predominant. Hence it is, that in martial discipline, the\nuniformity and lustre of our habit, the regularity of our figures and\nmotions, with all the pomp and majesty of war, encourage ourselves and\nallies; while the same objects in the enemy strike terror into us,\nthough agreeable and beautiful in themselves.\n\nSince passions, however independent, are naturally transfused into each\nother, if they are both present at the same time, it follows, that when\ngood or evil is placed in such a situation as to cause any particular\nemotion beside its direct passion of desire or aversion, that latter\npassion must acquire new force and violence.\n\nThis happens, among other cases, whenever any object excites contrary\npassions. For 'tis observable that an opposition of passions commonly\ncauses a new emotion in the spirits, and produces more disorder than\nthe concurrence of any two affections of equal force. This new emotion\nis easily converted into the predominant passion, and increases its\nviolence beyond the pitch it would have arrived at had it met with\nno opposition. Hence we naturally desire what is forbid, and take a\npleasure in performing actions, merely because they are unlawful.\nThe notion of duty, when opposite to the passions, is seldom able to\novercome them; and, when it fails of that effect, is apt rather to\nincrease them, by producing an opposition in our motives and principles.\n\nThe same effect follows, whether the opposition arises from internal\nmotives or external obstacles. The passion commonly acquires new\nforce and violence in both cases. The efforts which the mind makes to\nsurmount the obstacle, excite the spirits and enliven the passion.\n\nUncertainty has the same influence as opposition. The agitation of the\nthought, the quick turns it makes from one view to another, the variety\nof passions which succeed each other, according to the different views;\nall these produce an agitation in the mind, and transfuse themselves\ninto the predominant passion.\n\nThere is not, in my opinion, any other natural cause why security\ndiminishes the passions, than because it removes that uncertainty which\nincreases them. The mind, when left to itself, immediately languishes,\nand, in order to preserve its ardour, must be every moment supported by\na new flow of passion. For the same reason, despair, though contrary to\nsecurity, has a like influence.\n\n'Tis certain, nothing more powerful animates any affection, than to\nconceal some part of its object by throwing it into a kind of shade,\nwhich, at the same time that it shows enough to prepossess us in\nfavour of the object, leaves still some work for the imagination.\nBesides, that obscurity is always attended with a kind of uncertainty;\nthe effort which the fancy makes to complete the idea, rouses the\nspirits, and gives an additional force to the passion.\n\nAs despair and security, though contrary to each other, produce the\nsame effects, so absence is observed to have contrary effects, and, in\ndifferent circumstances, either increases or diminishes our affections.\nThe Duc de la Rochefoucault has very well observed, that absence\ndestroys weak passions, but increases strong; as the wind extinguishes\na candle, but blows up a fire. Long absence naturally weakens our idea,\nand diminishes the passion; but where the idea is so strong and lively\nas to support itself, the uneasiness, arising from absence, increases\nthe passion, and gives it new force and violence.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION V.\n\nOF THE EFFECTS OF CUSTOM.\n\n\nBut nothing has a greater effect both to increase and diminish our\npassions, to convert pleasure into pain, and pain into pleasure, than\ncustom and repetition. Custom has two _original_ effects upon the mind,\nin bestowing a _facility_ in the performance of any action, or the\nconception of any object, and afterwards a _tendency or inclination_\ntowards it; and from these we may account for all its other effects,\nhowever extraordinary.\n\nWhen the soul applies itself to the performance of any action, or the\nconception of any object to which it is not accustomed, there is a\ncertain unpliableness in the faculties, and a difficulty of the spirits\nmoving in their new direction. As this difficulty excites the spirits,\n'tis the source of wonder, surprise, and of all the emotions which\narise from novelty, and is in itself very agreeable, like every thing\nwhich enlivens the mind to a moderate degree. But though surprise be\nagreeable in itself, yet, as it puts the spirits in agitation, it not\nonly augments our agreeable affections, but also our painful, according\nto the foregoing principle, _that every emotion which precedes or\nattends a passion is easily converted into it_. Hence, every thing\nthat is new is most affecting, and gives us either more pleasure or\npain than what, strictly speaking, naturally belongs to it. When it\noften returns upon us, the novelty wears off, the passions subside, the\nhurry of the spirits is over, and we survey the objects with greater\ntranquillity.\n\nBy degrees, the repetition produces a facility, which is another\nvery powerful principle of the human mind, and an infallible source\nof pleasure where the facility goes not beyond a certain degree. And\nhere 'tis remarkable, that the pleasure which arises from a moderate\nfacility has not the same tendency with that which arises from\nnovelty, to augment the painful as well as the agreeable affections.\nThe pleasure of facility does not so much consist in any ferment of\nthe spirits, as in their orderly motion, which will sometimes be so\npowerful as even to convert pain into pleasure, and give us a relish in\ntime for what at first was most harsh and disagreeable.\n\nBut, again, as facility converts pain into pleasure, so it often\nconverts pleasure into pain when it is too great, and renders the\nactions of the mind so faint and languid, that they are no longer able\nto interest and support it. And indeed scarce any other objects become\ndisagreeable through custom, but such as are naturally attended with\nsome emotion or affection, which is destroyed by the too frequent\nrepetition. One can consider the clouds, and heavens, and trees,\nand stones, however frequently repeated, without ever feeling any\naversion. But when the fair sex, or music, or good cheer, or any thing\nthat naturally ought to be agreeable, becomes indifferent, it easily\nproduces the opposite affection.\n\nBut custom not only gives a facility to perform any action, but\nlikewise an inclination and tendency towards it, where it is not\nentirely disagreeable, and can never be the object of inclination.\nAnd this is the reason why custom increases all _active_ habits, but\ndiminishes _passive_, according to the observation of a late eminent\nphilosopher. The facility takes off from the force of the passive\nhabits by rendering the motion of the spirits faint and languid. But as\nin the active, the spirits are sufficiently supported of themselves,\nthe tendency of the mind gives them new force, and bends them more\nstrongly to the action.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VI.\n\nOF THE INFLUENCE OF THE IMAGINATION ON THE PASSIONS.\n\n\n'Tis remarkable, that the imagination and affections have a close union\ntogether, and that nothing, which affects the former, can be entirely\nindifferent to the latter. Wherever our ideas of good or evil acquire\na new vivacity, the passions become more violent, and keep pace with\nthe imagination in all its variations. Whether this proceeds from\nthe principle above-mentioned, _that any attendant emotion is easily\nconverted into the Predominant_, I shall not determine. 'Tis sufficient\nfor my present purpose, that we have many instances to confirm this\ninfluence of the imagination upon the passions.\n\nAny pleasure with which we are acquainted, affects us more than any\nother which we own to be superior, but of whose nature we are wholly\nignorant. Of the one we can form a particular and determinate idea:\nthe other we conceive under the general notion of pleasure; and 'tis\ncertain, that the more general and universal any of our ideas are, the\nless influence they have upon the imagination. A general idea, though\nit be nothing but a particular one considered in a certain view, is\ncommonly more obscure; and that because no particular idea, by which we\nrepresent a general one, is ever fixed or determinate, but may easily\nbe changed for other particular ones, which will serve equally in the\nrepresentation.\n\nThere is a noted passage in the history of Greece, which may serve\nfor our present purpose. Themistocles told the Athenians, that he had\nformed a design, which would be highly useful to the public, but which\n'twas impossible for him to communicate to them without ruining the\nexecution, since its success depended entirely on the secrecy with\nwhich it should be conducted. The Athenians, instead of granting him\nfull power to act as he thought fitting, ordered him to communicate his\ndesign to Aristides, in whose prudence they had an entire confidence,\nand whose opinion they were resolved blindly to submit to. The design\nof Themistocles was secretly to set fire to the fleet of all the\nGrecian commonwealths, which was assembled in a neighbouring port,\nand which, being once destroyed, would give the Athenians the empire\nof the sea without any rival. Aristides returned to the assembly, and\ntold them, that nothing could be more advantageous than the design of\nThemistocles; but at the same time that nothing could be more unjust:\nupon which the people unanimously rejected the project.\n\nA late celebrated historian[1] admires this passage of ancient history\nas one of the most singular that is any where to be met with. \"Here,\"\nsays he, \"they are not philosophers, to whom 'tis easy in their schools\nto establish the finest maxims and most sublime rules of morality, who\ndecide that interest ought never to prevail above justice. 'Tis a whole\npeople interested in the proposal which is made to them, who consider\nit as of importance to the public good, and who, notwithstanding,\nreject it unanimously, and without hesitation, merely because it is\ncontrary to justice.\" For my part I see nothing so extraordinary in\nthis proceeding of the Athenians. The same reasons which render it so\neasy for philosophers to establish these sublime maxims, tend, in part,\nto diminish the merit of such a conduct in that people. Philosophers\nnever balance betwixt profit and honesty, because their decisions are\ngeneral, and neither their passions nor imaginations are interested\nin the objects. And though, in the present case, the advantage was\nimmediate to the Athenians, yet as it was known only under the general\nnotion of advantage, without being conceived by any particular idea, it\nmust have had a less considerable influence on their imaginations, and\nhave been a less violent temptation, than if they had been acquainted\nwith all its circumstances: otherwise 'tis difficult to conceive,\nthat a whole people, unjust and violent as men commonly are, should\nso unanimously have adhered to justice, and rejected any considerable\nadvantage.\n\nAny satisfaction which we lately enjoyed, and of which the memory is\nfresh and recent, operates on the will with more violence than another\nof which the traces are decayed, and almost obliterated. From whence\ndoes this proceed, but that the memory in the first case assists the\nfancy, and gives an additional force and vigour to its conceptions?\nThe image of the past pleasure being strong and violent, bestows these\nqualities on the idea of the future pleasure, which is connected with\nit by the relation of resemblance.\n\nA pleasure which is suitable to the way of life in which we are\nengaged, excites more our desires and appetites than another which is\nforeign to it. This phenomenon may be explained from the same principle.\n\nNothing is more capable of infusing any passion into the mind, than\neloquence, by which objects are represented in their strongest and most\nlively colours. We may of ourselves acknowledge, that such an object\nis valuable, and such another odious; but till an orator excites the\nimagination, and gives force to these ideas, they may have but a feeble\ninfluence either on the will or the affections.\n\nBut eloquence is not always necessary. The bare opinion of another,\nespecially when enforced with passion, will cause an idea of good or\nevil to have an influence upon us, which would otherwise have been\nentirely neglected. This proceeds from the principle of sympathy or\ncommunication; and sympathy, as I have already observed, is nothing\nbut the conversion of an idea into an impression by the force of\nimagination.\n\n'Tis remarkable, that lively passions commonly attend a lively\nimagination. In this respect, as well as others, the force of the\npassion depends as much on the temper of the person, as the nature or\nsituation of the object.\n\nI have already observed, that belief is nothing but a lively idea\nrelated to a present impression. This vivacity is a requisite\ncircumstance to the exciting all our passions, the calm as well as the\nviolent; nor has a mere fiction of the imagination any considerable\ninfluence upon either of them. 'Tis too weak to take any hold of the\nmind, or be attended with emotion.\n\n\n[1] Mons. Rollin.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VII.\n\nOF CONTIGUITY AND DISTANCE IN SPACE AND TIME.\n\n\nThere is an easy reason why every thing contiguous to us, either in\nspace or time, should be conceived with a peculiar force and vivacity,\nand excel every other object in its influence on the imagination.\nOurself is intimately present to us, and whatever is related to self\nmust partake of that quality. But where an object is so far removed\nas to have lost the advantage of this relation, why, as it is farther\nremoved, its idea becomes still fainter and more obscure, would\nperhaps require a more particular examination.\n\n'Tis obvious that the imagination can never totally forget the\npoints of space and time in which we are existent; but receives such\nfrequent advertisements of them from the passions and senses, that,\nhowever it may turn its attention to foreign and remote objects, it\nis necessitated every moment to reflect on the present. 'Tis also\nremarkable, that in the conception of those objects which we regard as\nreal and existent, we take them in their proper order and situation,\nand never leap from one object to another, which is distant from it,\nwithout running over, at least in a cursory manner, all those objects\nwhich are interposed betwixt them. When we reflect, therefore, on\nany object distant from ourselves, we are obliged not only to reach\nit at first by passing through all the intermediate space betwixt\nourselves and the object, but also to renew our progress every moment,\nbeing every moment recalled to the consideration of ourselves and our\npresent situation. 'Tis easily conceived, that this interruption must\nweaken the idea, by breaking the action of the mind, and hindering the\nconception from being so intense and continued, as when we reflect on\na nearer object. The _fewer_ steps we make to arrive at the object,\nand the _smoother_ the road is, this diminution of vivacity is less\nsensibly felt, but still may be observed more or less in proportion to\nthe degrees of distance and difficulty.\n\n\nHere then we are to consider two kinds of objects, the contiguous and\nremote, of which the former, by means of their relation to ourselves,\napproach an impression in force and vivacity; the latter, by reason of\nthe interruption in our manner of conceiving them, appear in a weaker\nand more imperfect light. This is their effect on the imagination.\nIf my reasoning be just, they must have a proportionable effect on\nthe will and passions. Contiguous objects must have an influence much\nsuperior to the distant and remote. Accordingly we find, in common\nlife, that men are principally concerned about those objects which are\nnot much removed either in space or time, enjoying the present, and\nleaving what is afar off to the care of chance and fortune. Talk to a\nman of his condition thirty years hence, and he will not regard you.\nSpeak of what is to happen to-morrow, and he will lend you attention.\nThe breaking of a mirror gives us more concern when at home, than the\nburning of a house when abroad, and some hundred leagues distant.\n\nBut farther; though distance, both in space and time, has a\nconsiderable effect on the imagination, and by that means on the will\nand passions, yet the consequence of a removal in _space_ are much\ninferior to those of a removal in _time_. Twenty years are certainly\nbut a small distance of time in comparison of what history and even\nthe memory of some may inform them of, and yet I doubt if a thousand\nleagues, or even the greatest distance of place this globe can admit\nof, will so remarkably weaken our ideas, and diminish our passions.\nA West India merchant will tell you, that he is not without concern\nabout what passes in Jamaica; though few extend their views so far into\nfuturity, as to dread very remote accidents.\n\nThe cause of this phenomenon must evidently lie in the different\nproperties of space and time. Without having recourse to metaphysics,\nany one may easily observe, that space or extension consists of a\nnumber of co-existent parts disposed in a certain order, and capable of\nbeing at once present to the sight or feeling. On the contrary, time\nor succession, though it consists likewise of parts, never presents\nto us more than one at once; nor is it possible for any two of them\never to co-existent. These qualities of the objects have a suitable\neffect on the imagination. The parts of extension being susceptible\nof an union to the senses, acquire an union in the fancy; and as\nthe appearance of one part excludes not another, the transition or\npassage of the thought through the contiguous parts is by that means\nrendered more smooth and easy. On the other hand, the incompatibility\nof the parts of time in their real existence separates them in the\nimagination, and makes it more difficult for that faculty to trace any\nlong succession or series of events. Every part must appear single and\nalone, nor can regularly have entrance into the fancy without banishing\nwhat is supposed to have been immediately precedent. By this means any\ndistance in time causes a greater interruption in the thought than an\nequal distance in space, and consequently weakens more considerably the\nidea, and consequently the passions; which depend in a great measure on\nthe imagination, according to my system.\n\nThere is another phenomenon of a like nature with the foregoing, viz.\n_the superior effects of the same distance in futurity above that in\nthe past_. This difference with respect to the will is easily accounted\nfor. As none of our actions can alter the past, 'tis not strange it\nshould never determine the will. But with respect to the passions, the\nquestion is yet entire, and well worth the examining.\n\nBesides the propensity to a gradual progression through the points of\nspace and time, we have another peculiarity in our method of thinking,\nwhich concurs in producing this phenomenon. We always follow the\nsuccession of time in placing our ideas, and from the consideration of\nany object pass more easily to that which follows immediately after\nit, than to that which went before it. We may learn this, among other\ninstances, from the order which is always observed in historical\nnarrations. Nothing but an absolute necessity can oblige an historian\nto break the order of time, and in his _narration_ give the precedence\nto an event, which was in _reality_ posterior to another.\n\nThis will easily be applied to the question in hand, if we reflect\non what I have before observed, that the present situation of the\nperson is always that of the imagination, and that 'tis from thence\nwe proceed to the conception of any distant object. When the object\nis past, the progression of the thought in passing to it from the\npresent is contrary to nature, as proceeding from one point of time\nto that which is preceding, and from that to another preceding, in\nopposition to the natural course of the succession. On the other hand,\nwhen we turn our thought to a future object, our fancy flows along the\nstream of time, and arrives at the object of an order, which seems\nmost natural, passing always from one point of time to that which is\nimmediately posterior to it. This easy progression of ideas favours\nthe imagination, and makes it conceive its object in a stronger and\nfuller light, than when we are continually opposed in our passage,\nand are obliged to overcome the difficulties arising from the natural\npropensity of the fancy. A small degree of distance in the past\nhas, therefore, a greater effect in interrupting and weakening the\nconception, than a much greater in the future. From this effect of it\non the imagination is derived its influence on the will and passions.\n\nThere is another cause, which both contributes to the same effect, and\nproceeds from the same quality of the fancy, by which we are determined\nto trace the succession of time by a similar succession of ideas.\nWhen, from the present instant, we consider two points Of time equally\ndistant in the future and in the past, 'tis evident that, abstractedly\nconsidered, their relation to the present is almost equal. For as the\nfuture will _some time_ be present, so the past was _once_ present.\nIf we could, therefore, remove this quality of the imagination, an\nequal distance in the past and in the future would have a similar\ninfluence. Nor is this only true when the fancy remains fixed, and from\nthe present instant surveys the future and the past; but also when it\nchanges its situation, and places us in different periods of time. For\nas, on the one hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a point of\ntime interposed betwixt the present instant and the future object, we\nfind the future object approach to us, and the past retire and become\nmore distant: so, on the other hand, in supposing ourselves existent\nin a point of time interposed betwixt the present and the past, the\npast approaches to us, and the future becomes more distant. But from\nthe property of the fancy above mentioned, we rather choose to fix\nour thought on the point of time interposed betwixt the present and\nthe future, than on that betwixt the present and the past. We advance\nrather than retard our existence; and, following what seems the natural\nsuccession of time, proceed from past to present, and from present to\nfuture; by which means we conceive the future as flowing every moment\nnearer us, and the past as retiring. An equal distance, therefore, in\nthe past and in the future, has not the same effect on the imagination;\nand that because we consider the one as continually increasing, and\nthe other as continually diminishing. The fancy anticipates the course\nof things, and surveys the object in that condition to which it tends,\nas well as in that which is regarded as the present.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VIII.\n\nTHE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.\n\n\nThus, we have accounted for three phenomena, which seem pretty\nremarkable. Why distance weakens the conception and passion: why\ndistance in time has a greater effect than that in space: and why\ndistance in past time has still a greater effect than that in future.\nWe must now consider three phenomena, which seem to be in a manner the\nreverse of these: why a very great distance increases our esteem and\nadmiration for an object: why such a distance in time increases it\nmore than that in space: and a distance in past time more than that in\nfuture. The curiousness of the subject will, I hope, excuse my dwelling\non it for some time.\n\nTo begin with the first phenomenon, why a great distance increases our\nesteem and admiration for an object; 'tis evident that the mere view\nand contemplation of any greatness, whether successive or extended,\nenlarges the soul, and gives it a sensible delight and pleasure. A wide\nplain, the ocean, eternity, a succession of several ages; all these\nare entertaining objects, and excel every thing, however beautiful,\nwhich accompanies not its beauty with a suitable greatness. Now, when\nany very distant object is presented to the imagination, we naturally\nreflect on the interposed distance, and by that means conceiving\nsomething great and magnificent, receive the usual satisfaction. But\nas the fancy passes easily from one idea to another related to it,\nand transports to the second all the passions excited by the first,\nthe admiration, which is directed to the distance, naturally diffuses\nitself over the distant object. Accordingly we find, that 'tis not\nnecessary the object should be actually distant from us in order to\ncause our admiration; but that 'tis sufficient if, by the natural\nassociation of ideas, it conveys our view to any considerable distance.\nA great traveller, though in the same chamber, will pass for a very\nextraordinary person; as a Greek medal, even in our cabinet, is\nalways esteemed a valuable curiosity. Here the object, by a natural\ntransition, conveys our view to the distance; and the admiration which\narises from that distance, by another natural transition, returns back\nto the object.\n\nBut though every great distance produces an admiration for the distant\nobject, a distance in time has a more considerable effect than that\nin space. Ancient busts and inscriptions are more valued than Japan\ntables: and, not to mention the Greeks and Romans, 'tis certain we\nregard with more veneration the old Chaldeans and Egyptians, than the\nmodern Chinese and Persians; and bestow more fruitless pains to clear\nup the history and chronology of the former, than it would cost us to\nmake a voyage, and be certainly informed of the character, learning,\nand government of the latter. I shall be obliged to make a digression\nin order to explain this phenomenon.\n\n'Tis a quality very observable in human nature, that any opposition\nwhich does not entirely discourage and intimidate us, has rather a\ncontrary effect, and inspires us with a more than ordinary grandeur\nand magnanimity. In collecting our force to overcome the opposition, we\ninvigorate the soul, and give it an elevation with which otherwise it\nwould never have been acquainted. Compliance, by rendering our strength\nuseless, makes us insensible of it; but opposition awakens and employs\nit.\n\nThis is also true in the inverse. Opposition not only enlarges the\nsoul; but the soul, when full of courage and magnanimity, in a manner\nseeks opposition.\n\n\n     Spumantemque dari pecora inter inertia votis\n     Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem.\n\n\nWhatever supports and fills the passions is agreeable to us; as, on the\ncontrary, what weakens and enfeebles them is uneasy. As opposition has\nthe first effect, and facilitates the second, no wonder the mind, in\ncertain dispositions, desires the former, and is averse to the latter.\n\nThese principles have an effect on the imagination as well as on the\npassions. To be convinced of this, we need only consider the influence\nof _heights_ and _depths_ on that faculty. Any great elevation of\nplace communicates a kind of pride or sublimity of imagination, and\ngives a fancied superiority over those that lie below; and, _vice\nversa_, a sublime and strong imagination conveys the idea of ascent and\nelevation. Hence it proceeds, that we associate, in a manner, the idea\nof whatever is good with that of height, and evil with lowness. Heaven\nis supposed to be above, and hell below. A noble genius is called an\nelevate and sublime one. _Atque udam spernit humum fugiente penna_. On\nthe contrary, a vulgar and trivial conception is styled indifferently\nlow or mean. Prosperity is denominated ascent, and adversity descent.\nKings and princes are supposed to be placed at the top of human\naffairs; as peasants and day-labourers are said to be in the lowest\nstations. These methods of thinking and of expressing ourselves, are\nnot of so little consequence as they may appear at first sight.\n\n'Tis evident to common sense, as well as philosophy, that there is no\nnatural nor essential difference betwixt high and low, and that this\ndistinction arises only from the gravitation of matter, which produces\na motion from the one to the other. The very same direction, which in\nthis part of the globe is called _ascent_, is denominated _descent_ in\nour antipodes; which can proceed from nothing but the contrary tendency\nof bodies. Now 'tis certain, that the tendency of bodies, continually\noperating upon our senses, must produce, from custom, a like tendency\nin the fancy; and that when we consider any object situated in an\nascent, the idea of its weight gives us a propensity to transport it\nfrom the place in which it is situated to the place immediately below\nit, and so on till we come to the ground, which equally stops the\nbody and our imagination. For a like reason we feel a difficulty in\nmounting, and pass not without a kind of reluctance from the inferior\nto that which is situated above it; as if our ideas acquired a kind of\ngravity from their objects. As a proof of this, do we not find, that\nthe facility, which is so much studied in music and poetry, is called\nthe fall or cadency of the harmony or period; the idea of facility\ncommunicating to us that of descent, in the same manner as descent\nproduces a facility?\n\nSince the imagination, therefore, in running from low to high, finds\nan opposition in its internal qualities and principles, and since\nthe soul, when elevated with joy and courage, in a manner seeks\nopposition, and throws itself with alacrity into any scene of thought\nor action where its courage meets with matter to nourish and employ\nit, it follows, that every thing which invigorates and enlivens the\nsoul, whether by touching the passions or imagination, naturally\nconveys to the fancy this inclination for ascent, and determines it to\nrun against the natural stream of its thoughts and conceptions. This\naspiring progress of the imagination suits the present disposition of\nthe mind; and the difficulty, instead of extinguishing its vigour and\nalacrity, has the contrary effect of sustaining and increasing it.\nVirtue, genius, power and riches, are for this reason associated with\nheight and sublimity, as poverty, slavery and folly, are conjoined\nwith descent and lowness. Were the case the same with us as Milton\nrepresents it to be with the angels, to whom _descent is adverse_, and\nwho _cannot sink without labour and compulsion_, this order of things\nwould be entirely inverted; as appears hence, that the very nature of\nascent and descent is derived from the difficulty and propensity, and\nconsequently every one of their effects proceeds from that origin.\n\nAll this is easily applied to the present question, why a considerable\ndistance in time produces a greater veneration for the distant\nobjects than a like removal in space. The imagination moves with more\ndifficulty in passing from one portion of time to another, than in\na transition through the parts of space; and that because space or\nextension appears united to our senses, while time or succession is\nalways broken and divided. This difficulty, when joined with a small\ndistance, interrupts and weakens the fancy, but has a contrary effect\nin a great removal. The mind, elevated by the vastness of its object,\nis still farther elevated by the difficulty of the conception, and,\nbeing obliged every moment to renew its efforts in the transition\nfrom one part of time to another, feels a more vigorous and sublime\ndisposition than in a transition through the parts of space, where\nthe ideas flow along with easiness and facility. In this disposition,\nthe imagination, passing, as is usual, from the consideration of the\ndistance to the view of the distant objects, gives us a proportionable\nveneration for it; and this is the reason why all the relicks of\nantiquity are so precious in our eyes, and appear more valuable than\nwhat is brought even from the remotest parts of the world.\n\nThe third phenomenon I have remarked will be a full confirmation of\nthis. 'Tis not every removal in time which has the effect of producing\nveneration and esteem. We are not apt to imagine our posterity\nwill excel us, or equal our ancestors. This phenomenon is the more\nremarkable, because any distance in futurity weakens not our ideas so\nmuch as an equal removal in the past. Though a removal in the past,\nwhen very great, increases our passions beyond a like removal in the\nfuture, yet a small removal has a greater influence in diminishing them.\n\nIn our common way of thinking we are placed in a kind of middle station\nbetwixt the past and future; and as our imagination finds a kind of\ndifficulty in running along the former, and a facility in following\nthe course of the latter, the difficulty conveys the notion of ascent,\nand the facility of the contrary. Hence we imagine our ancestors to\nbe, in a manner, mounted above us, and our posterity to lie below us.\nOur fancy arrives not at the one without effort, but easily reaches\nthe other: which effort weakens the conception, where the distance is\nsmall; but enlarges and elevates the imagination, when attended with a\nsuitable object. As on the other hand, the facility assists the fancy\nin a small removal, but takes off from its force when it contemplates\nany considerable distance.\n\nIt may not be improper, before we leave this subject of the will, to\nresume, in a few words, all that has been said concerning it, in order\nto set the whole more distinctly before the eyes of the reader. What we\ncommonly understand by _passion_ is a violent and sensible emotion of\nmind, when any good or evil is presented, or any object, which, by the\noriginal formation of our faculties, is fitted to excite an appetite.\nBy _reason_ we mean affections of the very same kind with the former,\nbut such as operate more calmly, and cause no disorder in the temper:\nwhich tranquillity leads us into a mistake concerning them, and causes\nus to regard them as conclusions only of our intellectual faculties.\nBoth the _causes_ and _effects_ of these violent and calm passions are\npretty variable, and depend, in a great measure, on the peculiar temper\nand disposition of every individual. Generally speaking, the violent\npassions have a more powerful influence on the will; though 'tis\noften found that the calm ones, when corroborated by reflection, and\nseconded by resolution, are able to control them in their most furious\nmovements. What makes this whole affair more uncertain, is, that a calm\npassion may easily be changed into a violent one, either by a change\nof temper, or of the circumstances and situation of the object; as by\nthe borrowing of force from any attendant passion, by custom, or by\nexciting the imagination. Upon the whole, this struggle of passion\nand of reason, as it is called, diversifies human life, and makes men\nso different not only from each other, but also from themselves in\ndifferent times. Philosophy can only account for a few of the greater\nand more sensible events of this war; but must leave all the smaller\nand more delicate revolutions, as dependent on principles too fine and\nminute for her comprehension.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IX.\n\nOF THE DIRECT PASSIONS.\n\n\n'Tis easy to observe, that the passions, both direct and indirect,\nare founded on pain and pleasure, and that, in order to produce an\naffection of any kind, 'tis only requisite to present some good or\nevil. Upon the removal of pain and pleasure, there immediately follows\na removal of love and hatred, pride and humility, desire and aversion,\nand of most of our reflective or secondary impressions.\n\nThe impressions which arise from good and evil most naturally, and\nwith the least preparation, are the _direct_ passions of desire and\naversion, grief and joy, hope and fear, along with volition. The mind,\nby an _original_ instinct, tends to unite itself with the good, and\nto avoid the evil, though they be conceived merely in idea, and be\nconsidered as to exist in any future period of time.\n\nBut supposing that there is an immediate impression of pain or\npleasure, and _that_ arising from an object related to ourselves or\nothers, this does not prevent the propensity or aversion, with the\nconsequent emotions, but, by concurring with certain dormant principles\nof the human mind, excites the new impressions of pride or humility,\nlove or hatred. That propensity which unites us to the object, or\nseparates us from it, still continues to operate, but in conjunction\nwith the _indirect_ passions which arise from a double relation of\nimpressions and ideas.\n\nThese indirect passions, being always agreeable or uneasy, give in\ntheir turn additional force to the direct passions, and increase\nour desire and aversion to the object. Thus, a suit of fine clothes\nproduces pleasure from their beauty; and this pleasure produces the\ndirect passions, or the impressions of volition and desire. Again,\nwhen these clothes are considered as belonging to ourself, the double\nrelation conveys to us the sentiment of pride, which is an indirect\npassion; and the pleasure which attends that passion returns back to\nthe direct affections, and gives new force to our desire or volition,\njoy or hope.\n\nWhen good is certain or probable, it produces _joy_. When evil is in\nthe same situation, there arises _grief or sorrow_.\n\nWhen either good or evil is uncertain, it gives rise to _fear_ or\n_hope_, according to the degrees of uncertainty on the one side or the\nother.\n\n_Desire_ arises from good considered simply; and _aversion_ is derived\nfrom evil. The _will_ exerts itself, when either the good or the\nabsence of the evil may be attained by any action of the mind or body.\n\nBeside good and evil, or, in other words, pain and pleasure, the direct\npassions frequently arise from a natural impulse or instinct, which is\nperfectly unaccountable. Of this kind is the desire of punishment to\nour enemies, and of happiness to our friends; hunger, lust, and a few\nother bodily appetites. These passions, properly speaking, produce\ngood and evil, and proceed not from them, like the other affections.\n\nNone of the direct affections seem to merit our particular attention,\nexcept hope and fear, which we shall here endeavour to account for.\n'Tis evident that the very same event, which, by its certainty,\nwould produce grief or joy, gives always rise to fear or hope, when\nonly probable and uncertain. In order, therefore, to understand the\nreason why this circumstance makes such a considerable difference, we\nmust reflect on what I have already advanced in the preceding book\nconcerning the nature of probability.\n\nProbability arises from an opposition of contrary chances or causes, by\nwhich the mind is not allowed to fix on either side, but is incessantly\ntost from one to another, and at one moment is determined to consider\nan object as existent, and at another moment as the contrary. The\nimagination or understanding, call it which you please, fluctuates\nbetwixt the opposite views; and though perhaps it may be oftener turned\nto the one side than the other, 'tis impossible for it, by reason of\nthe opposition of causes or chances, to rest on either. The _pro_ and\n_con_ of the question alternately prevail; and the mind, surveying the\nobject in its opposite principles, finds such a contrariety as utterly\ndestroys all certainty and established opinion.\n\nSuppose, then, that the object, concerning whose reality we are\ndoubtful, is an object either of desire or aversion, 'tis evident\nthat, according as the mind turns itself either to the one side or\nthe other, it must feel a momentary impression of joy or sorrow. An\nobject, whose existence we desire, gives satisfaction, when we reflect\non those causes which produce it; and, for the same reason, excites\ngrief or uneasiness from the opposite consideration: so that as the\nunderstanding, in all probable questions, is divided betwixt the\ncontrary points of view, the affections must in the same manner be\ndivided betwixt opposite emotions.\n\nNow, if we consider the human mind, we shall find, that, with regard\nto the passions, 'tis not of the nature of a wind-instrument of music,\nwhich, in running over all the notes, immediately loses the sound\nafter the breath ceases; but rather resembles, a string-instrument,\nwhere, after each stroke, the vibrations still retain some sound, which\ngradually and insensibly decays. The imagination is extremely quick\nand agile; but the passions are slow and restive: for which reason,\nwhen any object is presented that affords a variety of views to the\none, and emotions to the other, though the fancy may change its views\nwith great celerity, each stroke will not produce a clear and distinct\nnote of passion, but the one passion will always be mixt and confounded\nwith the other. According as the probability inclines to good or evil,\nthe passion of joy or sorrow predominates in the composition: because\nthe nature of probability is to cast a superior number of views or\nchances on one side; or, which is the same thing, a superior number of\nreturns of one passion; or, since the dispersed passions are collected\ninto one, a superior degree of that passion. That is, in other words,\nthe grief and joy being intermingled with each other, by means of\nthe contrary views of the imagination, produce, by their union, the\npassions of hope and fear.\n\nUpon this head there may be started a very curious question concerning\nthat contrariety of passions which is our present subject. 'Tis\nobservable, that where the objects of contrary passions are presented\nat once, beside the increase of the predominant passion (which has\nbeen already explained, and commonly arises at their first shock\nor rencounter), it sometimes happens that both the passions exist\nsuccessively, and by short intervals; sometimes, that they destroy each\nother, and neither of them takes place; and sometimes that both of them\nremain united in the mind. It may therefore be asked, by what theory\nwe can explain these variations, and to what general principle we can\nreduce them.\n\nWhen the contrary passions arise from objects entirely different, they\ntake place alternately, the want of relation in the ideas separating\nthe impressions from each other, and preventing their opposition. Thus,\nwhen a man is afflicted for the loss of a lawsuit, and joyful for the\nbirth of a son, the mind running from the agreeable to the calamitous\nobject, with whatever celerity it may perform this motion, can scarcely\ntemper the one affection with the other, and remain betwixt them in a\nstate of indifference.\n\nIt more easily attains that calm situation, when the same event is of\na mixt nature, and contains something adverse and something prosperous\nin its different circumstances. For in that case, both the passions,\nmingling with each other by means of the relation, become mutually\ndestructive, and leave the mind in perfect tranquillity.\n\nBut suppose, in the third place, that the object is not a compound\nof good or evil, but is considered as probable or improbable in any\ndegree; in that case I assert, that the contrary passions will both\nof them be present at once in the soul, and, instead of destroying\nand tempering each other, will subsist together, and produce a third\nimpression or affection by their union. Contrary passions are not\ncapable of destroying each other, except when their contrary movements\nexactly rencounter, and are opposite in their direction, as well as\nin the sensation they produce. This exact rencounter depends upon the\nrelations of those ideas from which they are derived, and is more or\nless perfect, according to the degrees of the relation. In the case\nof probability, the contrary chances are so far related that they\ndetermine concerning the existence or non-existence of the same object.\nBut this relation is far from being perfect, since some of the chances\nlie on the side of existence, and others on that of non-existence,\nwhich are objects altogether incompatible. 'Tis impossible, by one\nsteady view, to survey the opposite chances, and the events dependent\non them; but 'tis necessary that the imagination should run alternately\nfrom the one to the other. Each view of the imagination produces its\npeculiar passion, which decays away by degrees, and is followed by a\nsensible vibration after the stroke. The incompatibility of the views\nkeeps the passions from shocking in a direct line, if that expression\nmay be allowed; and yet their relation is sufficient to mingle their\nfainter emotions. 'Tis after this manner that hope and fear arise from\nthe different mixture of these opposite passions of grief and joy, and\nfrom their imperfect union and conjunction.\n\nUpon the whole, contrary passions succeed each other alternately, when\nthey arise from different objects; they mutually destroy each other,\nwhen they proceed from different parts of the same; and they subsist,\nboth of them, and mingle together, when they are derived from the\ncontrary and incompatible chances or possibilities on which any one\nobject depends. The influence of the relations of ideas is plainly\nseen in this whole affair. If the objects of the contrary passions\nbe totally different, the passions are like two opposite liquors in\ndifferent bottles, which have no influence on each other. If the\nobjects be intimately connected, the passions are like an _alkali_ and\nan _acid_, which, being mingled, destroy each other. If the relation\nbe more imperfect, and consists in the contradictory views of the same\nobject, the passions are like oil and vinegar, which, however mingled,\nnever perfectly unite and incorporate.\n\nAs the hypothesis concerning hope and fear carries its own evidence\nalong with it, we shall be the more concise in our proofs. A few strong\narguments are better than many weak ones.\n\nThe passions of fear and hope may arise when the chances are equal on\nboth sides, and no superiority can be discovered in the one above the\nother. Nay, in this situation the passions are rather the strongest, as\nthe mind has then the least foundation to rest upon, and is tossed with\nthe greatest uncertainty. Throw in a superior degree of probability to\nthe side of grief, you immediately see that passion diffuse itself over\nthe composition, and tincture it into fear. Increase the probability,\nand by that means the grief, the fear prevails still more and more,\ntill at last it runs insensibly, as the joy continually diminishes,\ninto pure grief. After you have brought it to this situation, diminish\nthe grief, after the same manner that you increased it, by diminishing\nthe probability on that side, and you'll see the passion clear every\nmoment, 'till it changes insensibly into hope; which again runs, after\nthe same manner, by slow degrees, into joy, as you increase that part\nof the composition by the increase of the probability. Are not these\nas plain proofs, that the passions of fear and hope are mixtures of\ngrief and joy, as in optics 'tis a proof, that a coloured ray of the\nsun passing through a prism, is a composition of two others, when, as\nyou diminish or increase the quantity of either, you find it prevail\nproportionably more or less in the composition? I am sure neither\nnatural nor moral philosophy admits of stronger proofs.\n\nProbability is of two kinds, either when the object is really in itself\nuncertain, and to be determined by chance; or when, though the object\nbe already certain, yet 'tis uncertain to our judgment, which finds\na number of proofs on each side of the question. Both these kinds of\nprobabilities cause fear and hope; which can only proceed from that\nproperty, in which they agree, viz. the uncertainty and fluctuation\nthey bestow on the imagination by the contrariety of views which is\ncommon to both.\n\n'Tis a probable good or evil that commonly produces hope or fear;\nbecause probability, being a wavering and unconstant method of\nsurveying an object, causes naturally a like mixture and uncertainty\nof passion. But we may observe, that wherever, from other causes, this\nmixture can be produced, the passions of fear and hope will arise,\neven though there be no probability; which must be allowed to be a\nconvincing proof of the present hypothesis.\n\nWe find that an evil, barely conceived as _possible_, does sometimes\nproduce fear; especially if the evil be very great. A man cannot think\nof excessive pains and tortures without trembling, if he be in the\nleast danger of suffering them. The smallness of the probability is\ncompensated by the greatness of the evil; and the sensation is equally\nlively, as if the evil were more probable. One view or glimpse of the\nformer has the same effect as several of the latter.\n\nBut they are not only possible evils that cause fear, but even some\nallowed to be _impossible_; as when we tremble on the brink of a\nprecipice, though we know ourselves to be in perfect security, and\nhave it in our choice whether we will advance a step farther. This\nproceeds from the immediate presence of the evil, which influences the\nimagination in the same manner as the certainty of it would do; but\nbeing encountered by the reflection on our security, is immediately\nretracted, and causes the same kind of passion, as when, from a\ncontrariety of chances, contrary passions are produced.\n\nEvils that are _certain_ have sometimes the same effect in producing\nfear, as the possible or impossible. Thus, a man in a strong prison\nwell-guarded, without the least means of escape, trembles at the\nthought of the rack, to which he is sentenced. This happens only when\nthe certain evil is terrible and confounding; in which case the mind\ncontinually rejects it with horror, while it continually presses in\nupon the thought. The evil is there fixed and established, but the mind\ncannot endure to fix upon it; from which fluctuation and uncertainty\nthere arises a passion of much the same appearance with fear.\n\nBut 'tis not only where good or evil is uncertain, as to its\n_existence_, but also as to its _kind_, that fear or hope arises. Let\none be told by a person, whose veracity he cannot doubt of, that one\nof his sons is suddenly killed, 'tis evident the passion this event\nwould occasion, would not settle into pure grief, till he got certain\ninformation which of his sons he had lost. Here there is an evil\ncertain, but the kind of it uncertain: consequently the fear we feel on\nthis occasion is without the least mixture of joy, and arises merely\nfrom the fluctuation of the fancy betwixt its objects. And though each\nside of the question produces here the same passion, yet that passion\ncannot settle, but receives from the imagination a tremulous and\nunsteady motion, resembling in its cause, as well as in its sensation,\nthe mixture and contention of grief and joy.\n\nFrom these principles we may account for a phenomenon in the passions,\nwhich at first sight seems very extraordinary, viz. that surprise is\napt to change into fear, and every thing that is unexpected affrights\nus. The most obvious conclusion from this is, that human nature is\nin general pusillanimous; since, upon the sudden appearance of any\nobject, we immediately conclude it to be an evil, and, without waiting\ntill we can examine its nature, whether it be good or bad, are at\nfirst affected with fear. This, I say, is the most obvious conclusion;\nbut upon farther examination, we shall find that the phenomenon is\notherwise to be accounted for. The suddenness and strangeness of an\nappearance naturally excite a commotion in the mind, like every thing\nfor which we are not prepared, and to which we are not accustomed. This\ncommotion, again, naturally produces a curiosity or inquisitiveness,\nwhich, being very violent, from the strong and sudden impulse of\nthe object, becomes uneasy, and resembles in its fluctuation and\nuncertainty, the sensation of fear, or the mixed passions of grief and\njoy. This image of fear naturally converts into the thing itself, and\ngives us a real apprehension of evil, as the mind always forms its\njudgments more from its present disposition than from the nature of its\nobjects.\n\nThus all kinds of uncertainty have a strong connexion with fear, even\nthough they do not cause any opposition of passions by the opposite\nviews and considerations they present to us. A person who has left his\nfriend in any malady, will feel more anxiety upon his account, than if\nhe were present, though perhaps he is not only incapable of giving him\nassistance, but likewise of judging of the event of his sickness. In\nthis case, though the principle object of the passion, viz. the life or\ndeath of his friend, be to him equally uncertain when present as when\nabsent; yet there are, a thousand little circumstances of his friend's\nsituation and condition, the knowledge of which fixes the idea, and\nprevents that fluctuation and uncertainty so nearly allied to fear.\nUncertainty is, indeed, in one respect, as nearly allied to hope as to\nfear, since it makes an essential part in the composition of the former\npassion; but the reason why it inclines not to that side, is, that\nuncertainty alone is uneasy, and has a relation of impressions to the\nuneasy passions.\n\n'Tis thus our uncertainty concerning any minute circumstance relating\nto a person, increases our apprehensions of his death or misfortune.\nHorace has remarked this phenomenon:\n\n     Ut assidens implumibus pullus avis\n       Serpentium allapsus timet,\n     Magis relictis; non, ut adsit, auxili\n       Latura plus presentibus.\n\nBut this principle of the connexion of fear with uncertainty I carry\nfarther, and observe, that any doubt produces that passion, even\nthough it presents nothing to us on any side but what is good and\ndesirable. A virgin, on her bridal-night goes to bed full of fears and\napprehensions, though she expects nothing but pleasure of the highest\nkind, and what she has long wished for. The newness and greatness of\nthe event, the confusion of wishes and joys, so embarrass the mind,\nthat it knows not on what passion to fix itself; from whence arises\na fluttering or unsettledness of the spirits, which being, in some\ndegree, uneasy, very naturally degenerates into fear.\n\nThus we still find, that whatever causes any fluctuation or mixture of\npassions, with any degree of uneasiness, always produces fear, or at\nleast a passion so like it, that they are scarcely to be distinguished.\n\nI have here confined myself to the examination of hope and fear in\ntheir most simple and natural situation, without considering all the\nvariations they may receive from the mixture of different views and\nreflections. _Terror, consternation, astonishment, anxiety_, and\nother passions of that kind, are nothing but different species and\ndegrees of fear. 'Tis easy to imagine how a different situation of the\nobject, or a different turn of thought, may change even the sensation\nof a passion; and this may in general account for all the particular\nsubdivisions of the other affections, as well as of fear. Love may\nshow itself in the shape of _tenderness, friendship, intimacy, esteem,\ngood-will_, and in many other appearances; which at the bottom are the\nsame affections, and arise from the same causes, though with a small\nvariation, which it is not necessary to give any particular account of.\n'Tis for this reason I have all along confined myself to the principal\npassion.\n\nThe same care of avoiding prolixity is the reason why I waive the\nexamination of the will and direct passions, as they appear in animals;\nsince nothing is more evident, than that they are of the same nature,\nand excited by the same causes as in human creatures. I leave this to\nthe reader's own observation, desiring him at the same time to consider\nthe additional force this bestows on the present system.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION X.\n\nOF CURIOSITY, OR THE LOVE OF TRUTH.\n\n\nBut methinks we have been not a little inattentive to run over so\nmany different parts of the human mind, and examine so many passions,\nwithout taking once into consideration that love of truth, which was\nthe first source of all our inquiries. 'Twill therefore be proper,\nbefore we leave this subject, to bestow a few reflections on that\npassion, and show its origin in human nature. 'Tis an affection of so\npeculiar a kind, that it would have been impossible to have treated of\nit under any of those heads, which we have examined, without danger of\nobscurity and confusion.\n\nTruth is of two kinds, consisting either in the discovery of the\nproportions of ideas, considered as such, or in the conformity of our\nideas of objects to their real existence. 'Tis certain that the former\nspecies of truth is not desired merely as truth, and that 'tis not the\njustness of our conclusions, which alone gives the pleasure. For these\nconclusions are equally just, when we discover the equality of two\nbodies by a pair of compasses, as when we learn it by a mathematical\ndemonstration; and though in the one case the proofs be demonstrative,\nand in the other only sensible, yet generally speaking, the mind\nacquiesces with equal assurance in the one as in the other. And in\nan arithmetical operation, where both the truth and the assurance are\nof the same nature, as in the most profound algebraical problem, the\npleasure is very inconsiderable, if rather it does not degenerate\ninto pain: which is an evident proof, that the satisfaction, which we\nsometimes receive from the discovery of truth, proceeds not from it,\nmerely as such, but only as endowed with certain qualities.\n\nThe first and most considerable circumstance requisite to render\ntruth agreeable, is the genius and capacity which is employed in its\ninvention and discovery. What is easy and obvious is never valued;\nand even what is _in itself_ difficult, if we come to the knowledge\nof it without difficulty, and without any stretch of thought or\njudgment, is but little regarded. We love to trace the demonstrations\nof mathematicians; but should receive small entertainment from a person\nwho should barely inform us of the proportions of lines and angles,\nthough we reposed the utmost confidence both in his judgment and\nveracity. In this case 'tis sufficient to have ears to learn the truth.\nWe never are obliged to fix our attention or exert our genius; which of\nall other exercises of the mind is the most pleasant and agreeable.\n\nBut though the exercise of genius be the principal source of that\nsatisfaction we receive from the sciences, yet I doubt if it be alone\nsufficient to give us any considerable enjoyment. The truth we discover\nmust also be of some importance. 'Tis easy to multiply algebraical\nproblems to infinity, nor is there any end in the discovery of the\nproportions of conic sections; though few mathematicians take any\npleasure in these researches, but turn their thoughts to what is\nmore useful and important. Now the question is, after what manner\nthis utility and importance operate upon us? The difficulty on this\nhead arises from hence, that many philosophers have consumed their\ntime, have destroyed their health, and neglected their fortune, in\nthe search of such truths, as they esteemed important and useful to\nthe world, though it appeared from their whole conduct and behaviour,\nthat they were not endowed with any share of public spirit, nor had\nany concern for the interests of mankind. Were they convinced that\ntheir discoveries were of no consequence, they would entirely lose all\nrelish for their studies, and that though the consequences be entirely\nindifferent to them; which seems to be a contradiction.\n\nTo remove this contradiction, we must consider, that there are certain\ndesires and inclinations, which go no farther than the imagination,\nand are rather the faint shadows and images of passions, than any\nreal affections. Thus, suppose a man, who takes a survey of the\nfortifications of any city; considers their strength and advantages,\nnatural or acquired; observes the disposition and contrivance of the\nbastions, ramparts, mines, and other military works; 'tis plain that,\nin proportion as all these are fitted to attain their ends, he will\nreceive a suitable pleasure and satisfaction. This pleasure, as it\narises from the utility, not the form of the objects, can be no other\nthan a sympathy with the inhabitants, for whose security all this art\nis employed; though 'tis possible that this person, as a stranger or\nan enemy, may in his heart have no kindness for them, or may even\nentertain a hatred against them.\n\nIt may indeed be objected, that such a remote sympathy is a very slight\nfoundation for a passion, and that so much industry and application,\nas we frequently observe in philosophers, can never be derived from so\ninconsiderable an original. But here I return to what I have already\nremarked, that the pleasure of study consists chiefly in the action\nof the mind, and the exercise of the genius and understanding in the\ndiscovery or comprehension of any truth. If the importance of the truth\nbe requisite to complete the pleasure, 'tis not on account of any\nconsiderable addition which of itself it brings to our enjoyment, but\nonly because 'tis in some measure requisite to fix our attention. When\nwe are careless and inattentive, the same action of the understanding\nhas no effect upon us, nor is able to convey any of that satisfaction\nwhich arises from it when we are in another disposition.\n\nBut beside the action of the mind, which is the principal foundation\nof the pleasure, there is likewise required a degree of success in\nthe attainment of the end, or the discovery of that truth we examine.\nUpon this head I shall make a general remark, which may be useful\non many occasions, viz. that where the mind pursues any end with\npassion, though that passion be not derived originally from the end,\nbut merely from the action and pursuit, yet, by the natural course\nof the affections, we acquire a concern for the end itself, and are\nuneasy under any disappointment we meet with in the pursuit of it.\nThis proceeds from the relation and parallel direction of the passions\nabove-mentioned.\n\nTo illustrate all this by a similar instance, I shall observe, that\nthere cannot be two passions more nearly resembling each other than\nthose of hunting and philosophy, whatever disproportion may at first\nsight appear betwixt them. 'Tis evident, that the pleasure of hunting\nconsists in the action of the mind and body; the motion, the attention,\nthe difficulty, and the uncertainty. 'Tis evident, likewise, that these\nactions must be attended with an idea of utility, in order to their\nhaving any effect upon us. A man of the greatest fortune, and the\nfarthest removed from avarice, though he takes a pleasure in hunting\nafter partridges and pheasants, feels no satisfaction in shooting crows\nand magpies; and that because he considers the first as fit for the\ntable, and the other as entirely useless. Here 'tis certain, that the\nutility or importance of itself causes no real passion, but is only\nrequisite to support the imagination; and the same person who overlooks\na ten times greater profit in any other subject, is pleased to bring\nhome half a dozen woodcocks or plovers, after having employed several\nhours in hunting after them. To make the parallel betwixt hunting and\nphilosophy more complete, we may observe, that though in both cases\nthe end of our action may in itself be despised, yet, in the heat of\nthe action, we acquire such an attention to this end, that we are very\nuneasy under any disappointments, and are sorry when we either miss our\ngame, or fall into any error in our reasoning.\n\nIf we want another parallel to these affections, we may consider the\npassion of gaming, which affords a pleasure from the same principles\nas hunting and philosophy. It has been remarked, that the pleasure of\ngaming arises not from interest alone, since many leave a sure gain for\nthis entertainment; neither is it derived from the game alone, since\nthe same persons have no satisfaction when they play for nothing; but\nproceeds from both these causes united, though separately they have\nno effect. 'Tis here, as in certain chemical preparations, where the\nmixture of two clear and transparent liquids produces a third, which is\nopaque and coloured.\n\nThe interest which we have in any game engages our attention, without\nwhich we can have no enjoyment, either in that or in any other action.\nOur attention being once engaged, the difficulty, variety, and sudden\nreverses of fortune; still farther interest us; and 'tis from that\nconcern our satisfaction arises. Human life is so tiresome a scene, and\nmen generally are of such indolent dispositions, that whatever amuses\nthem, though by a passion mixed with pain, does in the main give them a\nsensible pleasure. And this pleasure is here increased by the nature of\nthe objects, which, being sensible and of a narrow compass, are entered\ninto with facility, and are agreeable to the imagination.\n\nThe same theory that accounts for the love of truth in mathematics\nand algebra, may be extended to morals, politics, natural philosophy,\nand other studies, where we consider not the abstract relations of\nideas, but their real connexions and existence. But beside the love of\nknowledge which displays itself in the sciences, there is a certain\ncuriosity implanted in human nature, which is a passion derived from\na quite different principle. Some people have an insatiable desire of\nknowing the actions and circumstances of their neighbours, though their\ninterest be no way concerned in them, and they must entirely depend on\nothers for their information; in which case there is no room for study\nor application. Let us search for the reason of this phenomenon.\n\nIt has been proved at large, that the influence of belief is at once\nto enliven and infix any idea in the imagination, and prevent all kind\nof hesitation and uncertainty about it. Both these circumstances are\nadvantageous. By the vivacity of the idea we interest the fancy, and\nproduce, though in a lesser degree, the same pleasure which arises from\na moderate passion. As the vivacity of the idea gives pleasure, so its\ncertainty prevents uneasiness, by fixing one particular idea in the\nmind, and keeping it from wavering in the choice of its objects. 'Tis a\nquality of human nature which is conspicuous on many occasions, and is\ncommon both to the mind and body, that too sudden and violent a change\nis unpleasant to us, and that, however any objects may in themselves be\nindifferent, yet their alteration gives uneasiness. As 'tis the nature\nof doubt to cause a variation in the thought, and transport us suddenly\nfrom one idea to another, it must of consequence be the occasion of\npain. This pain chiefly takes place where interest, relation, or the\ngreatness and novelty of any event interests us in it. 'Tis not every\nmatter of fact of which we have a curiosity to be informed; neither are\nthey such only as we have an interest to know. 'Tis sufficient if the\nidea strikes on us with such force, and concerns us so nearly, as to\ngive us an uneasiness in its instability and inconstancy. A stranger,\nwhen he arrives first at any town, may be entirely indifferent about\nknowing the history and adventures of the inhabitants; but as he\nbecomes farther acquainted with them, and has lived any considerable\ntime among them, he acquires the same curiosity as the natives. When\nwe are reading the history of a nation, we may have an ardent desire\nof clearing up any doubt or difficulty that occurs in it; but become\ncareless in such researches, when the ideas of these events are, in a\ngreat measure, obliterated.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK III.\n\nOF MORALS.\n\n\nPART I.\n\nOF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I.\n\nMORAL DISTINCTIONS NOT DERIVED FROM REASON.\n\n\nThere is an inconvenience which attends all abstruse reasoning, that\nit may silence, without convincing an antagonist, and requires the\nsame intense study to make us sensible of its force, that was at first\nrequisite for its invention. When we leave our closet, and engage\nin the common affairs of life, its conclusions seem to vanish like\nthe phantoms of the night on the appearance of the morning; and 'tis\ndifficult for us to retain even that conviction which we had attained\nwith difficulty. This is still more conspicuous in a long chain of\nreasoning, where we must preserve to the end the evidence of the first\npropositions, and where we often lose sight of all the most received\nmaxims, either of philosophy or common life. I am not, however, without\nhopes, that the present system of philosophy will acquire new force\nas it advances; and that our reasonings concerning _morals_ will\ncorroborate whatever has been said concerning the _understanding_ and\nthe _passions_. Morality is a subject that interests us above all\nothers; we fancy the peace of society to be at stake in every decision\nconcerning it; and 'tis evident, that this concern must make our\nspeculations appear more real and solid, than where the subject is in\na great measure indifferent to us. What affects us, we conclude can\nnever be a chimera; and, as our passion is engaged on the one side\nor the other, we naturally think that the question lies within human\ncomprehension; which, in other cases of this nature, we are apt to\nentertain some doubt of. Without this advantage, I never should have\nventured upon a third volume of such abstruse philosophy, in an age\nwherein the greatest part of men seem agreed to convert reading into\nan amusement, and to reject every thing that requires any considerable\ndegree of attention to be comprehended.\n\nIt has been observed, that nothing is ever present to the mind but its\nperceptions; and that all the actions of seeing, hearing, judging,\nloving, hating, and thinking, fall under this denomination. The mind\ncan never exert itself in any action which we may not comprehend\nunder the term of _perception_; and consequently that term is no less\napplicable to those judgments by which we distinguish moral good and\nevil, than to every other operation of the mind. To approve of one\ncharacter, to condemn another, are only so many different perceptions.\n\nNow, as perceptions resolve themselves into two kinds, viz.\n_impressions_ and _ideas_, this distinction gives rise to a question,\nwith which we shall open up our present inquiry concerning morals,\n_whether 'tis by means of our ideas or impressions we distinguish\nbetwixt vice and virtue, and pronounce an action blameable or\npraiseworthy_? This will immediately cut off all loose discourses and\ndeclamations, and reduce us to something precise and exact on the\npresent subject.\n\nThose who affirm that virtue is nothing but a conformity to reason;\nthat there are eternal fitnesses and unfitnesses of things, which\nare the same to every rational being that considers them; that the\nimmutable measures of right and wrong impose an obligation, not\nonly on human creatures, but also on the Deity himself: all these\nsystems concur in the opinion, that morality, like truth, is discerned\nmerely by ideas, and by their juxtaposition and comparison. In order,\ntherefore, to judge of these systems, we need only consider, whether it\nbe possible, from reason alone, to distinguish betwixt moral good and\nevil, or whether there must concur some other principles to enable us\nto make that distinction.\n\nIf morality had naturally no influence on human passions and actions,\n'twere in vain to take such pains to inculcate it; and nothing would be\nmore fruitless than that multitude of rules and precepts with which all\nmoralists abound. Philosophy is commonly divided into _speculative_ and\n_practical_; and as morality is always comprehended under the latter\ndivision, 'tis supposed to influence our passions and actions, and to\ngo beyond the calm and indolent judgments of the understanding. And\nthis is confirmed by common experience, which informs us, that men are\noften governed by their duties, and are deterred from some actions by\nthe opinion of injustice, and impelled to others by that of obligation.\n\nSince morals, therefore, have an influence on the actions and\naffections, it follows, that they cannot be derived from reason; and\nthat because reason alone, as we have already proved, can never have\nany such influence. Morals excite passions, and produce or prevent\nactions. Reason of itself is utterly impotent in this particular. The\nrules of morality, therefore, are not conclusions of our reason.\n\nNo one, I believe, will deny the justness of this inference; nor is\nthere any other means of evading it, than by denying that principle,\non which it is founded. As long as it is allowed, that reason has\nno influence on our passions and actions, 'tis in vain to pretend\nthat morality is discovered only by a deduction of reason. An\nactive principle can never be founded on an inactive; and it reason\nbe inactive in itself, it must remain so in all its shapes and\nappearances, whether it exerts itself in natural or moral subjects,\nwhether it considers the powers of external bodies, or the actions of\nrational beings.\n\nIt would be tedious to repeat all the arguments, by which I have\nproved,[1] that reason is perfectly inert, and can never either prevent\nor produce any action or affection. 'Twill be easy to recollect what\nhas been said upon that subject. I shall only recall on this occasion\none of these arguments, which I shall endeavour to render still more\nconclusive, and more applicable to the present subject.\n\nReason is the discovery of truth or falsehood. Truth or falsehood\nconsists in an agreement or disagreement either to the _real_ relations\nof ideas, or to _real_ existence and matter of fact. Whatever therefore\nis not susceptible of this agreement or disagreement, is incapable of\nbeing true or false, and can never be an object of our reason. Now,\n'tis evident our passions, volitions, and actions, are not susceptible\nof any such agreement or disagreement; being original facts and\nrealities, complete in themselves, and implying no reference to other\npassions, volitions, and actions. 'Tis impossible, therefore, they\ncan be pronounced either true or false, and be either contrary or\nconformable to reason.\n\nThis argument is of double advantage to our present purpose. For it\nproves _directly_, that actions do not derive their merit from a\nconformity to reason, nor their blame from a contrariety to it; and it\nproves the same truth more _indirectly_, by showing us, that as reason\ncan never immediately prevent or produce any action by contradicting or\napproving of it, it cannot be the source of moral good and evil, which\nare found to have that influence. Actions may be laudable or blameable;\nbut they cannot be reasonable or unreasonable: laudable or blameable,\ntherefore, are not the same with reasonable or unreasonable. The merit\nand demerit of actions frequently contradict, and sometimes control\nour natural propensities. But reason has no such influence. Moral\ndistinctions, therefore, are not the offspring of reason. Reason is\nwholly inactive, and can never be the source of so active a principle\nas conscience, or a sense of morals.\n\nBut perhaps it may be said, that though no will or action can\nbe immediately contradictory to reason, yet we may find such a\ncontradiction in some of the attendants of the action, that is, in\nits causes or effects. The action may cause a judgment, or may be\n_obliquely_ caused by one, when the judgment concurs with a passion;\nand by an abusive way of speaking, which philosophy will scarce allow\nof, the same contrariety may, upon that account, be ascribed to the\naction. How far this truth or falsehood may be the source of morals,\n'twill now be proper to consider.\n\nIt has been observed, that reason, in a strict and philosophical sense,\ncan have an influence on our conduct only after two ways: either when\nit excites a passion, by informing us of the existence of something\nwhich is a proper object of it; or when it discovers the connexion of\ncauses and effects, so as to afford us means of exerting any passion.\nThese are the only kinds of judgment which can accompany our actions,\nor can be said to produce them in any manner; and it must be allowed,\nthat these judgments may often be false and erroneous. A person may be\naffected with passion, by supposing a pain or pleasure to lie in an\nobject, which has no tendency to produce either of these sensations, or\nwhich produces the contrary to what is imagined. A person may also take\nfalse measures for the attaining of his end, and may retard, by his\nfoolish conduct, instead of forwarding the execution of any project.\nThese false judgments may be thought to affect the passions and\nactions, which are connected with them, and may be said to render them\nunreasonable, in a figurative and improper way of speaking. But though\nthis be acknowledged, 'tis easy to observe, that these errors are so\nfar from being the source of all immorality, that they are commonly\nvery innocent, and draw no manner of guilt upon the person who is so\nunfortunate as to fall into them. They extend not beyond a mistake of\n_fact_, which moralists have not generally supposed criminal, as being\nperfectly involuntary. I am more to be lamented than blamed, if I am\nmistaken with regard to the influence of objects in producing pain or\npleasure, or if I know not the proper means of satisfying my desires.\nNo one can ever regard such errors as a defect in my moral character.\nA fruit, for instance, that is really disagreeable, appears to me\nat a distance, and, through mistake, I fancy it to be pleasant and\ndelicious. Here is one error. I choose certain means of reaching this\nfruit, which are not proper for my end. Here is a second error; nor is\nthere any third one, which can ever possibly enter into our reasonings\nconcerning actions. I ask, therefore, if a man in this situation, and\nguilty of these two errors, is to be regarded as vicious and criminal,\nhowever unavoidable they might have been? Or if it be possible to\nimagine, that such errors are the sources of all immorality?\n\nAnd here it may be proper to observe, that if moral distinctions be\nderived from the truth or falsehood of those judgments, they must take\nplace wherever we form the judgments; nor will there be any difference,\nwhether the question be concerning an apple or a kingdom, or whether\nthe error be avoidable or unavoidable.\n\nFor as the very essence of morality is supposed to consist in an\nagreement or disagreement to reason, the other circumstances are\nentirely arbitrary, and can never either bestow on any action the\ncharacter of virtuous or vicious, or deprive it of that character. To\nwhich we may add, that this agreement or disagreement, not admitting of\ndegrees, all virtues and vices would of course be equal.\n\nShould it be pretended, that though a mistake of _fact_ be not\ncriminal, yet a mistake of _right_ often is; and that this may be\nthe source of immorality: I would answer, that 'tis impossible such\na mistake can ever be the original source of immorality, since it\nsupposes a real right and wrong; that is, a real distinction in morals,\nindependent of these judgments. A mistake, therefore, of right, may\nbecome a species of immorality; but 'tis only a secondary one, and is\nfounded on some other antecedent to it.\n\nAs to those judgments which are the _effects_ of our actions, and\nwhich, when false, give occasion to pronounce the actions contrary\nto truth and reason; we may observe, that our actions never cause\nany judgment, either true or false, in ourselves, and that 'tis only\non others they have such an influence. 'Tis certain that an action,\non many occasions, may give rise to false conclusions in others;\nand that a person, who, through a window, sees any lewd behaviour of\nmine with my neighbour's wife, may be so simple as to imagine she is\ncertainly my own. In this respect my action resembles somewhat a lie or\nfalsehood; only with this difference, which is material, that I perform\nnot the action with any intention of giving rise to a false judgment\nin another, but merely to satisfy my lust and passion. It causes,\nhowever, a mistake and false judgment by accident; and the falsehood of\nits effects may be ascribed, by some odd figurative way of speaking,\nto the action itself. But still I can see no pretext of reason for\nasserting, that the tendency to cause such an error is the first spring\nor original source of all immorality.[2]\n\nThus, upon the whole, 'tis impossible that the distinction betwixt\nmoral good and evil can be made by reason; since that distinction has\nan influence upon our actions, of which reason alone is incapable.\nReason and judgment may, indeed, be the mediate cause of an action, by\nprompting or by directing a passion; but it is not pretended that a\njudgment of this kind, either in its truth or falsehood, is attended\nwith virtue or vise. And as to the judgments, which are caused by our\njudgments, they can still less bestow those moral qualities on the\nactions which are their causes.\n\nBut, to be more particular, and to show that those eternal immutable\nfitnesses and unfitnesses of things cannot be defended by sound\nphilosophy, we may weigh the following considerations.\n\nIf the thought and understanding were alone capable of fixing the\nboundaries of right and wrong, the character of virtuous and vicious\neither must lie in some relations of objects, or must be a matter\nof fact which is discovered by our reasoning. This consequence is\nevident. As' the operations of human understanding divide themselves\ninto two kinds, the comparing of ideas, and the inferring of matter\nof fact, were virtue discovered by the understanding, it must be an\nobject of one of these operations; nor is there any third operation\nof the understanding which can discover it. There has been an opinion\nvery industriously propagated by certain philosophers, that morality\nis susceptible of demonstration; and though no one has ever been able\nto advance a single step in those demonstrations, yet tis taken for\ngranted that this science may be brought to an equal certainty with\ngeometry or algebra. Upon this supposition, vice and virtue must\nconsist in some relations; since 'tis allowed on all hands, that no\nmatter of fact is capable of being demonstrated. Let us therefore\nbegin with examining this hypothesis, and endeavour, if possible,\nto fix those moral qualities which have been so long the objects of\nour fruitless researches; point out distinctly the relations which\nconstitute morality or obligation, that we may know wherein they\nconsist, and after what manner we must judge of them.\n\nIf you assert that vice and virtue consist in relations susceptible\nof certainty and demonstration, you must confine yourself to those\n_four_ relations which alone admit of that degree of evidence; and in\nthat case you run into absurdities from which you will never be able\nto extricate yourself. For as you make the very essence of morality to\nlie in the relations, and as there is no one of these relations but\nwhat is applicable, not only to an irrational but also to an inanimate\nobject, it follows, that even such objects must be susceptible of\nmerit or demerit. _Resemblance, contrariety, degrees in quality_, and\n_proportions in quantity and number_; all these relations belong as\nproperly to matter, as to our actions, passions, and volitions. 'Tis\nunquestionable, therefore, that morality lies not in any of these\nrelations, nor the sense of it in their discovery.[3]\n\nShould it be asserted, that the sense of morality consists in\nthe discovery of some relation distinct from these, and that our\nenumeration was not complete when we comprehended all demonstrable\nrelations under four general heads; to this I know not what to reply,\ntill some one be so good as to point out to me this new relation. 'Tis\nimpossible to refute a system which has never yet been explained. In\nsuch a manner of fighting in the dark, a man loses his blows in the\nair, and often places them where the enemy is not present.\n\nI must therefore, on this occasion, rest contented with requiring the\ntwo following conditions of any one that would undertake to clear up\nthis system. _First_, as moral good and evil belong only to the actions\nof the mind, and are derived from our situation with regard to external\nobjects, the relations from which these moral distinctions arise must\nlie only betwixt internal actions and external objects, and must not be\napplicable either to internal actions, compared among themselves, or to\nexternal objects, when placed in opposition to other external objects.\nFor as morality is supposed to attend certain relations, if these\nrelations could belong to internal actions considered singly, it would\nfollow, that we might be guilty of crimes in ourselves, and independent\nof our situation with respect to the universe; and in like manner, if\nthese moral relations could be applied to external objects, it would\nfollow, that even inanimate beings would be susceptible of moral beauty\nand deformity. Now, it seems difficult to imagine that any relation can\nbe discovered betwixt our passions, volitions and actions, compared\nto external objects, which relation might not belong either to these\npassions and volitions, or to these external objects, compared among\n_themselves_.\n\nBut it will be still more difficult to fulfil the _second_ condition,\nrequisite to justify this system. According to the principles of those\nwho maintain an abstract rational difference betwixt moral good and\nevil, and a natural fitness and unfitness of things, 'tis not only\nsupposed, that these relations, being eternal and immutable, are the\nsame, when considered by every rational creature, but their _effects_\nare also supposed to be necessarily the same; and 'tis concluded they\nhave no less, or rather a greater, influence in directing the will\nof the Deity, than in governing the rational and virtuous of our own\nspecies. These two particulars are evidently distinct. 'Tis one thing\nto know virtue, and another to conform the will to it. In order,\ntherefore, to prove that the measures of right and wrong are eternal\nlaws, _obligatory_ on every rational mind, 'tis not sufficient to show\nthe relations upon which they are founded: we must also point out the\nconnexion betwixt the relation and the will; and must prove that this\nconnexion is so necessary, that in every well-disposed mind, it must\ntake place and have its influence; though the difference betwixt these\nminds be in other respects immense and infinite. Now, besides what I\nhave already proved, that even in human nature no relation can ever\nalone produce any action; besides this, I say, it has been shown, in\ntreating of the understanding, that there is no connexion of cause and\neffect, such as this is supposed to be, which is discoverable otherwise\nthan by experience, and of which we can pretend to have any security by\nthe simple consideration of the objects. All beings in the universe,\nconsidered in themselves, appear entirely loose and independent of each\nother. 'Tis only by experience we learn their influence and connexion;\nand this influence we ought never to extend beyond experience.\n\nThus it will be impossible to fulfil the _first_ condition required to\nthe system of eternal rational measures of right and wrong; because it\nis impossible to show those relations, upon which such a distinction\nmay be founded: and 'tis as impossible to fulfil the _second_\ncondition; because we cannot prove _a priori_, that these relations, if\nthey really existed and were perceived, would be universally forcible\nand obligatory.\n\nBut to make these general reflections more clear and convincing, we may\nillustrate them by some particular instances, wherein this character\nof moral good or evil is the most universally acknowledged. Of all\ncrimes that human creatures are capable of committing, the most horrid\nand unnatural is ingratitude, especially when it is committed against\nparents, and appears in the more flagrant instances of wounds and\ndeath. This is acknowledged by all mankind, philosophers as well as\nthe people; the question only arises among philosophers, whether the\nguilt or moral deformity of this action be discovered by demonstrative\nreasoning, or be felt by an internal sense, and by means of some\nsentiment, which the reflecting on such an action naturally occasions.\nThis question will soon be decided against the former opinion, if we\ncan show the same relations in other objects, without the notion of\nany guilt or iniquity attending them. Reason or science is nothing but\nthe comparing of ideas, and the discovery of their relations; and if\nthe same relations have different characters, it must evidently follow,\nthat those characters are not discovered merely by reason. To put the\naffair, therefore, to this trial, let us choose any inanimate object,\nsuch as an oak or elm; and let us suppose, that, by the dropping of\nits seed, it produces a sapling below it, which, springing up by\ndegrees, at last overtops and destroys the parent tree: I ask, if, in\nthis instance, there be wanting any relation which is discoverable\nin parricide or ingratitude? Is not the one tree the cause of the\nother's existence; and the latter the cause of the destruction of the\nformer, in the same manner as when a child murders his parent? 'Tis\nnot sufficient to reply, that a choice or will is wanting. For in\nthe case of parricide, a will does not give rise to any _different_\nrelations, but is only the cause from which the action is derived; and\nconsequently produces the _same_ relations, that in the oak or elm\narise from some other principles. 'Tis a will or choice that determines\na man to kill his parent: and they are the laws of matter and motion,\nthat determine a sapling to destroy the oak from which it sprung. Here\nthen the same relations have different causes; but still the relations\nare the same: and as their discovery is not in both cases attended with\na notion of immorality, it follows, that that notion does not arise\nfrom such a discovery.\n\nBut to choose an instance still more resembling; I would fain ask any\none, why incest in the human species is criminal, and why the very\nsame action, and the same relations in animals, have not the smallest\nmoral turpitude and deformity? If it be answered, that this action\nis innocent in animals, because they have not reason sufficient to\ndiscover its turpitude; but that man, being endowed with that faculty,\nwhich _ought_ to restrain him to his duty, the same action instantly\nbecomes criminal to him. Should this be said, I would reply, that this\nis evidently arguing in a circle. For, before reason can perceive this\nturpitude, the turpitude must exist; and consequently is independent\nof the decisions of our reason, and is their object more properly than\ntheir effect. According to this system, then, every animal that has\nsense and appetite and will, that is, every animal must be susceptible\nof all the same virtues and vices, for which we ascribe praise and\nblame to human creatures. All the difference is, that our superior\nreason may serve to discover the vice or virtue, and by that means\nmay augment the blame or praise: but still this discovery supposes\na separate being in these moral distinctions, and a being which\ndepends only on the will and appetite, and which, both in thought and\nreality, may be distinguished from reason. Animals are susceptible of\nthe same relations with respect to each other as the human species,\nand therefore would also be susceptible of the same morality, if the\nessence of morality consisted in these relations. Their want of a\nsufficient degree of reason may hinder them from perceiving the duties\nand obligations of morality, but can never hinder these duties from\nexisting; since they must antecedently exist, in order to their being\nperceived. Reason must find them, and can never produce them. This\nargument deserves to be weighed, as being, in my opinion, entirely\ndecisive.\n\nNor does this reasoning only prove, that morality consists not in any\nrelations that are the objects of science; but if examined, will prove\nwith equal certainty, that it consists not in any _matter of fact_,\nwhich can be discovered by the understanding. This is the _second_ part\nof our argument; and if it can be made evident, we may conclude, that\nmorality is not an object of reason. But can there be any difficulty in\nproving, that vice and virtue are not matters of fact, whose existence\nwe can infer by reason? Take any action allowed to be vicious; wilful\nmurder, for instance. Examine it in all lights, and see if you can\nfind that matter of fact, or real existence, which you call _vice_. In\nwhichever way you take it, you find only certain passions, motives,\nvolitions and thoughts. There is no other matter of fact in the case.\nThe vice entirely escapes you, as long as you consider the object.\nYou never can find it, till you turn your reflection into your own\nbreast, and find a sentiment of disapprobation, which arises in you,\ntowards this action. Here is a matter of fact; but 'tis the object of\nfeeling, not of reason. It lies in yourself, not in the object. So\nthat when you pronounce any action or character to be vicious, you\nmean nothing, but that from the constitution of your nature you have a\nfeeling or sentiment of blame from the contemplation of it. Vice and\nvirtue, therefore, may be compared to sounds, colours, heat and cold,\nwhich, according to modern philosophy, are not qualities in objects,\nbut perceptions in the mind: and this discovery in morals, like that\nother in physics, is to be regarded as a considerable advancement of\nthe speculative sciences; though, like that too, it has little or no\ninfluence on practice. Nothing can be more real, or concern us more,\nthan our own sentiments of pleasure and uneasiness; and if these\nbe favourable to virtue, and unfavourable to vice, no more can be\nrequisite to the regulation of our conduct and behaviour.\n\nI cannot forbear adding to these reasonings an observation, which may,\nperhaps, be found of some importance. In every system of morality\nwhich I have hitherto met with, I have always remarked, that the\nauthor proceeds for some time in the ordinary way of reasoning, and\nestablishes the being of a God, or makes observations concerning human\naffairs; when of a sudden I am surprised to find, that instead of the\nusual copulations of propositions, _is_, and _is not_, I meet with no\nproposition that is not connected with an _ought_, or an _ought not_.\nThis change is imperceptible; but is, however, of the last consequence.\nFor as this _ought_, or _ought not_, expresses some new relation or\naffirmation, 'tis necessary that it should be observed and explained;\nand at the same time that a reason should be given, for what seems\naltogether inconceivable, how this new relation can be a deduction from\nothers, which are entirely different from it. But as authors do not\ncommonly use this precaution, I shall presume to recommend it to the\nreaders; and am persuaded, that this small attention would subvert all\nthe vulgar systems of morality, and let us see, that the distinction of\nvice and virtue is not founded merely on the relations of objects, nor\nis perceived by reason.\n\n\n[1] Book II. Part III. Sect. 3\n\n[2] One might think it were entirely superfluous to prove this, if a\nlate author, who has had the good fortune to obtain some reputation,\nhad not seriously affirmed, that such a falsehood is the foundation of\nall guilt and moral deformity. That we may discover the fallacy of his\nhypothesis, we need only consider, that a false conclusion is drawn\nfrom an action, only by means of an obscurity of natural principles,\nwhich makes a cause be secretly interrupted in its operation, by\ncontrary causes, and renders the connexion betwixt two objects\nuncertain and variable. Now, as a like uncertainty and variety of\ncauses take place, even in natural objects, and produce a like error in\nour judgment, if that tendency to produce error were the very essence\nof vice and immorality, it should follow, that even inanimate objects\nmight be vicious and immoral.\n\n'Tis in vain to urge, that inanimate objects act without liberty and\nchoice. For as liberty and choice are not necessary to make an action\nproduce in us an erroneous conclusion, they can be, in no respect,\nessential to morality; and I do not readily perceive, upon this system,\nhow they can ever come to be regarded by it. If the tendency to cause\nerror be the origin of immorality, that tendency and immorality would\nin every case be inseparable.\n\nAdd to this, that if I had used the precaution of shutting the windows,\nwhile I indulged myself in those liberties with my neighbour's wife, I\nshould have been guilty of no immorality; and that because my action,\nbeing perfectly concealed, would have had no tendency to produce any\nfalse conclusion.\n\nFor the same reason, a thief, who steals in by a ladder at a window,\nand takes all imaginable care to cause no disturbance, is in no\nrespect criminal. For either he will not be perceived, or if he be,\n'tis impossible he can produce any error, nor will any one, from these\ncircumstances, take him to be other than what he really is.\n\n'Tis well known, that those who are squint-sighted do very readily\ncause mistakes in others, and that we imagine they salute or are\ntalking to one person, while they address themselves to another. Are\nthey, therefore, upon that account, immoral?\n\nBesides, we may easily observe, that in all those arguments there is\nan evident reasoning in a circle. A person who takes possession of\n_another's_ goods, and uses them as his _own_, in a manner declares\nthem to be his own; and this falsehood is the source of the immorality\nof injustice. But is property, or right, or obligation, intelligible\nwithout an antecedent morality?\n\nA man that is ungrateful to his benefactor, in a manner affirms that\nhe never received any favours from him. But in what manner? Is it\nbecause 'tis his duty to be grateful? But this supposes that there is\nsome antecedent rule of duty and morals. Is it because human nature is\ngenerally grateful, and makes us conclude that a man who does any harm,\nnever received any favour from the person he harmed? But human nature\nis not so generally grateful as to justify such a conclusion; or, if it\nwere, is an exception to a general rule in every case criminal, for no\nother reason than because it is an exception?\n\nBut what may suffice entirely to destroy this whimsical system is,\nthat it leaves us under the same difficulty to give a reason why truth\nis virtuous and falsehood vicious, as to account for the merit or\nturpitude of any other action. I shall allow, if you please, that all\nimmorality is derived from this supposed falsehood in action, provided\nyou can give me any plausible reason why such a falsehood is immoral.\nIf you consider rightly of the matter, you will find yourself in the\nsame difficulty as at the beginning.\n\nThis last argument is very conclusive; because, if there be not\nan evident merit or turpitude annexed to this species of truth or\nfalsehood, it can never have any influence upon our actions. For who\never thought of forbearing any action, because others might possibly\ndraw false conclusions from it? Or who ever performed any, that he\nmight give rise to true conclusions?\n\n\n[3] As a proof how confused our way of thinking on this subject\ncommonly is, we may observe, that those who assert that morality is\ndemonstrable, do not say that morality lies in the relations, and\nthat the relations are distinguishable by reason. They only say, that\nreason can discover such an action, in such relations, to be virtuous,\nand such another vicious. It seems they thought it sufficient if they\ncould bring the word Relation into the proposition, without troubling\nthemselves whether it was to the purpose or not. But here, I think, is\nplain argument. Demonstrative reason discovers only relations. But that\nreason, according to this hypothesis, discovers also vice and virtue.\nThese moral qualities, therefore, must be relations. When we blame any\naction, in any situation, the whole complicated object of action and\nsituation must form certain relations, wherein the essence of vice\nconsists. This hypothesis is not otherwise intelligible. For what\ndoes reason discover, when it pronounces any action vicious? Does it\ndiscover a relation or a matter of fact? These questions are decisive,\nand must not be eluded.\n\n\n\nSECTION II.\n\nMORAL DISTINCTIONS DERIVED FROM A MORAL SENSE.\n\n\nThus the course of the argument leads us to conclude, that since vice\nand virtue are not discoverable merely by reason, or the comparison\nof ideas, it must be by means of some impression or sentiment they\noccasion, that we are able to mark the difference betwixt them. Our\ndecisions concerning moral rectitude and depravity are evidently\nperceptions; and as all perceptions are either impressions or ideas,\nthe exclusion of the one is a convincing argument for the other.\nMorality, therefore, is more properly felt than judged of; though this\nfeeling or sentiment is commonly so soft and gentle that we are apt to\nconfound it with an idea, according to our common custom of taking all\nthings for the same which have any near resemblance to each other.\n\nThe next question is, of what nature are these impressions, and after\nwhat manner do they operate upon us? Here we cannot remain long in\nsuspense, but must pronounce the impression arising from virtue to be\nagreeable, and that proceeding from vice to be uneasy. Every moment's\nexperience must convince us of this. There is no spectacle so fair and\nbeautiful as a noble and generous action; nor any which gives us more\nabhorrence than one that is cruel and treacherous. No enjoyment equals\nthe satisfaction we receive from the company of those we love and\nesteem; as the greatest of all punishments is to be obliged to pass our\nlives with those we hate or contemn. A very play or romance may afford\nus instances of this pleasure which virtue conveys to us; and pain,\nwhich arises from vice.\n\nNow, since the distinguishing impressions by which moral good or evil\nis known, are nothing but _particular_ pains or pleasures, it follows,\nthat in all inquiries concerning these moral distinctions, it will be\nsufficient to show the principles which make us feel a satisfaction or\nuneasiness from the survey of any character, in order to satisfy us\nwhy the character is laudable or blameable. An action, or sentiment,\nor character, is virtuous or vicious; why? because its view causes\na pleasure or uneasiness of a particular kind. In giving a reason,\ntherefore, for the pleasure or uneasiness, we sufficiently explain\nthe vice or virtue. To have the sense of virtue, is nothing but to\n_feel_ a satisfaction of a particular kind from the contemplation of a\ncharacter. The very _feeling_ constitutes our praise or admiration. We\ngo no farther; nor do we inquire into the cause of the satisfaction.\nWe do not infer a character to be virtuous, because it pleases; but in\nfeeling that it pleases after such a particular manner, we in effect\nfeel that it is virtuous. The case is the same as in our judgments\nconcerning all kinds of beauty, and tastes, and sensations. Our\napprobation is implied in the immediate pleasure they convey to us.\n\nI have objected to the system which establishes eternal rational\nmeasures of right and wrong, that 'tis impossible to show, in the\nactions of reasonable creatures, any relations which are not found in\nexternal objects; and therefore, if morality always attended these\nrelations, 'twere possible for inanimate matter to become virtuous\nor vicious. Now it may, in like manner, be objected to the present\nsystem, that if virtue and vice be determined by pleasure and pain,\nthese qualities must, in every case, arise from the sensations; and\nconsequently any object, whether animate or inanimate, rational or\nirrational, might become morally good or evil, provided it can excite a\nsatisfaction or uneasiness. But though this objection seems to be the\nvery same, it has by no means the same force in the one case as in the\nother. For, _first_, 'tis evident that, under the term _pleasure_, we\ncomprehend sensations, which are very different from each other, and\nwhich have only such a distant resemblance as is requisite to, make\nthem be expressed by the same abstract term. A good composition of\nmusic and a bottle of good wine equally produce pleasure; and, what is\nmore, their goodness is determined merely by the pleasure. But shall we\nsay, upon that account, that the wine is harmonious, or the music of a\ngood flavour? In like manner, an inanimate object, and the character\nor sentiments of any person, may, both of them, give satisfaction;\nbut, as the satisfaction is different, this keeps our sentiments\nconcerning them from being confounded, and makes us ascribe virtue to\nthe one and not to the other. Nor is every sentiment of pleasure or\npain which arises from characters and actions, of that _peculiar_ kind\nwhich makes us praise or condemn. The good qualities of an enemy are\nhurtful to us, but may, still command our esteem and respect. 'Tis\nonly when a character is considered in general, without reference to\nour particular interest, that it causes such a feeling or sentiment as\ndenominates it morally good or evil. 'Tis true, those sentiments from\ninterest and morals are apt to be confounded, and naturally run into\none another. It seldom happens that we do not think an enemy vicious,\nand can distinguish betwixt his opposition to our interest and real\nvillany or baseness. But this hinders not but that the sentiments are\nin themselves distinct; and a man of temper and judgment may preserve\nhimself from these illusions. In like manner, though 'tis certain a\nmusical voice is nothing but one that naturally gives a _particular_\nkind of pleasure; yet 'tis difficult for a man to be sensible that the\nvoice of an enemy is agreeable, or to allow it to be musical. But a\nperson of a fine ear, who has the command of himself, can separate\nthese feelings, and give praise to what deserves it.\n\n_Secondly_, we may call to remembrance the preceding system of the\npassions, in order to remark a still more considerable difference\namong our pains and pleasures. Pride and humility, love and hatred,\nare excited, when there is any thing presented to us that both bears\na relation to the object of the passion, and produces a separate\nsensation, related to the sensation of the passion. Now, virtue and\nvice are attended with these circumstances. They must necessarily be\nplaced either in ourselves or others, and excite either pleasure or\nuneasiness; and therefore must give rise to one of these four passions,\nwhich clearly distinguishes them from the pleasure and pain arising\nfrom inanimate objects, that often bear no relation to us; and this is,\nperhaps, the most considerable effect that virtue and vice have upon\nthe human mind.\n\nIt may now be asked, _in general_ concerning this pain or pleasure that\ndistinguishes moral good and evil, _From what principle is it derived,\nand whence does it arise in the human mind_? To this I reply, _first_,\nthat 'tis absurd to imagine that, in every particular instance,\nthese sentiments are produced by an _original_ quality and _primary_\nconstitution. For as the number of our duties is in a manner infinite,\n'tis impossible that our original instincts should extend to each of\nthem, and from our very first infancy impress on the human mind all\nthat multitude of precepts which are contained in the completest system\nof ethics. Such a method of proceeding is not conformable to the usual\nmaxims by which nature is conducted, where a few principles produce all\nthat variety we observe in the universe, and every thing is carried on\nin the easiest and most simple manner. 'Tis necessary, therefore, to\nabridge these primary impulses, and find some more general principles\nupon which all our notions of morals are founded.\n\nBut, in the _second_ place, should it be asked, whether we ought to\nsearch for these principles in _nature_, or whether we must look for\nthem in some other origin? I would reply, that our answer to this\nquestion depends upon the definition of the word Nature, than which\nthere is none more ambiguous and equivocal. If _nature_ be opposed to\nmiracles, not only the distinction betwixt vice and virtue is natural,\nbut also every event which has ever happened in the world, _excepting\nthose miracles on which our religion is founded_. In saying, then, that\nthe sentiments of vice and virtue are natural in this sense, we make no\nvery extraordinary discovery.\n\nBut _nature_ may also be opposed to rare and unusual; and in this sense\nof the word, which is the common one, there may often arise disputes\nconcerning what is natural or unnatural; and one may in general affirm,\nthat we are not possessed of any very precise standard by which these\ndisputes can be decided. Frequent and rare depend upon the number of\nexamples we have observed; and as this number may gradually increase\nor diminish, 'twill be impossible to fix any exact boundaries betwixt\nthem. We may only affirm on this head, that if ever there was any thing\nwhich could be called natural in this sense, the sentiments of morality\ncertainly may; since there never was any nation of the world, nor any\nsingle person in any nation, who was utterly deprived of them, and\nwho never, in any instance, showed the least approbation or dislike\nof manners. These sentiments are so rooted in our constitution and\ntemper, that, without entirely confounding the human mind by disease or\nmadness, 'tis impossible to extirpate and destroy them.\n\nBut _nature_ may also be opposed to artifice, as well as to what is\nrare and unusual; and in this sense it may be disputed, whether the\nnotions of virtue be natural or not. We readily forget, that the\ndesigns and projects and views of men are principles as necessary in\ntheir operation as heat and cold, moist and dry; but, taking them to be\nfree and entirely our own, 'tis usual for us to set them in opposition\nto the other principles of nature. Should it therefore be demanded,\nwhether the sense of virtue be natural or artificial, I am of opinion\nthat 'tis impossible for me at present to give any precise answer to\nthis question. Perhaps it will appear afterwards that our sense of some\nvirtues is artificial, and that of others natural. The discussion of\nthis question will be more proper, when we enter upon an exact detail\nof each particular vice and virtue.[4]\n\nMean while, it may not be amiss to observe, from these definitions of\n_natural_ and _unnatural_, that nothing can be more unphilosophical\nthan those systems which assert, that virtue is the same with what\nis natural, and vice with what is unnatural. For, in the first sense\nof the word, nature, as opposed to miracles, both vice and virtue\nare equally natural; and, in the second sense, as opposed to what is\nunusual, perhaps virtue will be found to be the most unnatural. At\nleast it must be owned, that heroic virtue, being as unusual, is as\nlittle natural as the most brutal barbarity. As to the third sense of\nthe word, 'tis certain that both vice and virtue are equally artificial\nand out of nature. For, however it may be disputed, whether the notion\nof a merit or demerit in certain actions, be natural or artificial,\n'tis evident that the actions themselves are artificial, and are\nperformed with a certain design and intention; otherwise they could\nnever be ranked under any of these denominations. 'Tis impossible,\ntherefore, that the character of natural and unnatural can ever, in any\nsense, mark the boundaries of vice and virtue.\n\nThus we are still brought back to our first position, that virtue is\ndistinguished by the pleasure, and vice by the pain, that any action,\nsentiment, or character, gives us by the mere view and contemplation.\nThis decision is very commodious; because it reduces us to, this\nsimple question, _Why any action or sentiment, upon the general view\nor survey, gives a certain satisfaction or uneasiness_, in order to\nshow the origin of its moral rectitude or depravity, without looking\nfor any incomprehensible relations and qualities, which never did exist\nin nature, nor even in our imagination, by any clear and distinct\nconception? I flatter myself I have executed a great part of my present\ndesign by a state of the question, which appears to me so free from\nambiguity and obscurity.\n\n[4] In the following discourse, _natural_ is also opposed sometimes to\n_civil_, sometimes to _moral_. The opposition will always discover the\nsense in which it is taken.\n\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\nOF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE.\n\n\n\nSECTION I.\n\nJUSTICE, WHETHER A NATURAL OR ARTIFICIAL VIRTUE?\n\n\nI have already hinted, that our sense of every kind of virtue is not\nnatural; but that there are some virtues that produce pleasure and\napprobation by means of an artifice or contrivance, which arises from\nthe circumstances and necessity of mankind. Of this kind I assert\n_justice_ to be; and shall endeavour to defend this opinion by a short,\nand, I hope, convincing argument, before I examine the nature of the\nartifice, from which the sense of that virtue is derived.\n\n'Tis evident that, when we praise any actions, we regard only the\nmotives that produced them, and consider the actions as signs or\nindications of certain principles in the mind and temper. The external\nperformance has no merit. We must look within to find the moral\nquality. This we cannot do directly; and therefore fix our attention on\nactions, as on external signs. But these actions are still considered\nas signs; and the ultimate object of our praise and approbation is the\nmotive that produced them.\n\nAfter the same manner, when we require any action, or blame a person\nfor not performing it, we always suppose that one in that situation\nshould be influenced by the proper motive of that action, and we\nesteem it vicious in him to be regardless of it. If we find, upon\ninquiry, that the virtuous motive was still powerful over his breast,\nthough checked in its operation by some circumstances unknown to us,\nwe retract our blame, and have the same esteem for him, as if he had\nactually performed the action which we require of him.\n\nIt appears, therefore, that all virtuous actions derive their merit\nonly from virtuous motives, and are considered merely as signs of\nthose motives. From this principle I conclude, that the first virtuous\nmotive which bestows a merit on any action, can never be a regard\nto the virtue of that action, but must be some other natural motive\nor principle. To suppose, that the mere regard to the virtue of the\naction, may be the first motive which produced the action, and rendered\nit virtuous, is to reason in a circle. Before we can have such a\nregard, the action must be really virtuous; and this virtue must be\nderived from some virtuous motive: and consequently, the virtuous\nmotive must be different from the regard to the virtue of the action.\nA virtuous motive is requisite to render an action virtuous. An action\nmust be virtuous before we can have a regard to its virtue. Some\nvirtuous motive, therefore, must be antecedent to that regard.\n\nNor is this merely a metaphysical subtilty; but enters into all our\nreasonings in common life, though perhaps we may not be able to\nplace it in such distinct philosophical terms. We blame a father\nfor neglecting his child. Why? because it shows a want of natural\naffection, which is the duty of every parent. Were not natural\naffection a duty, the care of children could not be a duty; and 'twere\nimpossible we could have the duty in our eye in the attention we give\nto our offspring. In this case, therefore, all men suppose a motive to\nthe action distinct from a sense of duty.\n\nHere is a man that does many benevolent actions; relieves the\ndistressed, comforts the afflicted, and extends his bounty even to the\ngreatest strangers. No character can be more amiable and virtuous. We\nregard these actions as proofs of the greatest humanity. This humanity\nbestows a merit on the actions. A regard to this merit is, therefore, a\nsecondary consideration, and derived from the antecedent principles of\nhumanity, which is meritorious and laudable.\n\nIn short, it may be established as an undoubted maxim, _that no action\ncan be virtuous, or morally good, unless there be in human nature some\nmotive to produce it distinct from the sense of its morality_.\n\nBut may not the sense of morality or duty produce an action, without\nany other motive? I answer, it may; but this is no objection to the\npresent doctrine. When any virtuous motive or principle is common in\nhuman nature, a person who feels his heart devoid of that motive, may\nhate himself upon that account, and may perform the action without the\nmotive, from a certain sense of duty, in order to acquire, by practice,\nthat virtuous principle, or at least to disguise to himself, as much\nas possible, his want of it. A man that really feels no gratitude in\nhis temper, is still pleased to perform grateful actions, and thinks\nhe has, by that means, fulfilled his duty. Actions are at first only\nconsidered as signs of motives: but 'tis usual, in this case, as in\nall others, to fix our attention on the signs, and neglect, in some\nmeasure, the thing signified. But though, on some occasions, a person\nmay perform an action merely out of regard to its moral obligation, yet\nstill this supposes in human nature some distinct principles, which are\ncapable of producing the action, and whose moral beauty renders the\naction meritorious.\n\nNow, to apply all this to the present case; I suppose a person to have\nlent me a sum of money, on condition that it be restored in a few days;\nand also suppose, that after the expiration of the term agreed on,\nhe demands the sum: I ask, _What reason or motive have I to restore\nthe money_? It will perhaps be said, that my regard to justice, and\nabhorrence of villany and knavery, are sufficient reasons for me, if\nI have the least grain of honesty, or sense of duty and obligation.\nAnd this answer, no doubt, is just and satisfactory to man in his\ncivilized state, and when trained up according to a certain discipline\nand education. But in his rude and more natural condition, if you are\npleased to call such a condition natural, this answer would be rejected\nas perfectly unintelligible and sophistical. For one in that situation\nwould immediately ask you, _Wherein consists this honesty and justice,\nwhich you find in restoring a loan, and abstaining from the property\nof others_? It does not surely lie in the external action. It must,\ntherefore, be placed in the motive from which the external action\nis derived. This motive can never be a regard to the honesty of the\naction. For 'tis a plain fallacy to say, that a virtuous motive is\nrequisite to render an action honest, and, at the same time, that a\nregard to the honesty is the motive of the action. We can never have a\nregard to the virtue of an action, unless the action be antecedently\nvirtuous. No action can be virtuous, but so far as it proceeds from a\nvirtuous motive. A virtuous motive, therefore, must precede the regard\nto the virtue; and 'tis impossible that the virtuous motive and the\nregard to the virtue can be the same.\n\n'Tis requisite, then, to find some motive to acts of justice and\nhonesty, distinct from our regard to the honesty; and in this lies the\ngreat difficulty. For should we say, that a concern for our private\ninterest or reputation, is the legitimate motive to all honest actions:\nit would follow, that wherever that concern ceases, honesty can no\nlonger have place. But 'tis certain that self-love, when it acts at its\nliberty, instead of engaging us to honest actions, is the source of all\ninjustice and violence; nor can a man ever correct those vices, without\ncorrecting and restraining the _natural_ movements of that appetite.\n\nBut should it be affirmed, that the reason or motive of such actions\nis the _regard to public interest_, to which nothing is more contrary\nthan examples of injustice and dishonesty; should this be said, I\nwould propose the three following considerations as worthy of our\nattention. _First_, Public interest is not naturally attached to the\nobservation of the rules of justice; but is only connected with it,\nafter an artificial convention for the establishment of these rules,\nas shall be shown more at large hereafter. _Secondly_, If we suppose\nthat the loan was secret, and that it is necessary for the interest\nof the person, that the money be restored in the same manner (as when\nthe lender would conceal his riches), in that case the example ceases,\nand the public is no longer interested in the actions of the borrower;\nthough I suppose there is no moralist who will affirm that the duty\nand obligation ceases. _Thirdly_, Experience sufficiently proves that\nmen, in the ordinary conduct of life, look not so far as the public\ninterest, when they pay their creditors, perform their promises, and\nabstain from theft, and robbery, and injustice of every kind. That is a\nmotive too remote and too sublime to affect the generality of mankind,\nand operate with any force in actions so contrary to private interest\nas are frequently those of justice and common honesty.\n\nIn general, it may be affirmed, that there is no such passion in\nhuman minds as the love of mankind, merely as such, independent of\npersonal qualities, of services, or of relation to ourself. 'Tis true,\nthere is no human, and indeed no sensible creature, whose happiness\nor misery does not, in some measure, affect us, when brought near\nus, and represented in lively colours: but this proceeds merely from\nsympathy, and is no proof of such an universal affection to mankind,\nsince this concern extends itself beyond our own species. An affection\nbetwixt the sexes is a passion evidently implanted in human nature; and\nthis passion not only appears in its peculiar symptoms, but also in\ninflaming every other principle of affection, and raising a stronger\nlove from beauty, wit, kindness, than what would otherwise flow from\nthem. Were there an universal love among all human creatures, it would\nappear after the same manner. Any degree of a good quality would cause\na stronger affection than the same degree of a bad quality would cause\nhatred; contrary to what we find by experience. Men's tempers are\ndifferent, and some have a propensity to the tender, and others to\nthe rougher affections: but in the main, we may affirm, that man in\ngeneral, or human nature, is nothing but the object both of love and\nhatred, and requires some other cause, which, by a double relation\nof impressions and ideas, may excite these passions. In vain would\nwe endeavour to elude this hypothesis. There are no phenomena that\npoint out any such kind affection to men, independent of their merit,\nand every other circumstance. We love company in general; but 'tis as\nwe love any other amusement. An Englishman in Italy is a friend; a\nEuropean in China; and perhaps a man would be beloved as such, were we\nto meet him in the moon. But this proceeds only from the relation to\nourselves; which in these cases gathers force by being confined to a\nfew persons.\n\nIf public benevolence, therefore, or a regard to the interests of\nmankind, cannot be the original motive to justice, much less can\n_private benevolence_, or a _regard to the interests of the party\nconcerned_, be this motive. For what if he be my enemy, and has given\nme just cause to hate him? What if he be a vicious man, and deserves\nthe hatred of all mankind? What if he be a miser, and can make no use\nof what I would deprive him of? What if he be a profligate debauchee,\nand would rather receive harm than benefit from large possessions? What\nif I be in necessity, and have urgent motives to acquire something to\nmy family? In all these cases, the original motive to justice would\nfail; and consequently the justice itself, and along with it all\nproperty, right, and obligation.\n\nA rich man lies under a moral obligation to communicate to those in\nnecessity a share of his superfluities. Were private benevolence the\noriginal motive to justice, a man would not be obliged to leave others\nin the possession of more than he is obliged to give them. At least,\nthe difference would be very inconsiderable. Men generally fix their\naffections more on what they are possessed of, than on what they never\nenjoyed: for this reason, it would be greater cruelty to dispossess a\nman of any thing, than not to give it him. But who will assert, that\nthis is the only foundation of justice?\n\nBesides, we must consider, that the chief reason why men attach\nthemselves so much to their possessions, is, that they consider them\nas their property, and as secured to them inviolably by the laws of\nsociety. But this is a secondary consideration, and dependent on the\npreceding notions of justice and property.\n\nA man's property is supposed to be fenced against every mortal, in\nevery possible case. But private benevolence is, and ought to be,\nweaker in some persons than in others; and in many, or indeed in most\npersons, must absolutely fail. Private benevolence, therefore, is not\nthe original motive of justice.\n\nFrom all this it follows, that we have no real or universal motive for\nobserving the laws of equity, but the very equity and merit of that\nobservance; and as no action can be equitable or meritorious, where\nit cannot arise from some separate motive, there is here an evident\nsophistry and reasoning in a circle. Unless, therefore, we will allow\nthat nature has established a sophistry, and rendered it necessary and\nunavoidable, we must allow, that the sense of justice and injustice is\nnot derived from nature, but arises artificially, though necessarily,\nfrom education, and human conventions.\n\nI shall add, as a corollary to this reasoning, that since no action can\nbe laudable or blameable, without some motives or impelling passions,\ndistinct from the sense of morals, these distinct passions must have a\ngreat influence on that sense. 'Tis according to their general force\nin human nature that we blame or praise. In judging of the beauty of\nanimal bodies, we always carry in our eye the economy of a certain\nspecies; and where the limbs and features observe that proportion which\nis common to the species, we pronounce them handsome and beautiful.\nIn like manner, we always consider the _natural_ and _usual_ force of\nthe passions, when we determine concerning vice and virtue; and if the\npassions depart very much from the common measures on either side, they\nare always disapproved as vicious. A man naturally loves his children\nbetter than his nephews, his nephews better than his cousins, his\ncousins better than strangers, where every thing else is equal. Hence\narise our common measures of duty, in preferring the one to the other.\nOur sense of duty always follows the common and natural course of our\npassions.\n\nTo avoid giving offence, I must here observe, that when I deny justice\nto be a natural virtue, I make use of the word _natural_, only as\nopposed to _artificial_. In another sense of the word, as no principle\nof the human mind is more natural than a sense of virtue, so no virtue\nis more natural than justice. Mankind is an inventive species; and\nwhere an invention is obvious and absolutely necessary, it may as\nproperly be said to be natural as any thing that proceeds immediately\nfrom original principles, without the intervention of thought or\nreflection. Though the rules of justice be _artificial_, they are not\n_arbitrary_. Nor is the expression improper to call them _Laws of\nNature_; if by natural we understand what is common to any species, or\neven if we confine it to mean what is inseparable from the species.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II.\n\nOF THE ORIGIN OF JUSTICE AND PROPERTY.\n\n\nWe now proceed to examine two questions, viz. _concerning the manner\nin which the rules of justice are established by the artifice of men_;\nand _concerning the reasons which determine us to attribute to the\nobservance or neglect of these rules a moral beauty and deformity_.\nThese questions will appear afterwards to be distinct. We shall begin\nwith the former.\n\nOf all the animals with which this globe is peopled, there is none\ntowards whom nature seems, at first sight, to have exercised more\ncruelty than towards man, in the numberless wants and necessities\nwith which she has loaded him, and in the slender means which she\naffords to the relieving these necessities. In other creatures, these\ntwo particulars generally compensate each other. If we consider the\nlion as a voracious and carnivorous animal, we shall easily discover\nhim to be very necessitous; but if we turn our eye to his make and\ntemper, his agility, his courage, his arms and his force, we shall\nfind that his advantages hold proportion with his wants. The sheep\nand ox are deprived of all these advantages; but their appetites\nare moderate, and their food is of easy purchase. In man alone this\nunnatural conjunction of infirmity and of necessity may be observed\nin its greatest perfection. Not only the food which is required for\nhis sustenance flies his search and approach, or at least requires his\nlabour to be produced, but he must be possessed of clothes and lodging\nto defend him against the injuries of the weather; though, to consider\nhim only in himself, he is provided neither with arms, nor force, nor\nother natural abilities which are in any degree answerable to so many\nnecessities.\n\n'Tis by society alone he is able to supply his defects, and raise\nhimself up to an equality with his fellow-creatures, and even acquire a\nsuperiority above them. By society all his infirmities are compensated;\nand though in that situation his wants multiply every moment upon him,\nyet his abilities are still more augmented, and leave him in every\nrespect more satisfied and happy than 'tis possible for him, in his\nsavage and solitary condition, ever to become. When every individual\nperson labours apart, and only for himself, his force is too small to\nexecute any considerable work; his labour being employed in supplying\nall his different necessities, he never attains a perfection in any\nparticular art; and as his force and success are not at all times\nequal, the least failure in either of these particulars must be\nattended with inevitable ruin and misery. Society provides a remedy for\nthese _three_ inconveniences. By the conjunction of forces, our power\nis augmented; by the partition of employments, our ability increases;\nand by mutual succour, we are less exposed to fortune and accidents.\n'Tis by this additional _force, ability_, and _security_, that society\nbecomes advantageous.\n\nBut, in order to form society, 'tis requisite not only that it be\nadvantageous, but also that men be sensible of these advantages; and\n'tis impossible, in their wild uncultivated state, that by study and\nreflection alone they should ever be able to attain this knowledge.\nMost fortunately, therefore, there is conjoined to those necessities,\nwhose remedies are remote and obscure, another necessity, which,\nhaving a present and more obvious remedy, may justly be regarded as\nthe first and original principle of human society. This necessity is\nno other than that natural appetite betwixt the sexes, which unites\nthem together, and preserves their union, till a new tie takes place\nin their concern for their common offspring. This new concern becomes\nalso a principle of union betwixt the parents and offspring, and forms\na more numerous society, where the parents govern by the advantage of\ntheir superior strength and wisdom, and at the same time are restrained\nin the exercise of their authority by that natural affection which they\nbear their children. In a little time, custom and habit, operating on\nthe tender minds of the children, makes them sensible of the advantages\nwhich they may reap from society, as well as fashions them by degrees\nfor it, by rubbing off those rough comers and untoward affections which\nprevent their coalition.\n\nFor it must be confest, that however the circumstances of human\nnature may render an union necessary, and however those passions\nof lust and natural affection may seem to render it unavoidable,\nyet there are other particulars in our _natural temper_, and in our\n_outward circumstances_, which are very incommodious, and are even\ncontrary to the requisite conjunction. Among the former we may justly\nesteem our _selfishness_ to be the most considerable. I am sensible\nthat, generally speaking, the representations of this quality have\nbeen carried much too far; and that the descriptions which certain\nphilosophers delight so much to form of mankind in this particular, are\nas wide of nature as any accounts of monsters which we meet with in\nfables and romances. So far from thinking that men have no affect ion\nfor any thing beyond themselves, I am of opinion that, though it be\nrare to meet with one who loves any single person better than himself,\nyet 'tis as rare to meet with one in whom all the kind affections,\ntaken together, do not overbalance all the selfish. Consult common\nexperience; do you not see, that though the whole expense of the family\nbe generally under the direction of the master of it, yet there are few\nthat do not bestow the largest part of their fortunes on the pleasures\nof their wives and the education of their children, reserving the\nsmallest portion for their own proper use and entertainment? This is\nwhat we may observe concerning such as have those endearing ties; and\nmay presume, that the case would be the same with others, were they\nplaced in a like situation.\n\nBut, though this generosity must be acknowledged to the honour of human\nnature, we may at the same time remark, that so noble an affection,\ninstead of fitting men for large societies, is almost as contrary\nto them as the most narrow selfishness. For while each person loves\nhimself better than any other single person, and in his love to others\nbears the greatest affection to his relations and acquaintance,\nthis must necessarily produce an opposition of passions, and a\nconsequent opposition of actions, which cannot but be dangerous to the\nnew-established union.\n\n'Tis, however, worth while to remark, that this contrariety of\npassions would be attended with but small danger, did it not concur\nwith a peculiarity in our _outward circumstances_, which affords it\nan opportunity of exerting itself. There are three different species\nof goods which we are possessed of; the internal satisfaction our\nminds; the external advantages of our body; and the enjoyment of such\npossessions as we have acquired by our industry and good fortune. We\nare perfectly secure in the enjoyment of the first. The second may be\nravished from us, but can be of no advantage to him who deprives us of\nthem. The last only are both exposed to the violence of others, and may\nbe transferred without suffering any loss or alteration; while at the\nsame time there is not a sufficient quantity of them to supply every\none's desires and necessities. As the improvement, therefore, of these\ngoods is the chief advantage of society, so the _instability_ of their\npossession, along with their _scarcity_, is the chief impediment.\n\nIn vain should we expect to find, in _uncultivated nature_, a remedy to\nthis inconvenience; or hope for any inartificial principle of the human\nmind which might control those partial affections, and make us overcome\nthe temptations arising from our circumstances. The idea of justice\ncan never serve to this purpose, or be taken for a natural principle,\ncapable of inspiring men with an equitable conduct towards each other.\nThat virtue, as it is now understood, would never have been dreamed\nof among rude and savage men. For the notion of injury or injustice\nimplies an immorality or vice committed against some other person: And\nas every immorality is derived from some defect or unsoundness of the\npassions, and as this defect must be judged of, in a great measure,\nfrom the ordinary course of nature in the constitution of the mind,\n'twill be easy to know whether we be guilty of any immorality with\nregard to others, by considering the natural and usual force of those\nseveral affections which are directed towards them. Now, it appears\nthat, in the original frame of our mind, our strongest attention\nis confined to ourselves; our next is extended to our relations and\nacquaintance; and 'tis only the weakest which reaches to strangers and\nindifferent persons. This partiality, then, and unequal affection, must\nnot only have an influence on our behaviour and conduct in society,\nbut even on our ideas of vice and virtue; so as to make us regard any\nremarkable transgression of such a degree of partiality, either by\ntoo great an enlargement or contraction of the affections, as vicious\nand immoral. This we may observe in our common judgments concerning\nactions, where we blame a person who either centres all his affections\nin his family, or is so regardless of them as, in any opposition\nof interest, to give the preference to a stranger or mere chance\nacquaintance. From all which it follows, that our natural uncultivated\nideas of morality, instead of providing a remedy for the partiality of\nour affections, do rather conform themselves to that partiality, and\ngive it an additional force and influence.\n\nThe remedy, then, is not derived from nature, but from _artifice_;\nor, more properly speaking, nature provides a remedy, in the judgment\nand understanding, for what is irregular and incommodious in the\naffections. For when men, from their early education in society, have\nbecome sensible of the infinite advantages that result from it, and\nhave besides acquired a new affection to company and conversation, and\nwhen they have observed, that the principal disturbance in society\narises from those goods, which we call external, and from their\nlooseness and easy transition from one person to another, they must\nseek for a remedy, by putting these goods, as far as possible, on the\nsame footing with the fixed and constant advantages of the mind and\nbody. This can be done after no other manner, than by a convention\nentered into by all the members of the society to bestow stability on\nthe possession of those external goods, and leave every one in the\npeaceable enjoyment of what he may acquire by his fortune and industry.\nBy this means, every one knows what he may safely possess; and the\npassions are restrained in their partial and contradictory motions. Nor\nis such a restraint contrary to these passions; for, if so, it could\nnever be entered into nor maintained; but it is only contrary to their\nheedless and impetuous movement. Instead of departing from our own\ninterest, or from that of our nearest friends, by abstaining from the\npossessions of others, we cannot better consult both these interests,\nthan by such a convention; because it is by that means we maintain\nsociety, which is so necessary to their well-being and subsistence, as\nwell as to our own.\n\nThis convention is not of the nature of a _promise_; for even promises\nthemselves, as we shall see afterwards, arise from human conventions.\nIt is only a general sense of common interest; which sense all the\nmembers of the society express to one another, and which induces them\nto regulate their conduct by certain rules. I observe, that it will\nbe for my interest to leave another in the possession of his goods,\n_provided_ he will act in the same manner with regard to me. He is\nsensible of a like interest in the regulation of his conduct. When\nthis common sense of interest is mutually expressed, and is known to\nboth, it produces a suitable resolution and behaviour. And this may\nproperly enough be called a convention or agreement betwixt us, though\nwithout the interposition of a promise; since the actions of each of\nus have a reference to those of the other, and are performed upon the\nsupposition that something is to be performed on the other part. Two\nmen who pull the oars of a boat, do it by an agreement or convention,\nthough they have never given promises to each other. Nor is the rule\nconcerning the stability of possession the less derived from human\nconventions, that it arises gradually, and acquires force by a slow\nprogression, and by our repeated experience of the inconveniences\nof transgressing it. On the contrary, this experience assures us\nstill more, that the sense of interest has become common to all our\nfellows, and gives us a confidence of the future regularity of their\nconduct; and 'tis only on the expectation of this that our moderation\nand abstinence are founded. In like manner are languages gradually\nestablished by human conventions, without any promise. In like manner\ndo gold and silver become the common measures of exchange, and are\nesteemed sufficient payment for what is of a hundred times their value.\n\nAfter this convention, concerning abstinence from the possessions of\nothers, is entered into, and every one has acquired a stability in\nhis possessions, there immediately arise the ideas of justice and\ninjustice; as also those of _property, right_, and _obligation_. The\nlatter are altogether unintelligible, without first understanding\nthe former. Our property is nothing but those goods, whose constant\npossession is established by the laws of society; that is, by the laws\nof justice. Those, therefore, who make use of the words _property_,\nor _right_, or _obligation_, before they have explained the origin of\njustice, or even make use of them in that explication, are guilty of\na very gross fallacy, and can never reason upon any solid foundation.\nA man's property is some object related to him. This relation is not\nnatural, but moral, and founded on justice. 'Tis very preposterous,\ntherefore, to imagine that we can have any idea of property, without\nfully comprehending the nature of justice, and showing its origin in\nthe artifice and contrivance of men. The origin of justice explains\nthat of property. The same artifice gives rise to both. As our first\nand most natural sentiment of morals is founded on the nature of our\npassions, and gives the preference to ourselves and friends above\nstrangers, 'tis impossible there can be naturally any such thing as a\nfixed right or property, while the opposite passions of men impel them\nin contrary directions, and are not restrained by any convention or\nagreement.\n\nNo one can doubt that the convention for the distinction of property,\nand for the stability of possession, is of all circumstances the most\nnecessary to the establishment of human society, and that, after the\nagreement for the fixing and observing of this rule, there remains\nlittle or nothing to be done towards settling a perfect harmony and\nconcord. All the other passions, beside this of interest, are either\neasily restrained, or are not of such pernicious consequence when\nindulged. _Vanity_ is rather to be esteemed a social passion, and a\nbond of union among men. _Pity_ and _love_ are to be considered in the\nsame light. And as to _envy_ and _revenge_, though pernicious, they\noperate only by intervals, and are directed against particular persons,\nwhom we consider as our superiors or enemies. This avidity alone, of\nacquiring goods and possessions for ourselves and our nearest friends,\nis insatiable, perpetual, universal, and directly destructive of\nsociety. There scarce is any one who is not actuated by it; and there\nis no one who has not reason to fear from it, when it acts without\nany restraint, and gives way to its first and most natural movements.\nSo that, upon the whole, we are to esteem the difficulties in the\nestablishment of society to be greater or less, according to those we\nencounter in regulating and restraining this passion.\n\n'Tis certain, that no affection of the human mind has both a sufficient\nforce and a proper direction to counterbalance the love of gain,\nand render men fit members of society, by making them abstain from\nthe possessions of others. Benevolence to strangers is too weak for\nthis purpose; and as to the other passions, they rather inflame this\navidity, when we observe, that the larger our possessions are, the more\nability we have of gratifying all our appetites. There is no passion,\ntherefore, capable of controlling the interested affection, but the\nvery affection itself, by an alteration of its direction. Now, this\nalteration must necessarily take place upon the least reflection;\nsince 'tis evident that the passion is much better satisfied by its\nrestraint than by its liberty, and that, in preserving society, we\nmake much greater advances in the acquiring possessions, than in the\nsolitary and forlorn condition which must follow upon violence and an\nuniversal license. The question, therefore, concerning the wickedness\nor goodness of human nature, enters not in the least into that other\nquestion concerning the origin of society; nor is there any thing to\nbe considered but the degrees of men's sagacity or folly. For whether\nthe passion of self-interest be esteemed vicious or virtuous, 'tis all\na case, since itself alone restrains it; so that if it be virtuous,\nmen become social by their virtue; if vicious, their vice has the same\neffect.\n\nNow, as 'tis by establishing the rule for the stability of possession\nthat this passion restrains itself, if that rule be very abstruse\nand of difficult invention, society must be esteemed in a manner\naccidental, and the effect of many ages. But if it be found, that\nnothing can be more simple and obvious than that rule; that every\nparent, in order to preserve peace among his children, must establish\nit; and that these first rudiments of justice must every day be\nimproved, as the society enlarges: if all this appear evident, as it\ncertainly must, we may conclude that 'tis utterly impossible for men to\nremain any considerable time in that savage condition which precedes\nsociety, but that his very first state and situation may justly be\nesteemed social. This, however, hinders not but that philosophers\nmay, if they please, extend their reasoning to the supposed _state of\nnature_; provided they allow it to be a mere philosophical fiction,\nwhich never had, and never could have, any reality. Human nature\nbeing composed of two principal parts, which are requisite in all\nits actions, the affections and understanding, 'tis certain that the\nblind motions of the former, without the direction of the latter,\nincapacitate men for society; and it may be allowed us to consider\nseparately the effects that result from the separate operations\nof these two component parts of the mind. The same liberty may be\npermitted to moral, which is allowed to natural philosophers; and 'tis\nvery usual with the latter to consider any motion as compounded and\nconsisting of two parts separate from each other, though at the same\ntime they acknowledge it to be in itself uncompounded and inseparable.\n\nThis _state of nature_, therefore, is to be regarded as a mere fiction,\nnot unlike that of the _golden age_ which poets have invented; only\nwith this difference, that the former is described as full of war,\nviolence and injustice; whereas the latter is painted out to us as\nthe most charming and most peaceable condition that can possibly be\nimagined. The seasons, in that first age of nature, were so temperate,\nif we may believe the poets, that there was no necessity for men to\nprovide themselves with clothes and houses as a security against the\nviolence of heat and cold. The rivers flowed with wine and milk; the\noaks yielded honey; and nature spontaneously produced her greatest\ndelicacies. Nor were these the chief advantages of that happy age.\nThe storms and tempests were not alone removed from nature; but those\nmore furious tempests were unknown to human breasts, which now cause\nsuch uproar, and engender such confusion. Avarice, ambition, cruelty,\nselfishness, were never heard of: cordial affection, compassion,\nsympathy, were the only movements with which the human mind was yet\nacquainted. Even the distinction of _mine_ and _thine_ was banished\nfrom that happy race of mortals, and carried with them the very notions\nof property and obligation, justice and injustice.\n\nThis, no doubt, is to be regarded as an idle fiction; but yet deserves\nour attention, because nothing can more evidently show the origin of\nthose virtues, which are the subjects of our present inquiry. I have\nalready observed, that justice takes its rise from human conventions;\nand that these are intended as a remedy to some inconveniences, which\nproceed from the concurrence of certain _qualities_ of the human mind\nwith the _situation_ of external objects. The qualities of the mind\nare _selfishness_ and _limited generosity_: and the situation of\nexternal objects is their _easy change_, joined to their _scarcity_ in\ncomparison of the wants and desires of men. But however philosophers\nmay have been bewildered in those speculations, poets have been guided\nmore infallibly, by a certain taste or common instinct, which, in most\nkinds of reasoning, goes farther than any of that art and philosophy\nwith which we have been yet acquainted. They easily perceived, if every\nman had a tender regard for another, or if nature supplied abundantly\nall our wants and desires, that the jealousy of interest, which justice\nsupposes, could no longer have place; nor would there be any occasion\nfor those distinctions and limits of property and possession, which at\npresent are in use among mankind. Increase to a sufficient degree the\nbenevolence of men, or the bounty of nature, and you render justice\nuseless, by supplying its place with much nobler virtues, and more\nvaluable blessings. The selfishness of men is animated by the few\npossessions we have, in proportion to our wants; and 'tis to restrain\nthis selfishness, that men have been obliged to separate themselves\nfrom the community, and to distinguish betwixt their own goods and\nthose of others.\n\nNor need we have recourse to the fictions of poets to learn this;\nbut, beside the reason of the thing, may discover the same truth\nby common experience and observation. 'Tis easy to remark, that a\ncordial affection renders all things common among friends; and that\nmarried people, in particular, mutually lose their property, and are\nunacquainted with the _mine_ and _thine_, which are so necessary, and\nyet cause such disturbance in human society. The same effect arises\nfrom any alteration in the circumstances of mankind; as when there is\nsuch a plenty of any thing as satisfies all the desires of men: in\nwhich case the distinction of property is entirely lost, and every\nthing remains in common. This we may observe with regard to air and\nwater, though the most valuable of all external objects; and may easily\nconclude, that if men were supplied with every thing in the same\nabundance, or if _every one_ had the same affection and tender regard\nfor _every one_ as for himself, justice and injustice would be equally\nunknown among mankind.\n\nHere then is a proposition, which, I think, may be regarded as certain,\n_that 'tis only from the selfishness and confined generosity of men,\nalong with the scanty provision nature has made for his wants, that\njustice derives its origin_. If we look backward we shall find,\nthat this proposition bestows an additional force on some of those\nobservations which we have already made on this subject.\n\n_First_, We may conclude from it, that a regard to public interest, or\na strong extensive benevolence, is not our first and original motive\nfor the observation of the rules of justice; since 'tis allowed, that\nif men were endowed with such a benevolence, these rules would never\nhave been dreamt of.\n\n_Secondly_, We may conclude from the same principle, that the sense\nof justice is not founded on reason, or on the discovery of certain\nconnexions and relations of ideas, which are eternal, immutable,\nand universally obligatory. For since it is confessed, that such an\nalteration as that above-mentioned, in the temper and circumstances\nof mankind, would entirely alter our duties and obligations, 'tis\nnecessary upon the common system, _that the sense of virtue is derived\nfrom reason_, to show the change which this must produce in the\nrelations and ideas. But 'tis evident, that the only cause why the\nextensive generosity of man, and the perfect abundance of every thing,\nwould destroy the very idea of justice, is, because they render it\nuseless; and that, on the other hand, his confined benevolence, and\nhis necessitous condition, give rise to that virtue, only by making\nit requisite to the public interest, and to that of every individual.\n'Twas therefore a concern for our own and the public interest which\nmade us establish the laws of justice; and nothing can be more certain,\nthan that it is not any relation of ideas which gives us this concern,\nbut our impressions and sentiments, without which every thing in nature\nis perfectly indifferent to us, and can never in the least affect us.\nThe sense of justice, therefore, is not founded on our ideas, but on\nour impressions.\n\n_Thirdly_, We may farther confirm the foregoing proposition, _that\nthose impressions, which give rise to this sense of justice, are\nnot natural to the mind of man, but arise from artifice and human\nconventions_. For, since any considerable alteration of temper and\ncircumstances destroys equally justice and injustice; and since such\nan alteration has an effect only by changing our own and the public\ninterest, it follows, that the first establishment of the rules of\njustice depends on these different interests. But if men pursued the\npublic interest naturally, and with a hearty affection, they would\nnever have dreamed of restraining each other by these rules; and if\nthey pursued their own interest, without any precaution, they would\nrun headlong into every kind of injustice and violence. These rules,\ntherefore, are artificial, and seek their end in an oblique and\nindirect manner; nor is the interest which gives rise to them of a kind\nthat could be pursued by the natural and inartificial passions of men.\n\nTo make this more evident, consider, that, though the rules of justice\nare established merely by interest, their connexion with interest\nis somewhat singular, and is different from what may be observed on\nother occasions. A single act of justice is frequently contrary to\n_public interest_; and were it to stand alone, without being followed\nby other acts, may, in itself, be very prejudicial to society. When a\nman of merit, of a beneficent disposition, restores a great fortune\nto a miser, or a seditious bigot, he has acted justly and laudably;\nbut the public is a real sufferer. Nor is every single act of justice,\nconsidered apart, more conducive to private interest than to public;\nand 'tis easily conceived how a man may impoverish himself by a signal\ninstance of integrity, and have reason to wish, that, with regard to\nthat single act, the laws of justice were for a moment suspended in\nthe universe. But, however single acts of justice may be contrary,\neither to public or private interest, 'tis certain that the whole plan\nor scheme is highly conducive, or indeed absolutely requisite, both\nto the support of society, and the well-being of every individual.\n'Tis impossible to separate the good from the ill. Property must be\nstable, and must be fixed by general rules. Though in one instance\nthe public be a sufferer, this momentary ill is amply compensated by\nthe steady prosecution of the rule, and by the peace and order which\nit establishes in society. And even every individual person must find\nhimself a gainer on balancing the account; since, without justice,\nsociety must immediately dissolve, and every one must fall into that\nsavage and solitary condition, which is infinitely worse than the worst\nsituation that can possibly be supposed in society. When, therefore,\nmen have had experience enough to observe, that, whatever may be the\nconsequence of any single act of justice, performed by a single person,\nyet the whole system of actions concurred in by the whole society,\nis infinitely advantageous to the whole, and to every part, it is not\nlong before justice and property take place. Every member of society\nis sensible of this interest: every one expresses this sense to his\nfellows, along with the resolution he has taken of squaring his actions\nby it, on condition that others will do the same. No more is requisite\nto induce any one of them to perform an act of justice, who has the\nfirst opportunity. This becomes an example to others; and thus justice\nestablishes itself by a kind of convention or agreement, that is, by\na sense of interest, supposed to be common to all, and where every\nsingle act is performed in expectation that others are to perform the\nlike. Without such a convention, no one would ever have dreamed that\nthere was such a virtue as justice, or have been induced to conform his\nactions to it. Taking any single act, my justice may be pernicious in\nevery respect; and 'tis only upon the supposition that others are to\nimitate my example, that I can be induced to embrace that virtue; since\nnothing but this combination can render justice advantageous, or afford\nme any motives to conform myself to its rules.\n\nWe come now to the second question we proposed, viz. _Why we annex the\nidea of virtue to justice, and of vice to injustice_. This question\nwill not detain us long after the principles which we have already\nestablished. All we can say of it at present will be despatched in a\nfew words: and for farther satisfaction, the reader must wait till\nwe come to the _third_ part of this book. The natural obligation to\njustice, viz. interest, has been fully explained; but as to the _moral_\nobligation, or the sentiment of right and wrong, 'twill first be\nrequisite to examine the natural virtues, before we can give a full\nand satisfactory account of it.\n\nAfter men have found by experience, that their selfishness and confined\ngenerosity, acting at their liberty, totally incapacitate them for\nsociety; and at the same time have observed, that society is necessary\nto the satisfaction of those very passions, they are naturally induced\nto lay themselves under the restraint of such rules, as may render\ntheir commerce more safe and commodious. To the imposition, then, and\nobservance of these rules, both in general, and in every particular\ninstance, they are at first induced only by a regard to interest; and\nthis motive, on the first formation of society, is sufficiently strong\nand forcible. But when society has become numerous, and has increased\nto a tribe or nation, this interest is more remote; nor do men so\nreadily perceive that disorder and confusion follow upon every breach\nof these rules, as in a more narrow and contracted society. But though,\nin our own actions, we may frequently lose sight of that interest which\nwe have in maintaining order, and may follow a lesser and more present\ninterest, we never fail to observe the prejudice we receive, either\nmediately or immediately, from the injustice of others; as not being\nin that case either blinded by passion, or biassed by any contrary\ntemptation. Nay, when the injustice is so distant from us as no way\nto affect our interest, it still displeases us; because we consider\nit as prejudicial to human society, and pernicious to every one that\napproaches the person guilty of it. We partake of their uneasiness\nby _sympathy_; and as every thing which gives uneasiness in human\nactions, upon the general survey, is called Vice, and whatever produces\nsatisfaction, in the same manner, is denominated Virtue, this is the\nreason why the sense of moral good and evil follows upon justice and\ninjustice. And though this sense, in the present case, be derived only\nfrom contemplating the actions of others, yet we fail not to extend\nit even to our own actions. The _general rule_ reaches beyond those\ninstances from which it arose; while, at the same time, we naturally\n_sympathize_ with others in the sentiments they entertain of us.\n\nThough this progress of the sentiments be _natural_, and even\nnecessary, 'tis certain, that it is here forwarded by the artifice of\npoliticians, who, in order to govern men more easily, and preserve\npeace in human society, have endeavoured to produce an esteem for\njustice, and an abhorrence of injustice. This, no doubt, must have\nits effect; but nothing can be more evident, than that the matter has\nbeen carried too far by certain writers on morals, who seem to have\nemployed their utmost efforts to extirpate all sense of virtue from\namong mankind. Any artifice of politicians may assist nature in the\nproducing of those sentiments, which she suggests to us, and may even,\non some occasions, produce alone an approbation or esteem for any\nparticular action; but 'tis impossible it should be the sole cause of\nthe distinction we make betwixt vice and virtue. For if nature did not\naid us in this particular, 'twould be in vain for politicians to talk\nof _honourable_ or _dishonourable, praiseworthy_ or _blameable_. These\nwords would be perfectly unintelligible, and would no more have any\nidea annexed to them, than if they were of a tongue perfectly unknown\nto us. The utmost politicians can perform, is to extend the natural\nsentiments beyond their original bounds; but still nature must furnish\nthe materials, and give us some notion of moral distinctions.\n\nAs public praise and blame increase our esteem for justice, so private\neducation and instruction contribute to the same effect. For as parents\neasily observe, that a man is the more useful, both to himself and\nothers, the greater degree of probity and honour he is endowed with,\nand that those principles have, greater force when custom and education\nassist interest and reflection: for these reasons they are induced\nto inculcate on their children, from their earliest infancy, the\nprinciples of probity, and teach them to regard the observance of those\nrules by which society is maintained, as worthy and honourable, and\ntheir violation as base and infamous. By this means the sentiments of\nhonour may take root in their tender minds, and acquire such firmness\nand solidity, that they may fall little short of those principles which\nare the most essential to our natures, and the most deeply radicated in\nour internal constitution.\n\nWhat farther contributes to increase their solidity, is the interest\nof our reputation, after the opinion, _that a merit or demerit attends\njustice or injustice_, is once firmly established among mankind.\nThere is nothing which touches us more nearly than our reputation,\nand nothing on which our reputation more depends than our conduct\nwith relation to the property of others. For this reason, every one\nwho has any regard to his character, or who intends to live on good\nterms with mankind, must fix an inviolable law to himself, never, by\nany temptation, to be induced to violate those principles which are\nessential to a man of probity and honour.\n\nI shall make only one observation before I leave this subject, viz.\nthat, though I assert that, in the _state of_ nature, or that imaginary\nstate which preceded society, there be neither justice nor injustice,\nyet I assert not that it was allowable, in such a state, to violate\nthe property of others. I only maintain, that there was no such thing\nas property; and consequently could be no such thing as justice or\ninjustice. I shall have occasion to make a similar reflection with\nregard to _promises_, when I come to treat of them; and I hope this\nreflection, when duly weighed, will suffice to remove all odium from\nthe foregoing opinions, with regard to justice and injustice.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III.\n\nOF THE RULES WHICH DETERMINE PROPERTY.\n\n\nThough the establishment of the rule, concerning the stability of\npossession, be not only useful, but even absolutely necessary to human\nsociety, it can never serve to any purpose, while it remains in such\ngeneral terms. Some method must be shown, by which we may distinguish\nwhat particular goods are to be assigned to each particular person,\nwhile the rest of mankind are excluded from their possession and\nenjoyment. Our next business, then, must be to discover the reasons\nwhich modify this general rule, and fit it to the common use and\npractice of the world.\n\n'Tis obvious, that those reasons are not derived from any utility or\nadvantage, which either the _particular_ person or the public may\nreap from his enjoyment of any _particular_ goods, beyond what would\nresult from the possession of them by any other person. 'Twere better,\nno doubt, that every one were possessed of what is most suitable\nto him, and proper for his use: But besides, that this relation of\nfitness may be common to several at once, 'tis liable to so many\ncontroversies, and men are so partial and passionate in judging of\nthese controversies, that such a loose and uncertain rule would be\nabsolutely incompatible with the peace of human society. The convention\nconcerning the stability of possession is entered into, in order to cut\noff all occasions of discord and contention; and this end would never\nbe attained, were we allowed to apply this rule differently in every\nparticular case, according to every particular utility which might be\ndiscovered in such an application. Justice, in her decisions, never\nregards the fitness or unfitness of objects to particular persons, but\nconducts herself by more extensive views. Whether a man be generous, or\na miser, he is equally well received by her, and obtains, with the same\nfacility, a decision in his favour, even for what is entirely useless\nto him.\n\nIt follows, therefore, that the general rule, _that possession must be\nstable_, is not applied by particular judgments, but by other general\nrules, which must extend to the whole society, and be inflexible\neither by spite or favour. To illustrate this, I propose the following\ninstance. I first consider men in their savage and solitary condition;\nand suppose that, being sensible of the misery of that state, and\nforeseeing the advantages that would result from society, they seek\neach other's company, and make an offer of mutual protection and\nassistance. I also suppose that they are endowed with such sagacity as\nimmediately to perceive that the chief impediment to this project of\nsociety and partnership lies in the avidity and selfishness of their\nnatural temper; to remedy which, they enter into a convention which for\nthe stability of possession, and for mutual restraint and forbearance.\nI am sensible that this method of proceeding is not altogether natural;\nbut, besides that, I here only suppose those reflections to be formed\nat once, which, in fact, arise insensibly and by degrees; besides this,\nI say, 'tis very possible that several persons, being by different\naccidents separated from the societies to which they formerly belonged,\nmay be obliged to form a new society among themselves; in which case\nthey are entirely in the situation above-mentioned.\n\n'Tis evident, then, that their first difficulty in this situation,\nafter the general convention for the establishment of society, and for\nthe constancy of possession, is, how to separate their possessions,\nand assign to each his particular portion, which he must for the\nfuture unalterably enjoy. This difficulty will not detain them long;\nbut it must immediately occur to them, as the most natural expedient,\nthat every one continue to enjoy what he is at present master of, and\nthat property or constant possession be conjoined to the immediate\npossession. Such is the effect of custom, that it not only reconciles\nus to any thing we have long enjoyed, but even gives us an affection\nfor it, and makes us prefer it to other objects, which may be more\nvaluable, but are less known to us. What has long lain under our eye,\nand has often been employed to our advantage, _that_ we are always the\nmost unwilling to part with; but can easily live without possessions\nwhich we never have enjoyed, and are not accustomed to. 'Tis evident,\ntherefore, that men would easily acquiesce in this expedient, _that\nevery one continue to enjoy what he is at present possessed of_; and\nthis is the reason why they would so naturally agree in preferring\nit.[1]\n\nBut we may observe, that, though the rule of the assignment of property\nto the present possessor be natural, and by that means useful, yet\nits utility extends not beyond the first formation of society; nor\nwould any thing be more pernicious than the constant observance of\nit; by which restitution would be excluded, and every injustice would\nbe authorized and rewarded. We must, therefore, seek for some other\ncircumstance, that may give rise to property after society is once\nestablished; and of this kind I find four most considerable, viz.\nOccupation, Prescription, Accession, and Succession. We shall briefly\nexamine each of these, beginning with _occupation_.\n\nThe possession of all external goods is changeable and uncertain;\nwhich is one of the most considerable impediments to the establishment\nof society, and is the reason why, by universal agreement, express\nor tacit, men restrain themselves by what we now call the rules of\njustice and equity. The misery of the condition which precedes this\nrestraint, is the cause why we submit to that remedy as quickly as\npossible; and this affords us an easy reason why why annex the idea of\nproperty to the first possession, or to _occupation_. Men are unwilling\nto leave property in suspense, even for the shortest time, or open the\nleast door to violence and disorder. To which we may add, that the\nfirst possession always engages the attention most; and did we neglect\nit, there would be no colour of reason for assigning property to any\nsucceeding possession.[2]\n\nThere remains nothing but to determine exactly what is meant by\npossession; and this is not so easy as may at first sight be imagined.\nWe are said to be in possession of any thing, not only when we\nimmediately touch it, but also when we are so situated with respect\nto it, as to have it in our power to use it; and may move, alter,\nor destroy it, according to our present pleasure or advantage. This\nrelation, then, is a species of cause and effect; and as property is\nnothing but a stable possession, derived from the rules of justice,\nor the conventions of men, 'tis to be considered as the same species\nof relation. But here we may observe, that, as the power of using any\nobject becomes more or less certain, according as the interruptions\nwe may meet with are more or less probable; and as this probability\nmay increase by insensible degrees, 'tis in many cases impossible to\ndetermine when possession begins or ends; nor is there any certain\nstandard by which we can decide such controversies. A wild boar that\nfalls into our snares, is deemed to be in our possession if it be\nimpossible for him to escape. But what do we mean by impossible? How\ndo we separate this impossibility from an improbability? And how\ndistinguish that exactly from a probability? Mark the precise limits of\nthe one and the other, and show the standard, by which we may decide\nall disputes that may arise, and, as we find, by experience, frequently\ndo arise upon this subject.[3]\n\nBut such disputes may not arise concerning the real existence of\nproperty and possession, but also concerning their extent; and these\ndisputes are often susceptible of no decision, or can be decided by no\nother faculty than the imagination. A person who lands on the shore of\na small island that is desart and uncultivated is deemed its possessor\nfrom the very first moment, and acquires the property of the whole;\nbecause the object is there bounded and circumscribed in the fancy, and\nat the same time is proportioned to the new possessor. The same person\nlanding on a desart island as large as Great Britain, extends his\nproperty no farther than his immediate possession; though a numerous\ncolony are esteemed the proprietors of the whole from the instant of\ntheir debarkment.\n\nBut if it often happens that the title of first possession becomes\nobscure through time, and that 'tis impossible to determine many\ncontroversies which may arise concerning it; in that case, long\npossession or _prescription_ naturally takes place, and gives a person\na sufficient property in any thing he enjoys. The nature of human\nsociety admits not of any great accuracy; nor can we always remount\nto the first origin of things, in order to determine their present\ncondition. Any considerable space of time sets objects at such a\ndistance that they seem in a manner to lose their reality, and have\nas little influence on the mind as if they never had been in being. A\nman's title that is clear and certain at present, will seem obscure\nand doubtful fifty years hence, even though the facts on which it is\nfounded should be proved with the greatest evidence and certainty.\nThe same facts have not the same influence after so long an interval\nof time. And this may be received as a convincing argument for our\npreceding doctrine with regard to property and justice. Possession\nduring a long tract of time conveys a title to any object. But as 'tis\ncertain that, however every thing be produced in time, there is nothing\nreal that is produced by time, it follows, that property being produced\nby time, is not any thing real in the objects, but is the offspring of\nthe sentiments, on which alone time is found to have any influence.[4]\n\nWe acquire the property of objects by _accession_, when they are\nconnected in an intimate manner with objects that are already our\nproperty, and at the same time are inferior to them. Thus, the fruits\nof our garden, the offspring of our cattle, and the work of our slaves,\nare all of them esteemed our property, even before possession. Where\nobjects are connected together in the imagination, they are apt to be\nput on the same footing, and are commonly supposed to be endowed with\nthe same qualities. We readily pass from one to the other, and make no\ndifference in our judgments concerning them, especially if the latter\nbe inferior to the former. [5]\n\nThe right of _succession_ is a very natural one, from the presumed\nconsent of the parent or near relation, and from the general interest\nof mankind, which requires that men's possessions should pass to those\nwho are dearest to them, in order to render them more industrious\nand frugal. Perhaps these causes are seconded by the influence of\n_relation_, or the association of ideas, by which we are naturally\ndirected to consider the son after the parent's decease, and ascribe\nto him a title to his father's possessions. Those goods must become the\nproperty of somebody: but _of whom_ is the question. Here 'tis evident\nthe person's children naturally present themselves to the mind; and\nbeing already connected to those possessions by means of their deceased\nparent, we are apt to connect them still farther by the relation of\nproperty. Of this there are many parallel instances.[6]\n\n\n\n[1] No questions in philosophy are more difficult, than when a number\nof causes present themselves for the same phenomenon, to determine\nwhich is the principal and predominant. There seldom is any very\nprecise argument to fix our choice, and men must be contented to\nbe guided by a kind of taste or fancy, arising from analogy, and a\ncomparison of similar instances. Thus, in the present case, there\nare, no doubt, motives of public interest for most of the rules\nwhich determine property; but still I suspect, that these rules are\nprincipally fixed by the imagination, or the more frivolous properties\nof our thought and conception. I shall continue to explain these\ncauses, leaving it to the reader's choice, whether he will prefer those\nderived from public utility, or those derived from the imagination. We\nshall begin with the right of the present possessor.\n\n'Tis a quality which I have already observed(*) in human nature, that\nwhen two objects appear in a close relation to each other, the mind is\napt to ascribe to them any additional relation, in order to complete\nthe union; and this inclination is so strong, as often to make us run\ninto errors (such as that of the conjunction of thought and matter) if\nwe find that they can serve to that purpose. Many of our impressions\nare incapable of place or local position; and yet those very\nimpressions we suppose to have a local conjunction with the impressions\nof sight and touch, merely because they are conjoined by causation, and\nare already united in the imagination. Since, therefore, we can feign a\nnew relation, and even an absurd one, in order to complete any union,\n'twill easily be imagined, that if there be any relations which depend\non the mind, 'twill readily conjoin them to any preceding relation,\nand unite, by a new bond, such objects as have already an union in the\nfancy. Thus, for instance, we never fail, in our arrangement of bodies,\nto place those which are resembling in contiguity to each other, or at\nleast in _correspondent_ points of view; because we feel a satisfaction\nin joining the relation of contiguity to that of resemblance, or the\nresemblance of situation to that of qualities. And this is easily\naccounted for from the known properties of human nature. When the mind\nis determined to join certain objects, but undetermined in its choice\nof the particular objects, it naturally turns its eye to such as are\nrelated together. They are already united in the mind: they present\nthemselves at the same time to the conception; and instead of requiring\nany new reason for their conjunction, it would require a very powerful\nreason to make us overlook this natural affinity. This we shall have\noccasion to explain more fully afterwards when we come to treat of\n_beauty_. In the mean time, we may content ourselves with observing,\nthat the same love of order and uniformity which arranges the books in\na library, and the chairs in a parlour, contributes to the formation\nof society, and to the well-being of mankind, by modifying the general\nrule concerning the stability of possession. And as property forms a\nrelation betwixt a person and an object, 'tis natural to found it on\nsome preceding relation; and, as property is nothing but a constant\npossession, secured by the laws of society, 'tis natural to add it to\nthe present possession, which is a relation that resembles it. For\nthis also has its influence. If it be natural to conjoin till sorts of\nrelations, 'tis more so to conjoin such relations as are resembling,\nand are related together. (*) Book I. Part IV. Sect. 5\n\n\n[2] Some philosophers account for the right of occupation, by saying\nthat every one has a property in his own labour; and when he joins that\nlabour to any thing, it gives him the property of the whole: but, I.\nThere are several kinds of occupation where we cannot be said to join\nour labour to the object we acquire: as when we possess a meadow by\ngrazing our cattle upon it 2. This accounts for the matter by means of\n_accession_; which is taking a needless circuit. 3. We cannot be said\nto join our labour to any thing but in a figurative sense. Properly\nspeaking, we only make an alteration on it by our labour. This forms\na relation betwixt us and the object; and thence arises the property,\naccording to the preceding principles.\n\n[3] If we seek a solution of these difficulties in reason and public\ninterest, we never shall find satisfaction; and if we look for it in\nthe imagination, 'tis evident, that the qualities which operate upon\nthat faculty, run so insensibly and gradually into each other, that\n'tis impossible to give them any precise bounds or termination. The\ndifficulties on this head must increase, when we consider that our\njudgment alters very sensibly according to the subject, and that the\nsame power and proximity will be deemed possession in one case, which\nis not esteemed such in another. A person who has hunted a hare to\nthe last degree of weariness, would look upon it as an injustice for\nanother to rush in before him, and seize his prey. But the same person,\nadvancing to pluck an apple that hangs within his reach, has no reason\nto complain if another, more alert, passes him, and takes possession.\nWhat is the reason of this difference, but that immobility, not being\nnatural to the hare, but the effect of industry, forms in that case a\nstrong relation with the hunter, which is wanting in the other?\n\nHere, then, it appears, that a certain and infallible power of\nenjoyment, without touch or some other sensible relation, often\nproduces not property: and I farther observe, that a sensible relation,\nwithout any present power, is sometimes sufficient to give a title to\nany object. The sight of a thing is seldom a considerable relation, and\nis only regarded as such, when the object is hidden, or very obscure;\nin which case we find that the view alone conveys a property; according\nto that maxim, _that even a whole continent belongs to the nation which\nfirst discovered it_. 'Tis however remarkable, that both in the case of\ndiscovery and that of possession, the first discoverer and possessor\nmust join to the relation an intention of rendering himself proprietor,\notherwise the relation will not have its effect; and that because the\nconnexion in our fancy betwixt the property and the relation is not so\ngreat but that it requires to be helped by such an intention.\n\nFrom all these circumstances, 'tis easy to see how perplexed many\nquestions may become concerning the acquisition of property by\noccupation; and the least effort of thought may present us with\ninstances which are not susceptible of any reasonable decision. If we\nprefer examples which are real to such as are feigned, we may consider\nthe following one, which is to be met with in almost every writer\nthat has treated of the laws of nature. Two Grecian colonies, leaving\ntheir native country in search of new seats, were informed that a city\nnear them was deserted by its inhabitants. To know the truth of this\nreport, they despatched at once two messengers, one from each colony,\nwho finding, on their approach, that the information was true, begun a\nrace together, with an intention to take possession of the city, each\nof them for his countrymen. One of these messengers, finding that he\nwas not an equal match for the other, launched his spear at the gates\nof the city, and was so fortunate as to fix it there before the arrival\nof his companion. This produced a dispute betwixt the two colonies,\nwhich of them was the proprietor of the empty city; and this dispute\nstill subsists among philosophers. For my part, I find the dispute\nimpossible to be decided, and that because the whole question hangs\nupon the fancy, which in this case is not possessed of any precise or\ndeterminate standard upon which it can give sentence. To make this\nevident, let us consider, that if these two persons had been simply\nmembers of the colonies, and not messengers or deputies, their actions\nwould not have been of any consequence; since in that case their\nrelation to the colonies would have been but feeble and imperfect. Add\nto this, that nothing determined them to run to the gates rather than\nthe walls or any other part of the city, but that the gates, being the\nmost *obviated*, and remarkable part, satisfy the fancy best in taking\nthem for the whole; as we find by the poets, who frequently draw their\nimages and metaphors from them. Besides, we may consider that the touch\nor contact of the one messenger is not properly possession, no more\nthan the piercing the gates with the spear, but only forms a relation;\nand there is a relation in the other case equally obvious, though not\nperhaps of equal force. Which of these relations, then, conveys a right\nand property, or whether any of them be sufficient for that effect, I\nleave to the decision of such as are wiser than myself.\n\n[4] Present possession is plainly a relation betwixt a person and an\nobject; but is not sufficient to counterbalance the relation of first\npossession, unless the former be long and uninterrupted; in which case\nthe relation is increased on the side of the present possession by\nthe extent of time, and diminished on that of first possession by the\ndistance. This change in the relation produces a consequent change in\nthe property.\n\n[5] This source of property can never be explained but from the\nimagination; and one may affirm, that the causes are here unmixed. We\nshall proceed to explain them more particularly, and illustrate them by\nexamples from common life and experience.\n\nIt has been observed above, that the mind has a natural propensity to\njoin relations, especially resembling ones, and finds a kind of fitness\nand uniformity in such an union. From this propensity are derived these\nlaws of nature, _that upon the first formation of society, property\nalways follows the present possession_; and afterwards, _that it arises\nfrom first or from long possession_. Now, we may easily observe, that\nrelation is not confined merely to one degree; but that from an object\nthat is related to us, we acquire a relation to every other object\nwhich is related to it, and so on, till the thought loses the chain by\ntoo long a progress. However the relation may weaken by each remove,\n'tis not immediately destroyed; but frequently connects two objects\nby means of an intermediate one, which is related to both. And this\nprinciple is of such force as to give rise to the right of _accession_,\nand causes us to acquire the property, not only of such objects as we\nare immediately possessed of, but also of such as are closely connected\nwith them.\n\nSuppose a German, a Frenchman, and a Spaniard, to come into a room\nwhere there are placed upon the table three bottles of wine, Rhenish,\nBurgundy, and Port; and suppose they should fall a quarrelling about\nthe division of them, a person who was chosen for umpire would\nnaturally, to show his impartiality, give every one the product of his\nown country; and this from a principle which, in some measure, is the\nsource of those laws of nature that ascribe property to occupation,\nprescription and accession.\n\nIn all these cases, and particularly that of accession, there is first\na _natural_ union betwixt the idea of the person and that of the\nobject, and afterwards a new and moral union produced by that right\nor property which we ascribe to the person. But here there occurs a\ndifficulty which merits our attention, and may afford us an opportunity\nof putting to trial that singular method of reasoning which has been\nemployed on the present subject. I have already observed, that the\nimagination passes with greater facility from little to great, than\nfrom great to little, and that the transition of ideas is always easier\nand smoother in the former case than in the latter. Now, as the right\nof accession arises from the easy transition of ideas by which related\nobjects are connected together, it should naturally be imagined that\nthe right of accession must increase in strength, in proportion as\nthe transition of ideas is performed with greater facility. It may\ntherefore be thought; that when we have acquired the property of any\nsmall object, we shall readily consider any great object related to it\nas an accession, and as belonging to the proprietor of the small one;\nsince the transition is in that case very easy from the small object\nto the great one, and should connect them together in the closest\nmanner. But in fact the case is always found to be otherwise. The\nempire of Great Britain seems to draw along with it the dominion of\nthe Orkneys, the Hebrides, the Isle of Man, and the Isle of Wight; but\nthe authority over those lesser islands does not naturally imply any\ntitle to Great Britain. In short, a small object naturally follows a\ngreat one as its accession; but a great one is never supposed to belong\nto the proprietor of a small one related to it, merely on account of\nthat property and relation. Yet in this latter case the transition of\nideas is smoother from the proprietor to the small object which is\nhis property, and from the small object to the great one, than in the\nformer case from the proprietor to the great object, and from the great\none to the small. It may therefore be thought, that these phenomena are\nobjections to the foregoing hypothesis, _that the ascribing of property\nto accession is nothing but an effect of the relations of ideas, and of\nthe smooth transition of the imagination_.\n\n'Twill be easy to solve this objection, if we consider the agility and\nunsteadiness of the imagination, with the different views in which it\nis continually placing its objects. When we attribute to a person a\nproperty in two objects, we do not always pass from the person to one\nobject, and from that to the other related to it. The objects being\nhere to be considered as the property of the person, we are apt to join\nthem together, and place them in the same light. Suppose, therefore,\na great and a small object to be related together, if a person be\nstrongly related to the great object, he will likewise be strongly\nrelated to both the objects considered together, because he is related\nto the most considerable part. On the contrary, if he be only related\nto the small object, he will not be strongly related to both considered\ntogether, since his relation lies only with the most trivial part,\nwhich is not apt to strike us in any great degree when we consider the\nwhole. And this is the reason why small objects become accessions to\ngreat ones, and not great to small.\n\n'Tis the general opinion of philosophers and civilians, that the sea is\nincapable of becoming the property of any nation; and that because 'tis\nimpossible to take possession of it, or form any such distinct relation\nwith it, as may be the foundation of property. Where this reason\nceases, property immediately takes place. Thus, the most strenuous\nadvocates for the liberty of the seas universally allow, that friths\nand bays naturally belong as an accession to the proprietors of the\nsurrounding continent These have properly no more bond or union with\nthe land than the _Pacific_ ocean would have; but having an union in\nthe fancy, and being at the same time _inferior_, they are of course\nregarded as an accession.\n\nThe property of rivers, by the laws of most nations, and by the natural\nturn of our thought, is attributed to the proprietors of their banks,\nexcepting such vast rivers as the Rhine or the Danube, which seem too\nlarge to the imagination to follow as an accession the property of\nthe neighbouring fields. Yet even these rivers are considered as the\nproperty of that nation through whose dominions they run; the idea of\na nation being a suitable bulk to correspond with them, and bear them\nsuch a relation in the fancy.\n\nThe accessions which are made to lands bordering upon rivers, follow\nthe land, say the civilians, provided it be made by what they\ncall _alluvion_, that is, insensibly and imperceptibly; which are\ncircumstances that mightily assist the imagination in the conjunction.\nWhere there is any considerable portion torn at once from one bank,\nand joined to another, it becomes not his property whose land it falls\non, till it unite with the land, and till the trees or plants have\nspread their roots into both. Before that, the imagination does not\nsufficiently join them.\n\nThere are other cases which somewhat resemble this of accession,\nbut which, at the bottom, are considerably different, and merit our\nattention. Of this kind is the conjunction of the properties of\ndifferent persons, after such a manner as not to admit of _separation_.\nThe question is, to whom the united mass must belong.\n\nWhere this conjunction is of such a nature as to admit of _division_,\nbut not of _separation_, the decision is natural and easy. The\nwhole mass must be supposed to be common betwixt the proprietors\nof the several parts, and afterwards must be divided according to\nthe proportions of these parts. But here I cannot forbear taking\nnotice of a remarkable subtilty of the Roman law, in distinguishing\nbetwixt _confusion_ and _commixtion_. Confusion is an union of two\nbodies, such as different liquors, where the parts become entirely\nundistinguishable. Commixtion is the blending of two bodies, such as\ntwo bushels of corn, where the parts remain separate in an obvious and\nvisible manner. As in the latter case the imagination discovers not so\nentire an union as in the former, but is able to trace and preserve\na distinct idea of the property of each; this is the reason why the\n_civil_ law, though it established an entire community in the case of\n_confusion_, and after that a proportional division, yet in the case of\n_commixtion_, supposes each of the proprietors to maintain a distinct\nright; however, necessity may at last force them to submit to the same\ndivision. _Quod si frumentum Titii frumento tuo mistum fuerit: siquidem\nex voluntate vestra, communc est: quia singula corpora, id est, singula\ngrana, qu\u00e6 a cujusque propria fuerunt, ex consensu vestro communicata\nsunt. Quod si casu id mistum fuerit, vel Titius id miscuerit sine\ntua voluntate, non videtur id communc esse; quia singula corpora\nin sua substantia durant. Sed nec magis istis casibus commune sit\nfrumentum quam grex intelligitur esse communis, si pecora Titii tuis\npecoribus mista fuerint. Sed si ab alterutro vestrum totum id frumentum\nretineatur, in rem quidem actio pro modo frumenti cujusque competit.\nArbitrio autem judicis, ut ipse \u00e6stimet quale cujusque frumentum\nfuerit_. Inst. Lib. II. Tit I. \u00a7 28.\n\nWhere the properties of two persons are united after such a manner as\nneither to admit of _division_ nor _separation_, as when one builds a\nhouse on another's ground, in that case the whole must belong to one of\nthe proprietors; and here I assert, that it naturally is conceived to\nbelong to the proprietor of the most considerable part. For, however\nthe compound object may have a relation to two different persons, and\ncarry our view at once to both of them, yet, as the most considerable\npart principally engages our attention, and by the strict union draws\nthe inferior along it; for this reason, the whole bears a relation to\nthe proprietor of that part, and is regarded as his property. The only\ndifficulty is, what we shall be pleased to call the most considerable\npart, and most attractive to the imagination.\n\nThis quality depends on several different circumstances which have\nlittle connexion with each other. One part of a compound object may\nbecome more considerable than another, either because it is more\nconstant and durable; because it is of greater value; because it is\nmore obvious and remarkable; because it is of greater extent; or\nbecause its existence is more separate and independent. 'Twill be easy\nto conceive, that, as these circumstances may be conjoined and opposed\nin all the different ways, and according to all the different degrees,\nwhich can be imagined, there will result many cases where the reasons\non both sides are so equally balanced, that 'tis impossible for us to\ngive any satisfactory decision. Here, then, is the proper business of\nmunicipal laws, to fix what the principles of human nature have left\nundetermined.\n\nThe superficies yields to the soil, says the civil law: the writing to\nthe paper: the canvas to the picture. These decisions do not well agree\ntogether, and are a proof of the contrariety of those principles from\nwhich they are derived.\n\nBut of all the questions of this kind, the most curious is that which\nfor so many ages divided the disciples of _Proculus_ and _Sabinus_.\nSuppose a person should make a cup from the metal of another, or a ship\nfrom his wood, and suppose the proprietor of the metal or wood should\ndemand his goods, the question is, whether he acquires a title to the\ncup or ship. _Sabinus_ maintained the affirmative, and asserted, that\nthe substance or matter is the foundation of all the qualities; that\nit is incorruptible and immortal, and therefore superior to the form,\nwhich is casual and dependent. On the other hand, _Proculus_ observed,\nthat the form is the most obvious and remarkable part, and that from\nit bodies are denominated of this or that particular species. To which\nhe might have added, that the matter or substance is in most bodies\nso fluctuating and uncertain, that 'tis utterly impossible to trace\nit in all its changes. For my part, I know not from what principles\nsuch a controversy can be certainly determined. I shall therefore\ncontent myself with observing, that the decision of _Trebonian_ seems\nto me pretty ingenious; that the cup belongs to the proprietor of the\nmetal, because it can be brought back to its first form: but that the\nship belongs to the author of its form, for a contrary reason. But,\nhowever ingenious this reason may seem, it plainly depends upon the\nfancy, which, by the possibility of such a reduction, finds a closer\nconnexion and relation betwixt a cup and the proprietor of its metal,\nthan betwixt a ship and the proprietor of its wood, where the substance\nis more fixed and unalterable.\n\n\n[6] In examining the different titles to authority in government,\nwe shall meet with many reasons to convince us that the right of\nsuccession depends, in a great measure, on the imagination. Meanwhile I\nshall rest contented with observing one example, which belongs to the\npresent subject. Suppose that a person die without children, and that\na dispute arises among his relations concerning his inheritance; 'tis\nevident, that if his riches be derived partly from his father, partly\nfrom his mother, the most natural way of determining such a dispute\nis, to divide his possessions, and assign each part to the family from\nwhence it is derived. Now, as the person is supposed to have been\nonce the full and entire proprietor of those goods, I ask, what is it\nmakes us find a certain equity and natural reason in this partition,\nexcept it be the imagination? His affection to these families does not\ndepend upon his possessions; for which reason his consent can never be\npresumed precisely for such a partition. And as to the public interest,\nit seems not to be in the least concerned on the one side or the other.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IV.\n\nOF THE TRANSFERENCE OF PROPERTY BY CONSENT.\n\n\nHowever useful, or even necessary, the stability of possession may be\nto human society, 'tis attended with very considerable inconveniences.\nThe relation of fitness or suitableness ought never to enter into\nconsideration, in distributing the properties of mankind; but we must\ngovern ourselves by rules which are more general in their application,\nand more free from doubt and uncertainty. Of this kind is _present_\npossession upon the first establishment of society; and afterwards\n_occupation, prescription, accession_, and _succession_. As these\ndepend very much on chance, they must frequently prove contradictory\nboth to men's wants and desires; and persons and possessions must often\nbe very ill adjusted. This is a grand inconvenience, which calls for a\nremedy. To apply one directly, and allow every man to seize by violence\nwhat he judges to be fit for him, would destroy society; and therefore\nthe rules of justice seek some medium betwixt a rigid stability and\nthis changeable and uncertain adjustment. But there is no medium\nbetter than that obvious one, that possession and property should\nalways be stable, except when the proprietor consents to bestow them on\nsome other person. This rule can have no ill consequence in occasioning\nwars and dissensions, since the proprietor's consent, who alone is\nconcerned, is taken along in the alienation; and it may serve to many\ngood purposes in adjusting property to persons. Different parts of the\nearth produce different commodities; and not only so, but different\nmen both are by nature fitted for different employments, and attain\nto greater perfection in any one, when they confine themselves to it\nalone. All this requires a mutual exchange and commerce; for which\nreason the translation of property by consent is founded on a law of\nnature, as well as its stability without such a consent.\n\nSo far is determined by a plain utility and interest. But perhaps 'tis\nfrom more trivial reasons, that _delivery_, or a sensible transference\nof the object, is commonly required by civil laws, and also by the laws\nof nature, according to most authors, as a requisite circumstance in\nthe translation of property. The property of an object, when taken for\nsomething real, without any reference to morality, or the sentiments of\nthe mind, is a quality perfectly insensible, and even inconceivable;\nnor can we form any distinct notion, either of its stability or\ntranslation. This imperfection of our ideas is less sensibly felt with\nregard to its stability, as it engages less our attention, and is\neasily past over by the mind, without any scrupulous examination. But\nas the translation of property from one person to another is a more\nremarkable event, the defect of our ideas becomes more sensible on that\noccasion, and obliges us to turn ourselves on every side in search of\nsome remedy. Now, as nothing more enlivens any idea than a present\nimpression, and a relation betwixt that impression and the idea; 'tis\nnatural for us to seek some false light from this quarter. In order\nto aid the imagination in conceiving the transference of property, we\ntake the sensible object, and actually transfer its possession to the\nperson on whom we would bestow the property. The supposed resemblance\nof the actions, and the presence of this sensible delivery, deceive the\nmind, and make it fancy that it conceives the mysterious transition of\nthe property. And that this explication of the matter is just, appears\nhence, that men have invented a _symbolical_ delivery, to satisfy the\nfancy where the real one is impracticable. Thus the giving the keys of\na granary, is understood to be the delivery of the corn contained in\nit: the giving of stone and earth represents the delivery of a manor.\nThis is a kind of superstitious practice in civil laws, and in the laws\nof nature, resembling the _Roman Catholic_ superstitions in religion.\nAs the _Roman Catholics_ represent the inconceivable mysteries of the\n_Christian_ religion, and render them more present to the mind, by\na taper, or habit, or grimace, which is supposed to resemble them;\nso lawyers and moralists have run into like inventions for the same\nreason, and have endeavoured by those means to satisfy themselves\nconcerning the transference of property by consent.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION V.\n\nOF THE OBLIGATION OF PROMISES.\n\n\nThat the rule of morality, which enjoins the performance of\npromises, is not _natural_, will sufficiently appear from these two\npropositions, which I proceed to prove, viz. _that a promise would not\nbe intelligible before human conventions had established it; and that\neven if it were intelligible, it would not be attended with any moral\nobligation_.\n\nI say, _first_, that a promise is not intelligible naturally, nor\nantecedent to human conventions; and that a man, unacquainted with\nsociety, could never enter into any engagements with another, even\nthough they could perceive each other's thoughts by intuition. If\npromises be natural and intelligible, there must be some act of the\nmind attending these words, I _promise_; and on this act of the mind\nmust the obligation depend. Let us therefore run over all the faculties\nof the soul, and see which of them is exerted in our promises.\n\nThe act of the mind, expressed by a promise, is not a _resolution_ to\nperform any thing; for that alone never imposes any obligation. Nor is\nit a _desire_ of such a performance; for we may bind ourselves without\nsuch a desire, or even with an aversion, declared and avowed. Neither\nis it the _willing_ of that action which we promise to perform; for a\npromise always regards some future time, and the will has an influence\nonly on present actions. It follows, therefore, that since the act of\nthe mind, which enters into a promise, and produces its obligation,\nis neither the resolving, desiring, nor willing any particular\nperformance, it must necessarily be the _willing_ of that _obligation_\nwhich arises from the promise. Nor is this only a conclusion of\nphilosophy, but is entirely conformable to our common ways of thinking\nand of expressing ourselves, when we say that we are bound by our\nown consent, and that the obligation arises from our mere will and\npleasure. The only question then is, whether there be not a manifest\nabsurdity in supposing this act of the mind, and such an absurdity as\nno man could fall into, whose ideas are not confounded with prejudice\nand the fallacious use of language.\n\nAll morality depends upon our sentiments; and when any action or\nquality of the mind pleases us _after a certain manner_, we say it is\nvirtuous; and when the neglect or non-performance of it displeases\nus _after a like manner_, we say that we lie under an obligation\nto perform it. A change of the obligation supposes a change of the\nsentiment; and a creation of a new obligation supposes some new\nsentiment to arise. But 'tis certain we can naturally no more change\nour own sentiments than the motions of the heavens; nor by a single\nact of our will, that is, by a promise, render any action agreeable or\ndisagreeable, moral or immoral, which, without that act, would have\nproduced contrary impressions, or have been endowed with different\nqualities. It would be absurd, therefore, to will any new obligation,\nthat is, any new sentiment of pain or pleasure; nor is it possible\nthat men could naturally fall into so gross an absurdity. A promise,\ntherefore, is _naturally_ something altogether unintelligible, nor is\nthere any act of the mind belonging to it.[7]\n\nBut, _secondly_, if there was any act of the mind belonging to it, it\ncould not _naturally_ produce any obligation. This appears evidently\nfrom the foregoing reasoning. A promise creates a new obligation. A new\nobligation supposes new sentiments to arise. The will never creates new\nsentiments. There could not naturally, therefore, arise any obligation\nfrom a promise, even supposing the mind could fall into the absurdity\nof willing that obligation.\n\nThe same truth may be proved still more evidently by that reasoning\nwhich proved justice in general to be an artificial virtue. No action\ncan be required of us as our duty, unless there be implanted in\nhuman nature some actuating passion or motive capable of producing\nthe action. This motive cannot be the sense of duty. A sense of\nduty supposes an antecedent obligation; and where an action is not\nrequired by any natural passion, it cannot be required by any natural\nobligation; since it may be omitted without proving any defect or\nimperfection in the mind and temper, and consequently without any\nvice. Now, 'tis evident we have no motive leading us to the performance\nof promises, distinct from a sense of duty. If we thought that promises\nhad no moral obligation, we never should feel any inclination to\nobserve them. This is not the case with the natural virtues. Though\nthere was no obligation to relieve the miserable, our humanity would\nlead us to it; and when we omit that duty, the immorality of the\nomission arises from its being a proof that we want the natural\nsentiments of humanity. A father knows it to be his duty to take care\nof his children, but he has also a natural inclination to it. And if\nno human creature had that inclination, no one could lie under any\nsuch obligation. But as there is naturally no inclination to observe\npromises distinct from a sense of their obligation, it follows,\nthat fidelity is no natural virtue, and that promises have no force\nantecedent to human conventions.\n\nIf any one dissent from this, he must give a regular proof of these two\npropositions, viz. _that there is a peculiar act of the mind annexed\nto promises_; and _that consequent to this act of the mind, there\narises an inclination to perform, distinct from a sense of duty_. I\npresume that it is impossible to prove either of these two points; and\ntherefore I venture to conclude, that promises are human inventions,\nfounded on the necessities and interests of society.\n\nIn order to discover these necessities and interests, we must consider\nthe same qualities of human nature which we have already found to give\nrise to the preceding laws of society. Men being naturally selfish, or\nendowed only with a confined generosity, they are not easily induced to\nperform any action for the interest of strangers, except with a view\nto some reciprocal advantage, which they had no hope of obtaining\nbut by such a performance. Now, as it frequently happens that these\nmutual performances cannot be finished at the same instant, 'tis\nnecessary that one party be contented to remain in uncertainty, and\ndepend upon the gratitude of the other for a return of kindness. But\nso much corruption is there among men, that, generally speaking, this\nbecomes but a slender security; and as the benefactor is here supposed\nto bestow his favours with a view to self-interest, this both takes\noff from the obligation, and sets an example of selfishness, which\nis the true mother of ingratitude. Were we, therefore, to follow the\nnatural course of our passions and inclinations, we should perform\nbut few actions for the advantage of others from disinterested views,\nbecause we are naturally very limited in our kindness and affection;\nand we should perform as few of that kind out of regard to interest,\nbecause we cannot depend upon their gratitude. Here, then, is the\nmutual commerce of good offices in a manner lost among mankind, and\nevery one reduced to his own skill and industry for his well-being\nand subsistence. The invention of the law of nature, concerning the\n_stability_ of possession, has already rendered men tolerable to each\nother; that of the _transference_ of property and possession by consent\nhas begun to render them mutually advantageous; but still these laws\nof nature, however strictly observed, are not sufficient to render\nthem so serviceable to each other as by nature they are fitted to\nbecome. Though possession be _stable_, men may often reap but small\nadvantage from it, while they are possessed of a greater quantity of\nany species of goods than they have occasion for, and at the same\ntime suffer by the want of others. The _transference_ of property,\nwhich is the proper remedy for this inconvenience, cannot remedy it\nentirely; because it can only take place with regard to such objects\nas are _present_ and _individual_, but not to such as are _absent_ or\n_general_. One cannot transfer the property of a particular house,\ntwenty leagues distant, because the consent cannot be attended with\ndelivery, which is a requisite circumstance. Neither can one transfer\nthe property of ten bushels of corn, or five hogsheads of wine, by the\nmere expression and consent, because these are only general terms, and\nhave no direct relation to any particular heap of corn or barrels of\nwine. Besides, the commerce of mankind is not confined to the barter\nof commodities, but may extend to services and actions, which we may\nexchange to our mutual interest and advantage. Your corn is ripe\nto-day; mine will be so to-morrow. 'Tis profitable for us both that I\nshould labour with you to-day, and that you should aid me to-morrow. I\nhave no kindness for you, and know you have as little for me. I will\nnot, therefore, take any pains upon your account; and should I labour\nwith you upon my own account, in expectation of a return, I know I\nshould be disappointed, and that I should in vain depend upon your\ngratitude. Here, then, I leave you to labour alone: you treat me in the\nsame manner. The seasons change; and both of us lose our harvests for\nwant of mutual confidence and security.\n\nAll this is the effect of the natural and inherent principles and\npassions of human nature; and as these passions and principles are\nunalterable, it may be thought that our conduct, which depends on them,\nmust be so too, and that 'twould be in vain, either for moralists or\npoliticians, to tamper with us, or attempt to change the usual course\nof our actions, with a view to public interest. And, indeed, did the\nsuccess of their designs depend upon their success in correcting the\nselfishness and ingratitude of men, they would never make any progress,\nunless aided by Omnipotence, which is alone able to new-mould the\nhuman mind, and change its character in such fundamental articles.\nAll they can pretend to is, to give a new direction to those natural\npassions, and teach us that we can better satisfy our appetites in an\noblique and artificial manner, than by their headlong and impetuous\nmotion. Hence I learn to do a service to another, without bearing him\nany real kindness; because I foresee that he will return my service,\nin expectation of another of the same kind, and in order to maintain\nthe same correspondence of good offices with me or with others. And\naccordingly, after I have served him, and he is in possession of the\nadvantage arising, from my action, he is induced to perform his part,\nas foreseeing the consequences of his refusal.\n\nBut though this self-interested commerce of men begins to take place,\nand to predominate in society, it does not entirely abolish the more\ngenerous and noble intercourse of friendship and good offices. I may\nstill do services to such persons as I love, and am more particularly\nacquainted with, without any prospect of advantage; and they may\nmake me a return in the same manner, without any view but that of\nrecompensing my past services. In order, therefore, to distinguish\nthose two different sorts of commerce, the interested and the\ndisinterested, there is a _certain form of words_ invented for the\nformer, by which we bind ourselves to the performance of any action.\nThis form of words constitutes what we call a _promise_, which is\nthe sanction of the interested commerce of mankind. When a man says\n_he promises any thing_, he in effect expresses a _resolution_ of\nperforming it; and along with that, by making use of this _form of\nwords,_, subjects himself to the penalty of never being trusted again\nin case of failure. A resolution is the natural act of the mind, which\npromises express; but were there no more than a resolution in the case,\npromises would only declare our former motives, and would not create\nany new motive or obligation. They are the conventions of men, which\ncreate a new motive, when experience has taught us that human affairs\nwould be conducted much more for mutual advantage, were there certain\n_symbols_ or _signs_ instituted, by which we might give each other\nsecurity of our conduct in any particular incident. After these signs\nare instituted, whoever uses them is immediately bound by his interest\nto execute his engagements, and must never expect to be trusted any\nmore, if he refuse to perform what he promised.\n\nNor is that knowledge, which is requisite to make mankind sensible of\nthis interest in the _institution_ and _observance_ of promises, to be\nesteemed superior to the capacity of human nature, however savage and\nuncultivated. There needs but a very little practice of the world, to\nmake us perceive all these consequences and advantages. The shortest\nexperience of society discovers them to every mortal; and when each\nindividual perceives the same sense of interest in all his fellows, he\nimmediately performs his part of any contract, as being assured that\nthey will not be wanting in theirs. All of them, by concert, enter\ninto a scheme of actions, calculated for common benefit, and agree to\nbe true to their word; nor is there any thing requisite to form this\nconcert or convention, but that every one have a sense of interest\nin the faithful fulfilling of engagements, and express that sense to\nother members of the society. This immediately causes that interest\nto operate upon them; and interest is the _first_ obligation to the\nperformance of promises.\n\nAfterwards a sentiment of morals concurs with interest, and becomes\na new obligation upon mankind. This sentiment of morality, in the\nperformance of promises, arises from the same principles as that\nin the abstinence from the property of others. _Public interest,\neducation_, and _the artifices of politicians_, have the same effect\nin both cases. The difficulties that occur to us in supposing a moral\nobligation to attend promises, we either surmount or elude. For\ninstance, the expression of a resolution is not commonly supposed to\nbe obligatory; and we cannot readily conceive how the making use of a\ncertain form of words should be able to cause any material difference.\nHere, therefore, we _feign_ a new act of the mind, which we call the\n_willing_ an obligation; and on this we suppose the morality to depend.\nBut we have proved already, that there is no such act of the mind, and\nconsequently, that promises impose no natural obligation.\n\nTo confirm this, we may subjoin some other reflections concerning\nthat will, which is supposed to enter into a promise, and to cause\nits obligation. 'Tis evident, that the will alone is never supposed\nto cause the obligation, but must be expressed by words or signs, in\norder to impose a tie upon any man. The expression being once brought\nin as subservient to the will, soon becomes the principal part of the\npromise; nor will a man be less bound by his word, though he secretly\ngive a different direction to his intention, and withhold himself\nboth from a resolution, and from willing an obligation. But though the\nexpression makes on most occasions the whole of the promise, yet it\ndoes not always so; and one who should make use of any expression of\nwhich he knows not the meaning, and which he uses without any intention\nof binding himself, would not certainly be bound by it. Nay, though he\nknows its meaning, yet if he uses it in jest only, and with such signs\nas show evidently he has no serious intention of binding himself, he\nwould not lie under any obligation of performance; but 'tis necessary\nthat the words be a perfect expression of the will, without any\ncontrary signs. Nay, even this we must not carry so far as to imagine,\nthat one, whom, by our quickness of understanding, we conjecture, from\ncertain signs, to have an intention of deceiving us, is not bound by\nhis expression or verbal promise, if we accept of it; but must limit\nthis conclusion to those cases where the signs are of a different kind\nfrom those of deceit. All these contradictions are easily accounted\nfor, if the obligation of promises be merely a human invention for the\nconvenience of society; but will never be explained, if it be something\n_real_ and _natural_, arising from any action of the mind or body.\n\nI shall farther observe, that, since every new promise imposes a new\nobligation of morality on the person who promises, and since this\nnew obligation arises from his will; 'tis one of the most mysterious\nand incomprehensible operations that can possibly be imagined, and\nmay even be compared to _transubstantiation_, or _holy orders_,[8]\nwhere a certain form of words, along with a certain intention,\nchanges entirely the nature of an external object, and even of a\nhuman creature. But though these mysteries be so far alike, 'tis very\nremarkable that they differ widely in other particulars, and that this\ndifference may be regarded as a strong proof of the difference of their\norigins. As the obligation of promises is an invention for the interest\nof society, 'tis warped into as many different forms as that interest\nrequires, and even runs into direct contradictions, rather than lose\nsight of its object. But as those other monstrous doctrines are mere\npriestly inventions, and have no public interest in view, they are less\ndisturbed in their progress by new obstacles; and it must be owned,\nthat, after the first absurdity, they follow more directly the current\nof reason and good sense. Theologians clearly perceived, that the\nexternal form of words, being mere sound, require an intention to make\nthem have any efficacy; and that this intention being once considered\nas a requisite circumstance, its absence must equally prevent the\neffect, whether avowed or concealed, whether sincere or deceitful.\nAccordingly, they have commonly determined, that the intention of\nthe priest makes the sacrament, and that when he secretly withdraws\nhis intention, he is highly criminal in himself; but still destroys\nthe baptism, or communion, or holy orders. The terrible consequences\nof this doctrine were not able to hinder its taking place; as the\ninconvenience of a similar doctrine, with regard to promises, have\nprevented that doctrine from establishing itself. Men are always more\nconcerned about the present life than the future; and are apt to think\nthe smallest evil which regards the former, more important than the\ngreatest which regards the latter.\n\nWe may draw the same conclusion, concerning the origin of promises,\nfrom the force which is supposed to invalidate all contracts, and\nto free us from their obligation. Such a principle is a proof\nthat promises have no natural obligation, and are mere artificial\ncontrivances for the convenience and advantage of society. If we\nconsider aright of the matter, force is not essentially different\nfrom any other motive of hope or fear, which may induce us to engage\nour word, and lay ourselves under any obligation. A man, dangerously\nwounded, who promises a competent sum to a surgeon to cure him, would\ncertainly be bound to performance; though the case be not so much\ndifferent from that of one who promises a sum to a robber, as to\nproduce so great a difference in our sentiments of morality, if these\nsentiments were not built entirely on public interest and convenience.\n\n\n[7] Were morality discoverable by reason, and not by sentiment, 'twould\nbe still more evident that promises could make no alteration upon it.\nMorality is supposed to consist in relation. Every new imposition of\nmorality, therefore, must arise from some new relation of objects;\nand consequently the will could not produce immediately any change in\nmorals, but could have that effect only by producing a change upon the\nobjects. But as the moral obligation of a promise is the pure effect\nof the will, without the least change in any part of the universe, it\nfollows, that promises have no natural obligation.\n\nShould it be said, that this act of the will, being in effect a new\nobject, produces new relations and new duties; I would answer, that\nthis is a pure sophism, which may be detected by a very moderate share\nof accuracy and exactness. To will a new obligation, is to will a new\nrelation of objects; and therefore, if this new relation of objects\nwere formed by the volition itself, we should, in effect, will the\nvolition, which is plainly absurd and impossible. The will has here\nno object to which it could tend, but must return upon itself in\n_infinitum_. The new obligation depends upon new relations. The new\nrelations depend upon a new volition. The new volition has for object a\nnew obligation, and consequently new relations, and consequently a new\nvolition; which volition, again, has in view a new obligation, relation\nand volition, without any termination. 'Tis impossible, therefore, we\ncould ever will a new obligation; and consequently 'tis impossible the\nwill could ever accompany a promise, or produce a new obligation of\nmorality.\n\n[8] I mean so far as holy orders are supposed to produce the _indelible\nCharacter_. In other respects they are only a legal qualification.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VI.\n\nSOME FARTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE.\n\n\nWe have now run over the three fundamental laws of nature, _that of the\nstability of possession, of its transference by consent_, and _of the\nperformance of promises_. 'Tis on the strict observance of those three\nlaws that the peace and security of human society entirely depend; nor\nis there any possibility of establishing a good correspondence among\nmen, where these are neglected. Society is absolutely necessary for\nthe well-being of men; and these are as necessary to the supports\nof society. Whatever restraint they may impose on the passions of\nmen, they are the real offspring of those passions, and are only a\nmore artful and more refined way of satisfying them. Nothing is more\nvigilant and inventive than our passions; and nothing is more obvious\nthan the convention for the observance of these rules. Nature has,\ntherefore, trusted this affair entirely to the conduct of men, and has\nnot placed in the mind any peculiar original principles, to determine\nus to a set of actions, into which the other principles of our frame\nand constitution were sufficient to lead us. And to convince us the\nmore fully of this truth, we may here stop a moment, and, from a review\nof the preceding reasonings, may draw some new arguments, to prove that\nthose laws, however necessary, are entirely artificial, and of human\ninvention; and consequently, that justice is an artificial, and not a\nnatural virtue.\n\nI. The first argument I shall make use of is derived from the vulgar\ndefinition of justice. Justice is commonly defined to be _a constant\nand perpetual will of giving every one his due_. In this definition\n'tis supposed that there are such things as right and property,\nindependent of justice, and antecedent to it; and that they would have\nsubsisted, though men had never dreamt of practising such a virtue.\nI have already observed, in a cursory manner, the fallacy of this\nopinion, and shall here continue to open up, a little more distinctly,\nmy sentiments on that subject.\n\nI shall begin with observing, that this quality, which we call\n_property_, is like many of the imaginary qualities of the\n_Peripatetic_ philosophy, and vanishes upon a more accurate inspection\ninto the subject, when considered apart from our moral sentiments, 'Tis\nevident property does not consist in any of the sensible qualities\nof the object. For these may continue invariably the same, while the\nproperty changes. Property, therefore, must consist in some relation of\nthe object. But 'tis not in its relation with regard to other external\nand inanimate objects. For these may also continue invariably the\nsame, while the property changes. This quality, therefore, consists in\nthe relations of objects to intelligent and rational beings. But 'tis\nnot the external and corporeal relation which forms the essence of\nproperty. For that relation may be the same betwixt inanimate objects,\nor with regard to brute creatures; though in those cases it forms no\nproperty. 'Tis therefore in some internal relation that the property\nconsists; that is, in some influence which the external relations of\nthe object have on the mind and actions. Thus, the external relation\nwhich we call _occupation_ or first possession, is not of itself\nimagined to be the property of the object, but only to cause its\nproperty. Now, 'tis evident this external relation causes nothing in\nexternal objects, and has only an influence on the mind, by giving us\na sense of duty in abstaining from that object, and in restoring it to\nthe first possessor. These actions are properly what we call _justice_;\nand consequently 'tis on that virtue that the nature of property\ndepends, and not the virtue on the property.\n\nIf any one, therefore, would assert that justice is a natural virtue,\nand injustice a natural vice, he must assert, that abstracting from the\nnotions of _property_ and _right_ and _obligation_, a certain conduct\nand train of actions, in certain external relations of objects, has\nnaturally a moral beauty or deformity, and causes an original pleasure\nor uneasiness. Thus, the restoring a man's goods to him is considered\nas virtuous, not because nature has annexed a certain sentiment of\npleasure to such a conduct with regard to the property of others, but\nbecause she has annexed that sentiment to such a conduct, with regard\nto those external objects of which others have had the first or long\npossession, or which they have received by the consent of those who\nhave had first or long possession. If nature has given us no such\nsentiment, there is not naturally, nor antecedent to human conventions,\nany such thing as property. Now, though it seems sufficiently evident,\nin this dry and accurate consideration of the present subject, that\nnature has annexed no pleasure or sentiment of approbation to such a\nconduct, yet, that I may leave as little room for doubt as possible, I\nshall subjoin a few more arguments to confirm my opinion.\n\n_First_, If nature had given us a pleasure of this kind, it would\nhave been as evident and discernible as on every other occasion; nor\nshould we have found any difficulty to perceive, that the consideration\nof such actions, in such a situation, gives a certain pleasure and\nsentiment of approbation. We should not have been obliged to have\nrecourse to notions of property in the definition of justice, and at\nthe same time make use of the notions of justice in the definition of\npro-property. This deceitful method of reasoning is a plain proof that\nthere are contained in the subject some obscurities and difficulties\nwhich we are not able to surmount, and which we desire to evade by this\nartifice.\n\n_Secondly_, Those rules by which properties, rights and obligations\nare determined, have in them no marks of a natural origin, but many\nof artifice and contrivance. They are too numerous to have proceeded\nfrom nature; they are changeable by human laws; and have all of them a\ndirect and evident tendency to public good, and the support of civil\nsociety. This last circumstance is remarkable upon two accounts.\n_First_, Because, though the cause of the establishment of these laws\nhad been a _regard_ for the public good, as much as the public good\nis their natural tendency, they would still have been artificial, as\nbeing purposely contrived, and directed to a certain end. _Secondly_,\nBecause, if men had been endowed with such a strong regard for public\ngood, they would never have restrained themselves by these rules; so\nthat the laws of justice arise from natural principles, in a manner\nstill more oblique and artificial. 'Tis self-love which is their real\norigin; and as the self-love of one person is naturally contrary to\nthat of another, these several interested passions are obliged to\nadjust themselves after such a manner as to concur in some system\nof conduct and behaviour. This system, therefore, comprehending the\ninterest of each individual, is of course advantageous to the public,\nthough it be not intended for that purpose by the inventors.\n\nII. In the _second_ place, we may observe, that all kinds of vice\nand virtue run insensibly into each other, and may approach by such\nimperceptible degrees as will make it very difficult, if not absolutely\nimpossible, to determine when the one ends and the other begins; and\nfrom this observation we may derive a new argument for the foregoing\nprinciple. For, whatever may be the case with regard to all kinds\nof vice and virtue, 'tis certain that rights, and obligations, and\nproperty, admit of no such insensible gradation, but that a man\neither has a full and perfect property, or none at all; and is either\nentirely obliged to perform any action, or lies under no manner of\nobligation. However civil laws may talk of a perfect _dominion_, and of\nan imperfect, 'tis easy to observe, that this arises from a fiction,\nwhich has no foundation in reason, and can never enter into our notions\nof natural justice and equity. A man that hires a horse, though but\nfor a day, has as full a right to make use of it for that time, as he\nwhom we call its proprietor has to make use of it any other day; and\n'tis evident that, however the use may be bounded in time or degree,\nthe right itself is not susceptible of any such gradation, but is\nabsolute and entire, so far as it extends. Accordingly, we may observe,\nthat this right both arises and perishes in an instant; and that a man\nentirely acquires the property of any object by occupation, or the\nconsent of the proprietor; and loses it by his own consent, without any\nof that insensible gradation which is remarkable in other qualities and\nrelations. Since, therefore, this is the case with regard to property,\nand rights, and obligations, I ask, how it stands with regard to\njustice and injustice? After whatever manner you answer this question,\nyou run into inextricable difficulties. If you reply, that justice\nand injustice admit of degree, and run insensibly into each other,\nyou expressly contradict the foregoing position, that obligation and\nproperty are not susceptible of such a gradation. These depend entirely\nupon justice and injustice, and follow them in all their variations.\nWhere the justice is entire, the property is also entire: where the\njustice is imperfect, the property must also be imperfect. And _vice\nversa_, if the property admit of no such variations, they must also\nbe incompatible with justice. If you assent, therefore, to this last\nproposition, and assert that justice and injustice are not susceptible\nof degrees, you in effect assert that they are not _naturally_ either\nvicious or virtuous; since vice and virtue, moral good and evil, and\nindeed all _natural_ qualities, run insensibly into each other, and are\non many occasions undistinguishable.\n\nAnd here it may be worth while to observe, that though abstract\nreasoning and the general maxims of philosophy and law establish this\nposition, _that property, and right, and obligation, admit not of\ndegrees_, yet, in our common and negligent way of thinking, we find\ngreat difficulty to entertain that opinion, and do even secretly\nembrace the contrary principle. An object must either be in the\npossession of one person or another. An action must either be performed\nor not. The necessity there is of choosing one side in these dilemmas,\nand the impossibility there often is of finding any just medium, oblige\nus, when we reflect on the matter, to acknowledge that all property and\nobligations are entire. But, on the other hand, when we consider the\norigin of property and obligation, and find that they depend on public\nutility, and sometimes on the propensity of the imagination, which\nare seldom entire on any side, we are naturally inclined to imagine\nthat these moral relations admit of an insensible gradation. Hence\nit is that in references, where the consent of the parties leave the\nreferees entire masters of the subject, they commonly discover so much\nequity and justice on both sides as induces them to strike a medium,\nand divide the difference betwixt the parties. Civil judges, who have\nnot this liberty, but are obliged to give a decisive sentence on some\none side, are often at a loss how to determine, and are necessitated\nto proceed on the most frivolous reasons in the world. Half rights\nand obligations, which seem so natural in common life, are perfect\nabsurdities in their tribunal; for which reason they are often obliged\nto take half arguments for whole ones, in order to terminate the affair\none way or other.\n\nIII. The _third_ argument of this kind I shall make use of may be\nexplained thus. If we consider the ordinary course of human actions,\nwe shall find that the mind restrains not itself by any general and\nuniversal rules, but acts on most occasions as it is determined by\nits present motives and inclination. As each action is a particular\nindividual event, it must proceed from particular principles, and from\nour immediate situation within ourselves, and with respect to the rest\nof the universe. If on some occasions we extend our motives beyond\nthose very circumstances which gave rise to them, and form something\nlike _general rides_ for our conduct, 'tis easy to observe that these\nrules are not perfectly inflexible, but allow of many exceptions.\nSince, therefore, this is the ordinary course of human actions, we\nmay conclude that the laws of justice, being universal and perfectly\ninflexible, can never be derived from nature, nor be the immediate\noffspring of any natural motive or inclination. No action can be either\nmorally good or evil, unless there be some natural passion or motive to\nimpel us to it, or deter us from it; and tis evident that the morality\nmust be susceptible of all the same variations which are natural to the\npassion. Here are two persons who dispute for an estate; of whom one is\nrich, a fool, and a bachelor; the other poor, a man of sense, and has a\nnumerous family: the first is my enemy; the second my friend. Whether\nI be actuated in this affair by a view to public or private interest,\nby friendship or enmity, I must be induced to do my utmost to procure\nthe estate to the latter. Nor would any consideration of the right and\nproperty of the persons be able to restrain me, were I actuated only\nby natural motives, without any combination or convention with others.\nFor as all property depends on morality, and as all morality depends\non the ordinary course of our passions and actions, and as these again\nare only directed by particular motives, 'tis evident such a partial\nconduct must be suitable to the strictest morality, and could never\nbe a violation of property. Were men, therefore, to take the liberty\nof acting with regard to the laws of society, as they do in every\nother affair, they would conduct themselves, on most occasions, by\nparticular judgments, and would take into consideration the characters\nand circumstances of the persons, as well as the general nature of the\nquestion. But 'tis easy to observe, that this would produce an infinite\nconfusion in human society, and that the avidity and partiality of men\nwould quickly bring disorder into the world, if not restrained by some\ngeneral and inflexible principles. 'Twas therefore with a view to this\ninconvenience, that men have established those principles, and have\nagreed to restrain themselves by general rules, which are unchangeable\nby spite and favour, and by particular views of private or public\ninterest. These rules, then, are artificially invented for a certain\npurpose, and are contrary to the common principles of human nature,\nwhich accommodate themselves to circumstances, and have no stated\ninvariable method of operation.\n\nNor do I perceive how I can easily be mistaken in this matter. I see\nevidently, that when any man imposes on himself general inflexible\nrules in his conduct with others, he considers certain objects as\ntheir property, which he supposes to be sacred and inviolable. But\nno proposition can be more evident, than that property is perfectly\nunintelligible without first supposing justice and injustice; and that\nthese virtues and vices are as unintelligible, unless we have motives,\nindependent of the morality, to impel us to just actions, and deter\nus from unjust ones. Let those motives, therefore, be what they will,\nthey must accommodate themselves to circumstances, and must admit of\nall the variations which human affairs, in their incessant revolutions,\nare susceptible of. They are, consequently, a very improper foundation\nfor such rigid inflexible rules as the laws of nature; and 'tis evident\nthese laws can only be derived from human conventions, when men have\nperceived the disorders that result from following their natural and\nvariable principles.\n\nUpon the whole, then, we are to consider this distinction betwixt\njustice and injustice, as having two different foundations, viz.\nthat of _interest_, when men observe, that 'tis impossible to live\nin society without restraining themselves by certain rules; and that\nof _morality_, when this interest is once observed, and men receive\na pleasure from the view of such actions as tend to the peace of\nsociety, and an uneasiness from such as are contrary to it. 'Tis the\nvoluntary convention and artifice of men which makes the first interest\ntake place; and therefore those laws of justice are so far to be\nconsidered as _artificial_. After that interest is once established and\nacknowledged, the sense of morality in the observance of these rules\nfollows _naturally_, and of itself; though tis certain, that it is also\naugmented by a new _artifice_, and that the public instructions of\npoliticians, and the private education of parents, contribute to the\ngiving us a sense of honour and duty, in the strict regulation of our\nactions with regard to the properties of others.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VII.\n\nOF THE ORIGIN OF GOVERNMENT.\n\n\nNothing is more certain, than that men are in a great measure governed\nby interest, and that, even when they extend their concern beyond\nthemselves, 'tis not to any great distance; nor is it usual for\nthem, in common life, to look farther than their nearest friends and\nacquaintance. 'Tis no less certain, that 'tis impossible for men to\nconsult their interest in so effectual a manner, as by an universal and\ninflexible observance of the rules of justice, by which alone they can\npreserve society, and keep themselves from falling into that wretched\nand savage condition which is commonly represented as the _state of\nnature_. And as this interest which all men have in the upholding of\nsociety, and the observation of the rules of justice, is great, so\nis it palpable and evident, even to the most rude and uncultivated\nof the human race; and 'tis almost impossible for any one who has\nhad experience of society, to be mistaken in this particular. Since,\ntherefore, men are so sincerely attached to their interest, and their\ninterest is so much concerned in the observance of justice, and this\ninterest is so certain and avowed, it may be asked, how any disorder\ncan ever arise in society, and what principle there is in human nature\nso _powerful_ as to overcome so strong a passion, or so _violent_ as to\nobscure so clear a knowledge?\n\nIt has been observed, in treating of the Passions, that men are\nmightily governed by the imagination, and proportion their affections\nmore to the light under which any object appears to them, than to its\nreal and intrinsic value. What strikes upon them with a strong and\nlively idea commonly prevails above what lies in a more obscure light;\nand it must be a great superiority of value that is able to compensate\nthis advantage. Now, as every thing that is contiguous to us, either in\nspace or time, strikes upon us with such an idea, it has a proportional\neffect on the will and passions, and commonly operates with more force\nthan any object that lies in a more distant and obscure light. Though\nwe may be fully convinced, that the latter object excels the former, we\nare not able to regulate our actions by this judgment, but yield to the\nsolicitations of our passions, which always plead in favour of whatever\nis near and contiguous.\n\nThis is the reason why men so often act in contradiction to their known\ninterest; and, in particular, why they prefer any trivial advantage\nthat is present, to the maintenance of order in society, which so\nmuch depends on the observance of justice. The consequences of every\nbreach of equity seem to lie very remote, and and are not liable to\ncounterbalance any immediate advantage that may be reaped from it. They\nare, however, never the less real for being remote; and as all men are,\nin some degree, subject to the same weakness, it necessarily happens,\nthat the violations of equity must become very frequent in society,\nand the commerce of men, by that means, be rendered very dangerous\nand uncertain. You have the same propension that I have in favour of\nwhat is contiguous above what is remote. You are, therefore, naturally\ncarried to commit acts of injustice as well as me. Your example both\npushes me forward in this way by imitation, and also affords me a new\nreason for any breach of equity, by showing me, that I should be the\ncully of my integrity, if I alone should impose on myself a severe\nrestraint amidst the licentiousness of others.\n\nThis quality, therefore, of human nature, not only is very dangerous\nto society, but also seems, on a cursory view, to be incapable of any\nremedy. The remedy can only come from the consent of men; and if men\nbe incapable of themselves to prefer remote to contiguous, they will\nnever consent to any thing which would oblige them to such a choice,\nand contradict, in so sensible a manner, their natural principles and\npropensities. Whoever chooses the means, chooses also the end; and\nif it be impossible for us to prefer what is remote, 'tis equally\nimpossible for us to submit to any necessity which would oblige us to\nsuch a method of acting.\n\nBut here 'tis observable, that this infirmity of human nature becomes\na remedy to itself, and that we provide against our negligence about\nremote objects, merely because we are naturally inclined to that\nnegligence. When we consider any objects at a distance, all their\nminute distinctions vanish, and we always give the preference to\nwhatever is in itself preferable, without considering its situation and\ncircumstances. This gives rise to what, in an improper sense, we call\n_reason_, which is a principle that is often contradictory to those\npropensities that display themselves upon the approach of the object.\nIn reflecting on any action which I am to perform a twelvemonth hence,\nI always resolve to prefer the greater good, whether at that time it\nwill be more contiguous or remote; nor does any difference in that\nparticular make a difference in my present intentions and resolutions.\nMy distance from the final determination makes all those minute\ndifferences vanish, nor am I affected by any thing but the general and\nmore discernible qualities of good and evil. But on my nearer approach,\nthose circumstances which I at first overlooked begin to appear, and\nhave an influence on my conduct and affections. A new inclination to\nthe present good springs up, and makes it difficult for me to adhere\ninflexibly to my first purpose and resolution. This natural infirmity\nI may very much regret, and I may endeavour, by all possible means, to\nfree myself from it. I may have recourse to study and reflection within\nmyself; to the advice of friends; to frequent meditation, and repeated\nresolution: And having experienced how ineffectual all these are, I\nmay embrace with pleasure any other expedient by which I may impose a\nrestraint upon myself, and guard against this weakness.\n\nThe only, difficulty, therefore, is to find out this expedient, by\nwhich men cure their natural weakness, and lay themselves under the\nnecessity of observing the laws of justice and equity, notwithstanding\ntheir violent propension to prefer contiguous to remote. 'Tis\nevident such a remedy can never be effectual without correcting\nthis propensity; and as 'tis impossible to change or correct any\nthing material in our nature, the utmost we can do is to change our\ncircumstances and situation, and render the observance of the laws of\njustice our nearest interest, and their violation our most remote.\nBut this being impracticable with respect to all mankind, it can only\ntake place with respect to a few, whom we thus immediately interest\nin the execution of justice. These are the persons whom we call civil\nmagistrates, kings and their ministers, our governors and rulers,\nwho, being indifferent persons to the greatest part of the state,\nhave no interest, or but a remote one, in any act of injustice; and,\nbeing satisfied with their present condition, and with their part in\nsociety, have an immediate interest in every execution of justice,\nwhich is so necessary to the upholding of society. Here, then, is the\norigin of civil government and society. Men are not able radically to\ncure, either in themselves or others, that narrowness of soul which\nmakes them prefer the present to the remote. They cannot change their\nnatures. All they can do is to change their situation, and render\nthe observance of justice the immediate interest of some particular\npersons, and its violation their more remote. These persons, then, are\nnot only induced to observe those rules in their own conduct, but also\nto constrain others to a like regularity, and enforce the dictates of\nequity through the whole society. And if it be necessary, they may\nalso interest others more immediately in the execution of justice, and\ncreate a number of officers, civil and military, to assist them in\ntheir government.\n\nBut this execution of justice, though the principal, is not the\nonly advantage of government. As violent passion hinders men from\nseeing distinctly the interest they have in an equitable behaviour\ntowards others, so it hinders them from seeing that equity itself,\nand gives them a remarkable partiality in their own favours. This\ninconvenience is corrected in the same manner as that above mentioned.\nThe same persons who execute the laws of justice, will also decide all\ncontroversies concerning them; and, being indifferent to the greatest\npart of the society, will decide them more equitably than every one\nwould in his own case.\n\nBy means of these two advantages in the _execution_ and _decision_\nof justice, men acquire a security against each other's weakness and\npassion, as well as against their own, and, under the shelter of their\ngovernors, begin to taste at ease the sweets of society and mutual\nassistance. But government extends farther its beneficial influence;\nand, not contented to protect men in those conventions they make for\ntheir mutual interest, it often obliges them to make such conventions,\nand forces them to seek their own advantage, by a concurrence in some\ncommon end or purpose. There is no quality in human nature which causes\nmore fatal errors in our conduct, than that which leads us to prefer\nwhatever is present to the distant and remote, and makes us desire\nobjects more according to their situation than their intrinsic value.\nTwo neighbours may agree to drain a meadow, which they possess in\ncommon: because 'tis easy for them to know each other's mind; and each\nmust perceive, that the immediate consequence of his failing in his\npart, is the abandoning the whole project. But 'tis very difficult, and\nindeed impossible, that a thousand persons should agree in any such\naction; it being difficult for them to concert so complicated a design,\nand still more difficult for them to execute it; while each seeks a\npretext to free himself of the trouble and expense, and would lay the\nwhole burden on others. Political society easily remedies both these\ninconveniences. Magistrates find an immediate interest in the interest\nof any considerable part of their subjects. They need consult nobody\nbut themselves to form any scheme for the promoting of that interest.\nAnd as the failure of any one piece in the execution is connected,\nthough not immediately, with the failure of the whole, they prevent\nthat failure, because they find no interest in it, either immediate\nor remote. Thus, bridges are built, harbours opened, ramparts raised,\ncanals formed, fleets equipped, and armies disciplined, every where,\nby the care of government, which, though composed of men subject to\nall human infirmities, becomes, by one of the finest and most subtile\ninventions imaginable, a composition which is in some measure exempted\nfrom all these infirmities.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VIII.\n\nOF THE SOURCE OF ALLEGIANCE.\n\n\nThough government be an invention very advantageous, and even in some\ncircumstances absolutely necessary to mankind, it is not necessary in\nall circumstances; nor is it impossible for men to preserve society\nfor some time, without having recourse to such an invention. Men, 'tis\ntrue, are always much inclined to prefer present interest to distant\nand remote; nor is it easy for them to resist the temptation of any\nadvantage that they may immediately enjoy, in apprehension of an evil\nthat lies at a distance from them; but still this weakness is less\nconspicuous where the possessions and the pleasures of life are few\nand of little value, as they always are in the infancy of society.\nAn Indian is but little tempted to dispossess another of his hut, or\nto steal his bow, as being already provided of the same advantages;\nand as to any superior fortune which may attend one above another in\nhunting and fishing, 'tis only casual and temporary, and will have\nbut small tendency to disturb society. And so far am I from thinking\nwith some philosophers, that men are utterly incapable of society\nwithout government, that I assert the first rudiments of government\nto arise from quarrels, not among men of the same society, but among\nthose of different societies. A less degree of riches will suffice\nto this latter effect, is requisite for the former. Men fear nothing\nfrom public war and violence but the resistance they meet with, which,\nbecause they share it in common, seems less terrible, and, because it\ncomes from strangers, seems less pernicious in its consequences, than\nwhen they are exposed singly against one whose commerce is advantageous\nto them, and without whose society 'tis impossible they can subsist.\nNow foreign war, to a society without government, necessarily produces\ncivil war. Throw any considerable goods among men, they instantly fall\na quarrelling, while each strives to get possession of what pleases\nhim, without regard to the consequences. In a foreign war, the most\nconsiderable of all goods, life and limbs, are at stake; and as every\none shuns dangerous ports, seizes the best arms, seeks excuse for the\nslightest wounds, the laws, which may be well enough observed while\nmen were calm, can now no longer take place, when they are in such\ncommotion.\n\nThis we find verified in the American tribes, where men live in concord\nand amity among themselves, without any established government, and\nnever pay submission to any of their fellows, except in time of war,\nwhen their captain enjoys a shadow of authority, which he loses after\ntheir return from the field and the establishment of peace with the\nneighbouring tribes. This authority, however, instructs them in the\nadvantages of government, and teaches them to have recourse to it,\nwhen, either by the pillage of war, by commerce, or by any fortuitous\ninventions, their riches and possessions have become so considerable\nas to make them forget, on every emergence, the interest they have in\nthe preservation of peace and justice. Hence we may give a plausible\nreason, among others, why all governments are at first monarchical,\nwithout any mixture and variety; and why republics arise only from the\nabuses of monarchy and despotic power. Camps are the true mothers of\ncities; and as war cannot be administered, by reason of the suddenness\nof every exigency, without some authority in a single person, the same\nkind of authority naturally takes place in that civil government which\nsucceeds the military. And this reason I take to be more natural than\nthe common one derived from patriarchal government, or the authority\nof a father, which is said first to take place in one family, and to\naccustom the members of it to the government of a single person. The\nstate of society without government is one of the most natural states\nof men, and must subsist with the conjunction of many families, and\nlong after the first generation. Nothing but an increase of riches\nand possessions could oblige men to quit it; and so barbarous and\nuninstructed are all societies on their first formation, that many\nyears must elapse before these can increase to such a degree as to\ndisturb men in the enjoyment of peace and concord.\n\nBut though it be possible for men to maintain a small uncultivated\nsociety without government, 'tis impossible they should maintain a\nsociety of any kind without justice, and the observance of those\nthree fundamental laws concerning the stability of possession, its\ntranslation by consent, and the performance of promises. These are\ntherefore antecedent to government, and are supposed to impose an\nobligation, before the duty of allegiance to civil magistrates has\nonce been thought of. Nay, I shall go farther, and assert, that\ngovernment, _upon its first establishment_, would naturally be supposed\nto derive its obligation from those laws of of nature, and, in\nparticular, from that concerning the performance of promises. When men\nhave once perceived the necessity of government to maintain peace and\nexecute justice, they would naturally assemble together, would choose\nmagistrates, determine their power, and _promise_ them obedience. As\na promise is supposed to be a bond or security already in use, and\nattended with a moral obligation, 'tis to be considered as the original\nsanction of government, and as the source of the first obligation to\nobedience. This reasoning appears so natural, that it has become the\nfoundation of our fashionable system of politics, and is in a manner\nthe creed of a party amongst us, who pride themselves, with reason, on\nthe soundness of their philosophy, and their liberty of thought. 'All\nmen,' say they, 'are born free and equal: government and superiority\ncan only be established by consent: the consent of men, in establishing\ngovernment, imposes on them a new obligation, unknown to the laws\nof nature. Men, therefore, are bound to obey their magistrates,\nonly because they promise it; and if they had not given their word,\neither expressly or tacitly, to preserve allegiance, it would never\nhave become a part of their moral duty. This conclusion, however,\nwhen carried so far as to comprehend government in all its ages and\nsituations, is entirely erroneous; and I maintain, that though the duty\nof allegiance be at first grafted on the obligation of promises, and be\nfor some time supported by that obligation, yet it quickly takes root\nof itself, and has an original obligation and authority, independent\nof all contracts. This is a principle of moment, which we must examine\nwith care and attention, before we proceed any farther.\n\n'Tis reasonable for those philosophers who assert justice to be a\nnatural virtue, and antecedent to human conventions, to resolve all\ncivil allegiance into the obligation of a promise, and assert that 'tis\nour own consent alone which binds us to any submission to magistracy.\nFor as all government is plainly an invention of men, and the origin of\nmost governments is known in history, 'tis necessary to mount higher,\nin order to find the source of our political duties, if we would assert\nthem to have any _natural_ obligation of morality. These philosophers,\ntherefore, quickly observe, that society is as ancient as the human\nspecies, and those three fundamental laws of nature as ancient as\nsociety; so that, taking advantage of the antiquity and obscure origin\nof these laws, they first deny them to be artificial and voluntary\ninventions of men, and then seek to ingraft on them those other duties\nwhich are more plainly artificial. But being once undeceived in this\nparticular, and having found that _natural_ as well as _civil_ justice\nderives its origin from human conventions, we shall quickly perceive\nhow fruitless it is to resolve the one into the other, and seek, in the\nlaws of nature, a stronger foundation for our political duties than\ninterest and human conventions; while these laws themselves are built\non the very same foundation. On whichever side we turn this subject,\nwe shall find that these two kinds of duty are exactly on the same\nfooting, and have the same source both of their _first invention_ and\n_moral obligation_. They are contrived to remedy like inconveniences,\nand acquire their moral sanction in the same manner, from their\nremedying those inconveniences. These are two points which we shall\nendeavour to prove as distinctly as possible.\n\nWe have already shown, that men _invented_ the three fundamental\nlaws of nature, when they observed the necessity of society to their\nmutual subsistence, and found that 'twas impossible to maintain any\ncorrespondence together, without some restraint on their natural\nappetites. The same self-love, therefore, which renders men so\nincommodious to each other, taking a new and more convenient direction,\nproduces the rules of justice, and is the _first_ motive of their\nobservance. But when men have observed, that though the rules of\njustice be sufficient to maintain any society, yet 'tis impossible\nfor them, of themselves, to observe those rules in large and polished\nsocieties; they establish government as a new invention to attain\ntheir ends, and preserve the old, or procure new advantages, by a more\nstrict execution of justice. So far, therefore, our _civil_ duties are\nconnected with our _natural_, that the former are invented chiefly for\nthe sake of the latter; and that the principal object of government\nis to constrain men to observe the laws of nature. In this respect,\nhowever, that law of nature, concerning the performance of promises, is\nonly comprised along with the rest; and its exact observance is to be\nconsidered as an effect of the institution of government, and not the\nobedience to government as an effect of the obligation of a promise.\nThough the object of our civil duties be the enforcing of our natural,\nyet the _first_[9] motive of the invention, as well as performance\nof both, is nothing but self-interest; and since there is a separate\ninterest in the obedience to government, from that in the performance\nof promises, we must also allow of a separate obligation. To obey the\ncivil magistrate is requisite to preserve order and concord in society.\nTo perform promises is requisite to beget mutual trust and confidence\nin the common offices of life. The ends, as well as the means, are\nperfectly distinct; nor is the one subordinate to the other.\n\nTo make this more evident, let us consider, that men will often bind\nthemselves by promises to the performance of what it would have been\ntheir interest to perform, independent of these promises; as when they\nwould give others a fuller security, by superadding a new obligation\nof interest to that which they formerly lay under. The interest in the\nperformance of promises, besides its moral obligation, is general,\navowed, and of the last consequence in life. Other interests may be\nmore particular and doubtful; and we are apt to entertain a greater\nsuspicion, that men may indulge their humour or passion in acting\ncontrary to them. Here, therefore, promises come naturally in play, and\nare often required for fuller satisfaction and security. But supposing\nthose other interests to be as general and avowed as the interest in\nthe performance of a promise, they will be regarded as on the same\nfooting, and men will begin to repose the same confidence in them. Now\nthis is exactly the case with regard to our civil duties, or obedience\nto the magistrate; without which no government could subsist, nor any\npeace or order be maintained in large societies, where there are so\nmany possessions on the one hand, and so many wants, real or imaginary,\non the other. Our civil duties, therefore, must soon detach themselves\nfrom our promises, and acquire a separate force and influence. The\ninterest in both is of the very same kind; 'tis general, avowed,\nand prevails in all times and places. There is, then, no pretext of\nreason for founding the one upon the other, while each of them has a\nfoundation peculiar to itself. We might as well resolve the obligation\nto abstain from the possessions of others, into the obligation of a\npromise, as that of allegiance. The interests are not more distinct in\nthe one case than the other. A regard to property is not more necessary\nto natural society, than obedience is to civil society or government;\nnor is the former society more necessary to the being of mankind,\nthan the latter to their well-being and happiness. In short, if the\nperformance of promises be advantageous, so is obedience to government;\nif the former interest be general, so is the latter; if the one\ninterest be obvious and avowed, so is the other. And as these two rules\nare founded on like obligations of interest, each of them must have a\npeculiar authority, independent of the other.\n\nBut 'tis not only the _natural_ obligations of interest, which are\ndistinct in promises and allegiance; but also the _moral_ obligations\nof honour and conscience: nor does the merit or demerit of the one\ndepend in the least upon that of the other. And, indeed, if we consider\nthe close connexion there is betwixt the natural and moral obligations,\nwe shall find this conclusion to be entirely unavoidable. Our interest\nis always engaged on the side of obedience to magistracy; and there is\nnothing but a great present advantage that can lead us to rebellion, by\nmaking us overlook the remote interest which we have in the preserving\nof peace and order in society. But though a present interest may thus\nblind us with regard to our own actions, it takes not place with regard\nto those of others; nor hinders them from appearing in their true\ncolours, as highly prejudicial to public interest, and to our own in\nparticular. This naturally gives us an uneasiness, in considering such\nseditious and disloyal actions, and makes us attach to them the idea\nof vice and moral deformity. 'Tis the same principle which causes us\nto disapprove of all kinds of private injustice, and, in particular,\nof the breach of promises. We blame all treachery and breach of faith;\nbecause we consider, that the freedom and extent of human commerce\ndepend entirely on a fidelity with regard to promises. We blame all\ndisloyalty to magistrates; because we perceive that the execution of\njustice, in the stability of possession, its translation by consent,\nand the performance of promises, is impossible, without submission to\ngovernment. As there are here two interests entirely distinct from each\nother, they must give rise to two moral obligations, equally separate\nand independent. Though there was no such thing as a promise in the\nworld, government would still be necessary in all large and civilized\nsocieties; and if promises had only their own proper obligation,\nwithout the separate sanction of government, they would have but little\nefficacy in such societies. This separates the boundaries of our public\nand private duties, and shows that the latter are more dependent on the\nformer, than the former on the latter. _Education_, and _the artifice\nof politicians_, concur to bestow a farther morality on loyalty, and to\nbrand all rebellion with a greater degree of guilt and infamy. Nor is\nit a wonder that politicians should be very industrious in inculcating\nsuch notions, where their interest is so particularly concerned.\n\nLest those arguments should not appear entirely conclusive (as I think\nthey are), I shall have recourse to authority, and shall prove, from\nthe universal consent of mankind, that the obligation of submission to\ngovernment is not derived from any promise of the subjects. Nor need\nany one wonder, that though I have all along endeavoured to establish\nmy system on pure reason, and have scarce ever cited the judgment even\nof philosophers or historians on any article, I should now appeal to\npopular authority, and oppose the sentiments of the rabble to any\nphilosophical reasoning. For it must be observed, that the opinions of\nmen, in this case, carry with them a peculiar authority, and are, in\na great measure, infallible. The distinction of moral good and evil\nis founded on the pleasure or pain which results from the view of any\nsentiment or character; and, as that pleasure or pain cannot be unknown\nto the person who feels it, it follows,[10] that there is just so much\nvice or virtue in any character as every one places in it, and that\n'tis impossible in this particular we can ever be mistaken. And, though\nour judgments concerning the _origin_ of any vice or virtue, be not so\ncertain as those concerning their _degrees_, yet, since the question in\nthis case regards not any philosophical origin of an obligation, but a\nplain matter of fact, 'tis not easily conceived how we can fall into\nan error. A man who acknowledges himself to be bound to another for\na certain sum, must certainly know whether it be by his own bond, or\nthat of his father; whether it be of his mere good will, or for money\nlent him; and under what conditions, and for what purposes, he has\nbound himself. In like manner, it being certain that there is a moral\nobligation to submit to government, because everyone thinks so; it must\nbe as certain that this obligation arises not from a promise; since no\none, whose judgment has not been led astray by too strict adherence to\na system of philosophy, has ever yet dreamt of ascribing it to that\norigin. Neither magistrates nor subjects have formed this idea of our\ncivil duties.\n\nWe find, that magistrates are so far from deriving their authority, and\nthe obligation to obedience in their subjects, from the foundation of\na promise or original contract, that they conceal, as far as possible,\nfrom their people, especially from the vulgar, that they have their\norigin from thence. Were this the sanction of government, our rulers\nwould never receive it tacitly, which is the utmost that can be\npretended; since what is given tacitly and insensibly, can never have\nsuch influence on mankind as what is performed expressly and openly.\nA tacit promise is, where the will is signified by other more diffuse\nsigns than those of speech; but a will there must certainly be in the\ncase, and that can never escape the person's notice who exerted it,\nhowever silent or tacit. But were you to ask the far greatest part of\nthe nation, whether they had ever consented to the authority of their\nrulers, or promised to obey them, they would be inclined to think very\nstrangely of you; and would certainly reply, that the affair depended\nnot on their consent, but that they were born to such an obedience.\nIn consequence of this opinion, we frequently see them imagine such\npersons to be their natural rulers, as are at that time deprived of\nall power and authority, and whom no man, however foolish, would\nvoluntarily choose; and this merely because they are in that line\nwhich ruled before, and in that decree of it which used to succeed:\nthough perhaps in so distant a period, that scarce any man alive could\never have given any promise of obedience. Has a government, then, no\nauthority over such as these, because they never consented to it,\nand would esteem the very attempt of such a free choice a piece of\narrogance and impiety? We find by experience, that it punishes them\nvery freely for what it calls treason and rebellion, which, it seems,\naccording to this system, reduces itself to common injustice. If you\nsay, that by dwelling in its dominions, they in effect consented to\nthe established government, I answer, that this can only be where they\nthink the affair depends on their choice, which few or none beside\nthose philosophers have ever yet imagined. It never was pleaded as an\nexcuse for a rebel, that the first act he performed, after he came\nto years of discretion, was to levy war against the sovereign of the\nstate; and that, while he was a child he could not bind himself by his\nown consent, and having become a man, showed plainly, by the first act\nhe performed, that he had no design to impose on himself any obligation\nto obedience. We find, on the contrary, that civil laws punish this\ncrime at the same age as any other which is criminal of itself,\nwithout our consent; that is, when the person is come to the full use\nof reason: whereas to this crime it ought in justice to allow some\nintermediate time, in which a tacit consent at least might be supposed.\nTo which we may add, that a man living under an absolute government\nwould owe it no allegiance; since, by its very nature, it depends not\non consent. But as that is as _natural_ and _common_ a government as\nany, it must certainly occasion some obligation; and 'tis plain from\nexperience, that men who are subjected to it do always think so. This\nis a clear proof, that we do not commonly esteem our allegiance to\nbe derived from our consent or promise; and a farther proof is, that\nwhen our promise is upon any account expressly engaged, we always\ndistinguish exactly betwixt the two obligations, and believe the one to\nadd more force to the other, than in a repetition of the same promise.\nWhere no promise is given, a man looks not on his faith as broken\nin private matters, upon account of rebellion; but keeps those two\nduties of honour and allegiance perfectly distinct and separate. As\nthe uniting of them was thought by these philosophers a very subtile\ninvention, this is a convincing proof that 'tis not a true one; since\nno man can either give a promise, or be restrained by its sanction and\nobligation, unknown to himself.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IX.\n\nOF THE MEASURES OF ALLEGIANCE.\n\n\nThose political writers who have had recourse to a promise, or original\ncontract, as the source of our allegiance to government, intended\nto establish a principle which is perfectly just and reasonable;\nthough the reasoning upon which they endeavoured to establish it, was\nfallacious and sophistical. They would prove, that our submission to\ngovernment admits of exceptions, and that an egregious tyranny in the\nrulers is sufficient to free the subjects from all ties of allegiance.\nSince men enter into society, say they, and submit themselves to\ngovernment by their free and voluntary consent, they must have in\nview certain advantages which they, propose to reap from it, and for\nwhich they are contented to resign their native liberty. There is\ntherefore something mutual engaged on the part of the magistrate,\nviz. protection and security; and 'tis only by the hopes he affords\nof these advantages, that he can ever persuade men to submit to him.\nBut when, instead of protection and security, they meet with tyranny\nand oppression, they are freed from their promises, (as happens in\nall conditional contracts), and return to that state of liberty\nwhich preceded the institution of government. Men would never be so\nfoolish as to enter into such engagements as should turn entirely\nto the advantage of others, without any view of bettering their own\ncondition. Whoever proposes to draw any profit from our submission,\nmust engage himself, either expressly or tacitly, to make us reap some\nadvantage from his authority; nor ought he to expect, that, without the\nperformance of his part, we will ever continue in obedience.\n\nI repeat it: This conclusion is just, though the principles be\nerroneous; and I flatter myself, that I can establish the same\nconclusion on more reasonable principles. I shall not take such a\ncompass, in establishing our political duties, as to assert that men\nperceive the advantages of government; that they institute government\nwith a view to those advantages; that this institution requires a\npromise of obedience, which imposes a moral obligation to a certain\ndegree, but, being conditional, ceases to be binding whenever the other\ncontracting party performs not his part of the engagement. I perceive,\nthat a promise itself arises entirely from human conventions, and is\ninvented with a view to a certain interest. I seek, therefore, some\nsuch interest more immediately connected with government, and which may\nbe at once the original motive to its institution, and the source of\nour obedience to it. This interest I find to consist in the security\nand protection which we enjoy in political society, and which we can\nnever attain when perfectly free and independent. As the interest,\ntherefore, is the immediate sanction of government, the one can have no\nlonger being than the other; and whenever the civil magistrate carries\nhis oppression so far as to render his authority perfectly intolerable,\nwe are no longer bound to submit to it. The cause ceases; the effect\nmust cease also.\n\nSo far the conclusion is immediate and direct, concerning the _natural_\nobligation which we have to allegiance. As to the _moral_ obligation,\nwe may observe, that the maxim would here be false, that _when the\ncause ceases the effect must cease also_. For there is a principle\nof human nature, which we have frequently taken notice of, that men\nare mightily addicted to _general rules_, and that we often carry our\nmaxims beyond those reasons which first induced us to establish them.\nWhere cases are similar in many circumstances, we are apt to put them\non the same footing, without considering that they differ in the most\nmaterial circumstances, and that the resemblance is more apparent than\nreal. It may therefore be thought, that, in the case of allegiance,\nour moral obligation of duty will not cease, even though the natural\nobligation of interest, which is its cause, has ceased; and that men\nmay be bound by _conscience_ to submit to a tyrannical government,\nagainst their own and the public interest. And indeed, to the force of\nthis argument I so far submit, as to acknowledge, that general rules\ncommonly extend beyond the principles on which they are founded; and\nthat we seldom make any exception to them, unless that exception have\nthe qualities of a general rule, and be founded on very numerous and\ncommon instances. Now this I assert to be entirely the present case.\nWhen men submit to the authority of others, 'tis to procure themselves\nsome security against the wickedness and injustice of men, who are\nperpetually carried, by their unruly passions, and by their present\nand immediate interest, to the violation of all the laws of society.\nBut as this imperfection is inherent in human nature, we know that it\nmust attend men in all their states and conditions; and that those\nwhom we choose for rulers, do not immediately become of a superior\nnature to the rest of mankind, upon account of their superior power and\nauthority. What we expect from them depends not on a change of their\nnature, but of their situation, when they acquire a more immediate\ninterest in the preservation of order and the execution of justice.\nBut, besides that this interest is only more immediate in the execution\nof justice among their subjects; besides this, I say, we may often\nexpect, from the irregularity of human nature, that they will neglect\neven this immediate interest, and be transported by their passions\ninto all the excesses of cruelty and ambition. Our general knowledge\nof human nature, our observation of the past history of mankind,\nour experience of present times; all these causes must induce us to\nopen the door of exceptions, and must make us conclude, that we may\nresist the more violent effects of supreme power without any crime or\ninjustice.\n\nAccordingly we may observe, that this is both the general practice and\nprinciple of mankind, and that no nation that could find any remedy,\never yet suffered the cruel ravages of a tyrant, or were blamed for\ntheir resistance. Those who took up arms against Dionysius or Nero, or\nPhilip the Second, have the favour of every reader in the perusal of\ntheir history; and nothing but the most violent perversion of common\nsense can ever lead us to condemn them. 'Tis certain, therefore, that\nin all our notions of morals, we never entertain such an absurdity\nas that of passive obedience, but make allowances for resistance in\nthe more flagrant instances of tyranny and oppression. The general\nopinion of mankind has some authority in all cases; but in this of\nmorals 'tis perfectly infallible. Nor is it less infallible, because\nmen cannot distinctly explain the principles on which it is founded.\nFew persons can carry on this train of reasoning: 'Government is a mere\nhuman invention for the interest of society. Where the tyranny of the\ngovernor removes this interest, it also removes the natural obligation\nto obedience. The moral obligation is founded on the natural, and\ntherefore must cease where _that_ ceases; especially where the subject\nis such as makes us foresee very many occasions wherein the natural\nobligation may cease, and causes us to form a kind of general rule for\nthe regulation of our conduct in such occurrences.' But though this\ntrain of reasoning be too subtile for the vulgar, 'tis certain that\nall men have an implicit notion of it, and are sensible that they owe\nobedience to government merely on account of the public interest; and,\nat the same time, that human nature is so subject to frailties and\npassions, as may easily pervert this institution, and change their\ngovernors into tyrants and public enemies. If the sense of public\ninterest were not our original motive to obedience, I would fain ask,\nwhat other principle is there in human nature capable of subduing\nthe natural ambition of men, and forcing them to such a submission?\nImitation and custom are not sufficient. For the question still recurs,\nwhat motive first produces those instances of submission which we\nimitate, and that train of actions which produces the custom? There\nevidently is no other principle than public interest; and if interest\nfirst produces obedience to government, the obligation to obedience\nmust cease whenever the interest ceases in any great degree, and in a\nconsiderable number of instances.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION X.\n\nOF THE OBJECTS OF ALLEGIANCE.\n\n\nBut though, on some occasions, it may be justifiable, both in sound\npolitics and morality, to resist supreme power, 'tis certain that, in\nthe ordinary course of human affairs, nothing can be more pernicious\nand criminal; and that, besides the convulsions which always attend\nrevolutions, such a practice tends directly to the subversion of\nall government, and the causing an universal anarchy and confusion\namong mankind. As numerous and civilized societies cannot subsist\nwithout government, so government is entirely useless without an exact\nobedience. We ought always to weigh the advantages which we reap from\nauthority, against the disadvantages: and by this means we shall become\nmore scrupulous of putting in practice the doctrine of resistance. The\ncommon rule requires submission; and 'tis only in cases of grievous\ntyranny and oppression, that the exception can take place.\n\nSince, then, such a blind submission is commonly due to magistracy,\nthe next question is, _to whom it is due, and whom we are to regard\nas our lawful magistrates_? In order to answer this question, let us\nrecollect what we have already established concerning the origin of\ngovernment and political society. When men have once experienced the\nimpossibility of preserving any steady order in society, while every\none is his own master, and violates or observes the laws of interest,\naccording to his present interest or pleasure, they naturally run into\nthe invention of government, and put it out of their own power, as far\nas possible, to transgress the laws of society. Government, therefore,\narises from the voluntary convention of men; and 'tis evident, that the\nsame convention which establishes government, will also determine the\npersons who are to govern, and will remove all doubt and ambiguity in\nthis particular. And the voluntary consent of men must here have the\ngreater efficacy, that the authority of the magistrate does _at first_\nstand upon the foundation of a promise of the subjects, by which they\nbind themselves to obedience, as in every other contract or engagement.\nThe same promise, then, which binds them to obedience, ties them down\nto a particular person, and makes him the object of their allegiance.\n\nBut when government has been established on this footing for some\nconsiderable time, and the separate interest which we have in\nsubmission has produced a separate sentiment of morality, the case\nis entirely altered, and a promise is no longer able to determine\nthe particular magistrate; since it is no longer considered as the\nfoundation of government. We naturally suppose ourselves born to\nsubmission; and imagine that such particular persons have a right to\ncommand, as we on our part are bound to obey. These notions of right\nand obligation are derived from nothing but the _advantage_ we reap\nfrom government, which gives us a repugnance to practise resistance\nourselves, and makes us displeased with any instance of it in others.\nBut here 'tis remarkable, that in this new state of affairs, the\noriginal sanction of government, which is _interest_, is not admitted\nto determine the persons whom we are to obey, as the original sanction\ndid at first, when affairs were on the footing of a _promise_. A\n_promise_ fixes and determines the persons, without any uncertainty:\nbut 'tis evident, that if men were to regulate their conduct in this\nparticular, by the view of a peculiar _interest_, either public or\nprivate, they would involve themselves in endless confusion, and\nwould render all government, in a great measure, ineffectual. The\nprivate interest of every one is different; and, though the public\ninterest in itself be always one and the same, yet it becomes the\nsource of as great dissensions, by reason of the different opinions\nof particular persons concerning it. The same interest, therefore,\nwhich causes us to submit to magistracy, makes us renounce itself in\nthe choice of our magistrates, and binds us down to a certain form of\ngovernment, and to particular persons, without allowing us to aspire\nto the utmost perfection in either. The case is here the same as\nin that law of nature concerning the stability of possession. 'Tis\nhighly advantageous, and even absolutely necessary to society, that\npossession should be stable; and this leads us to the establishment of\nsuch a rule: but we find, that were we to follow the same advantage,\nin assigning particular possessions to particular persons, we should\ndisappoint our end, and perpetuate the confusion which that rule is\nintended to prevent. We must therefore proceed by general rules, and\nregulate ourselves by general interests, in modifying the law of\nnature concerning the stability of possession. Nor need we fear, that\nour attachment to this law will diminish upon account of the seeming\nfrivolousness of those interests by which it is determined. The\nimpulse of the mind is derived from a very strong interest; and those\nother more minute interests serve only to direct the motion, without\nadding any thing to it, or diminishing from it. 'Tis the same case\nwith government. Nothing is more advantageous to society than such\nan invention; and this interest is sufficient to make us embrace it\nwith ardour and alacrity; though we are obliged afterwards to regulate\nand direct our devotion to government by several considerations which\nare not of the same importance, and to choose our magistrates without\nhaving in view any particular advantage from the choice.\n\nThe _first_ of those principles I shall take notice of, as a foundation\nof the right of magistracy, is that which gives authority to all the\nmost established governments of the world, without exception: I mean,\n_long possession_ in any one form of government, or succession of\nprinces. 'Tis certain, that if we remount to the first origin of every\nnation, we shall find, that there scarce is any race of kings, or form\nof a commonwealth, that is not primarily founded on usurpation and\nrebellion, and whose title is not at first worse than doubtful and\nuncertain. Time alone gives solidity to their right; and, operating\ngradually on the minds of men, reconciles them to any authority, and\nmakes it seem just and reasonable. Nothing causes any sentiment to have\na greater influence upon us than custom, or turns our imagination more\nstrongly to any object. When we have been long accustomed to obey any\nset of men, that general instinct or tendency which we have to suppose\na moral obligation attending loyalty, takes easily this direction, and\nchooses that set of men for its objects. 'Tis interest which gives the\ngeneral instinct; but 'tis custom which gives the particular direction.\n\nAnd here 'tis observable, that the same length of time has a different\ninfluence on our sentiments of morality, according to its different\ninfluence on the mind. We naturally judge of every thing by comparison;\nand since, in considering the fate of kingdoms and republics, we\nembrace a long extent of time, a small duration has not, in this\ncase, a like influence on our sentiments, as when we consider any\nother object. One thinks he acquires a right to a horse, or a suit\nof clothes, in a very short time; but a century is scarce sufficient\nto establish any new government, or remove all scruples in the minds\nof the subjects concerning it. Add to this, that a shorter period of\ntime will suffice to give a prince a title to any additional power\nhe may usurp, than will serve to fix his right, where the whole\nis an usurpation. The kings of France have not been possessed of\nabsolute power for above two reigns; and yet nothing will appear\nmore extravagant to Frenchmen than to talk of their liberties. If we\nconsider what has been said concerning _accession_, we shall easily\naccount for this phenomenon.\n\nWhen there is no form of government established by _long_ possession,\nthe _present_ possession is sufficient to supply its place, and may\nbe regarded as the _second_ source of all public authority. Right\nto authority is nothing but the constant possession of authority,\nmaintained by the laws of society and the interests of mankind; and\nnothing can be more natural than to join this constant possession to\nthe present one, according to the principles above mentioned. If the\nsame principles did not take place with regard to the property of\nprivate persons, 'twas because these principles were counterbalanced\nby very strong considerations of interest; when we observed, that all\nrestitution would by that means be prevented, and every violence be\nauthorized and protected. And, though the same motives may seem to\nhave force with regard to public authority, yet they are opposed by a\ncontrary interest; which consists in the preservation of peace, and the\navoiding of all changes, which, however they may be easily produced in\nprivate affairs, are unavoidably attended with bloodshed and confusion\nwhere the public is interested.\n\nAny one who, finding the impossibility of accounting for the right of\nthe present possessor, by any received system of ethics, should resolve\nto deny absolutely that right, and assert that it is not authorized\nby morality, would be justly thought to maintain a very extravagant\nparadox, and to shock the common sense and judgment of mankind. No\nmaxim is more conformable, both to prudence and morals, than to\nsubmit quietly to the government which we find established in the\ncountry where we happen to live, without inquiring too curiously into\nits origin and first establishment. Few governments will bear being\nexamined so rigorously. How many kingdoms are there at present in the\nworld, and how many more do we find in history, whose governors have no\nbetter foundation for their authority than that of present possession!\nTo confine ourselves to the Roman and Grecian empire; is it not\nevident, that the long succession of emperors, from the dissolution\nof the Roman liberty, to the final extinction of that empire by the\nTurks, could not so much as pretend to any other title to the empire?\nThe election of the senate was a mere form, which always followed the\nchoice of the legions; and these were almost always divided in the\ndifferent provinces, and nothing but the sword was able to terminate\nthe difference. 'Twas by the sword, therefore, that every emperor\nacquired, as well as defended, his right; and we must either say, that\nall the known world, for so many ages, had no government, and owed no\nallegiance to any one, or must allow, that the right of the stronger,\nin public affairs, is to be received as legitimate, and authorized by\nmorality, when not opposed by any other title.\n\nThe right of _conquest_ may be considered as a _third_ source of the\ntitle of sovereigns. This right resembles very much that of present\npossession, but has rather a superior force, being seconded by the\nnotions of glory and honour which we ascribe to _conquerors_, instead\nof the sentiments of hatred and detestation which attend _usurpers_.\nMen naturally favour those they love; and therefore are more apt to\nascribe a right to successful violence, betwixt one sovereign and\nanother, than to the successful rebellion of a subject against his\nsovereign.[11]\n\nWhen neither long possession, nor present possession, nor conquest take\nplace, as when the first sovereign who founded any monarchy dies; in\nthat case, the right of _succession_ naturally prevails in their stead,\nand men are commonly induced to place the son of their late monarch\non the throne, and suppose him to inherit his father's authority. The\npresumed consent of the father, the imitation of the succession to\nprivate families, the interest which the state has in choosing the\nperson who is most powerful and has the most numerous followers; all\nthese reasons lead men to prefer the son of their late monarch to any\nother person.[12]\n\nThese reasons have some weight; but I am persuaded, that, to one who\nconsiders impartially of the matter, 'twill appear that there concur\nsome principles of the imagination along with those views of interest.\nThe royal authority seems to be connected with the young prince even in\nhis father's lifetime, by the natural transition of the thought, and\nstill more after his death; so that nothing is more natural than to\ncomplete this union by a new relation, and by putting him actually in\npossession of what seems so naturally to belong to him.\n\nTo confirm this, we may weigh the following phenomena, which are\npretty curious in their kind. In elective monarchies, the right of\nsuccession has no place by the laws and settled custom; and yet its\ninfluence is so natural, that 'tis impossible entirely to exclude it\nfrom the imagination, and render the subjects indifferent to the son\nof their deceased monarch. Hence, in some governments of this kind,\nthe choice commonly falls on one or other of the royal family; and\nin some governments they are all excluded. Those contrary phenomena\nproceed from the same principle. Where the royal family is excluded,\n'tis from a refinement in politics, which makes people sensible of\ntheir propensity to choose a sovereign in that family, and gives them\na jealousy of their liberty, lest their new monarch, aided by this\npropensity, should establish his family, and destroy the freedom of\nelections for the future.\n\nThe history of Artaxerxes and the younger Cyrus, may furnish us with\nsome reflections to the same purpose. Cyrus pretended a right to the\nthrone above his elder brother, because he was born after his father's\naccession. I do not pretend that this reason was valid. I would only\ninfer from it, that he would never have made use of such a pretext,\nwere it not for the qualities of the imagination above-mentioned, by\nwhich we are naturally inclined to unite by a new relation whatever\nobjects we find already united. Artaxerxes had an advantage above his\nbrother, as being the eldest son, and the first in succession; but\nCyrus was more closely related to the royal authority, as being begot\nafter his father was invested with it.\n\nShould it here be pretended, that the view of convenience may be\nthe source of all the right of succession, and that men gladly take\nadvantage of any rule by which they can fix the successor of their\nlate sovereign, and prevent that anarchy and confusion which attends\nall new elections; to this I would answer, that I readily allow that\nthis motive may contribute something to the effect; but at the same\ntime I assert, that, without another principle, 'tis impossible such\na motive should take place. The interest of a nation requires that the\nsuccession to the crown should be fixed one way or other; but 'tis the\nsame thing to its interest in what way it be fixed; so that if the\nrelation of blood had not an effect independent of public interest, it\nwould never have been regarded without a positive law; and 'twould have\nbeen impossible that so many positive laws of different nations could\never have concurred precisely in the same views and intentions.\n\nThis leads us to consider the _fifth_ source of authority, viz.\n_positive laws_, when the legislature establishes a certain form\nof government and succession of princes. At first sight, it may be\nthought that this must resolve into some of the preceding titles of\nauthority. The legislative power, whence the positive law is derived,\nmust either be established by original contract, long possession,\npresent possession, conquest, or succession; and consequently the\npositive law must derive its force from some of those principles. But\nhere 'tis remarkable, that though a positive law can only derive its\nforce from these principles, yet it acquires not all the force of the\nprinciple from whence it is derived, but loses considerably in the\ntransition, as it is natural to imagine. For instance, a government is\nestablished for many centuries on a certain system of laws, forms, and\nmethods of succession. The legislative power, established by this long\nsuccession, changes, all on a sudden, the whole system of government,\nand introduces a new constitution in its stead. I believe few of the\nsubjects will think themselves bound to comply with this alteration,\nunless it have an evident tendency to the public good, but will think\nthemselves still at liberty to return to the ancient government. Hence\nthe notion of _fundamental_ laws, which are supposed to be unalterable\nby the will of the sovereign; and of this nature the Salic law is\nunderstood to be in France. How far these fundamental laws extend, is\nnot determined in any government, nor is it possible it ever should.\nThere is such an insensible gradation from the most material laws to\nthe most trivial, and from the most ancient laws to the most modern,\nthat 'twill be impossible to set bounds to the legislative power, and\ndetermine how far it may innovate in the principles of government. That\nis the work more of imagination and passion than of reason.\n\nWhoever considers the history of the several nations of the world,\ntheir revolutions, conquests, increase and diminution, the manner in\nwhich their particular governments are established, and the successive\nright transmitted from one person to another, will soon learn to treat\nvery lightly all disputes concerning the rights of princes, and will be\nconvinced that a strict adherence to any general rules, and the rigid\nloyalty to particular persons and families, on which some people set\nso high a value, are virtues that hold less of reason than of bigotry\nand superstition. In this particular, the study of history confirms the\nreasonings of true philosophy, which, showing us the original qualities\nof human nature, teaches us to regard the controversies in politics as\nincapable of any decision in most cases, and as entirely subordinate\nto the interests of peace and liberty. Where the public good does\nnot evidently demand a change, 'tis certain that the concurrence\nof all those titles, _original contract, long possession, present\npossession, succession_, and _positive laws_, forms the strongest title\nto sovereignty, and is justly regarded as sacred and inviolable. But\nwhen these titles are mingled and opposed in different degrees, they\noften occasion perplexity, and are less capable of solution from the\narguments of lawyers and philosophers, than from the swords of the\nsoldiery. Who shall tell me, for instance, whether Germanicus or Drusus\nought to have succeeded Tiberius, had he died while they were both\nalive, without naming any of them for his successor? Ought the right\nof adoption to be received as equivalent to that of blood, in a nation\nwhere it had the same effect in private families, and had already,\nin two instances, taken place in the public? Ought Germanicus to be\nesteemed the eldest son, because he was born before Drusus; or the\nyounger, because he was adopted after the birth of his brother? Ought\nthe right of the elder to be regarded in a nation, where the eldest\nbrother had no advantage in the succession to private families? Ought\nthe Roman empire at that time to be esteemed hereditary, because of two\nexamples; or ought it, even so early, to be regarded as belonging to\nthe stronger, or the present possessor, as being founded on so recent\nan usurpation? Upon whatever principles we may pretend to answer these\nand such like questions, I am afraid we shall never be able to satisfy\nan impartial inquirer, who adopts no party in political controversies,\nand will be satisfied with nothing but sound reason and philosophy.\n\nBut here an English reader will be apt to inquire concerning that\nfamous _revolution_ which has had such a happy influence on our\nconstitution, and has been attended with such mighty consequences.\nWe have already remarked, that, in the case of enormous tyranny and\noppression, 'tis lawful to take arms even against supreme power; and\nthat, as government is a mere human invention, for mutual advantage\nand security, it no longer imposes any obligation, either natural or\nmoral, when once it ceases to have that tendency. But though this\n_general_ principle be authorized by common sense, and the practice\nof all ages, 'tis certainly impossible for the laws, or even for\nphilosophy, to establish any _particular_ rules by which we may\nknow when resistance is lawful, and decide all controversies which\nmay arise on that subject. This may not only happen with regard to\nsupreme power, but 'tis possible, even in some constitutions, where\nthe legislative authority is not lodged in one person, that there\nmay be a magistrate so eminent and powerful as to oblige the laws to\nkeep silence in this particular. Nor would this silence be an effect\nonly of their _respect_, but also of their _prudence_; since 'tis\ncertain, that, in the vast variety of circumstances which occur in\nall governments, an exercise of power, in so great a magistrate, may\nat one time be beneficial to the public, which at another time would\nbe pernicious and tyrannical. But notwithstanding this silence of\nthe laws in limited monarchies, 'tis certain that the people still\nretain the right of resistance; since 'tis impossible, even in the\nmost despotic governments, to deprive them of it. The same necessity\nof self-preservation, and the same motive of public good, give them\nthe same liberty in the one case as in the other. And we may farther\nobserve, that in such mixed governments, the cases wherein resistance\nis lawful must occur much oftener, and greater indulgence be given to\nthe subjects to defend themselves by force of arms, than in arbitrary\ngovernments. Not only where the chief magistrate enters into measures\nin themselves extremely pernicious to the public, but even when he\nwould encroach on the other parts of the constitution, and extend his\npower beyond the legal bounds, it is allowable to resist and dethrone\nhim; though such resistance and violence may, in the general tenor of\nthe laws, be deemed unlawful and rebellious. For, besides that nothing\nis more essential to public interest than the preservation of public\nliberty, 'tis evident, that if such a mixed government be once supposed\nto be established, every part or member of the constitution must have\na right of self-defence, and of maintaining its ancient bounds against\nthe encroachment of every other authority. As matter would have been\ncreated in vain, were it deprived of a power of resistance, without\nwhich no part of it could preserve a distinct existence, and the whole\nmight be crowded up into a single point; so 'tis a gross absurdity to\nsuppose, in any government, a right without a remedy, or allow that the\nsupreme power is shared with the people, without allowing that 'tis\nlawful for them to defend their share against every invader. Those,\ntherefore, who would seem to respect our free government, and yet deny\nthe right of resistance, have renounced all pretensions to common\nsense, and do not merit a serious answer.\n\nIt does not belong to my present purpose to show, that these general\nprinciples are applicable to the late _revolution_; and that all the\nrights and privileges which ought to be sacred to a free nation, were\nat that time threatened with the utmost danger. I am better pleased to\nleave this controverted subject, if it really admits of controversy,\nand to indulge myself in some philosophical reflections which naturally\narise from that important event.\n\n_First_, We may observe, that should the _lords_ and _commons_ in our\nconstitution, without any reason from public interest, either depose\nthe king in being, or, after his death, exclude the prince, who, by\nlaws and settled custom, ought to succeed, no one would esteem their\nproceedings legal, or think themselves bound to comply with them.\nBut should the king, by his unjust practices, or his attempts for a\ntyrannical and despotic power, justly forfeit his legal, it then not\nonly becomes morally lawful and suitable to the nature of political\nsociety to dethrone him; but, what is more, we are apt likewise to\nthink, that the remaining members of the constitution acquire a right\nof excluding his next heir, and of choosing whom they please for his\nsuccessor. This is founded on a very singular quality of our thought\nand imagination. When a king forfeits his authority, his heir ought\nnaturally to remain in the same situation as if the king were removed\nby death; unless by mixing himself in the tyranny, he forfeit it for\nhimself. But though this may seem reasonable, we easily comply with the\ncontrary opinion. The deposition of a king, in such a government as\nours, is certainly an act beyond all common authority; and an illegal\nassuming a power for public good, which, in the ordinary course of\ngovernment, can belong to no member of the constitution. When the\npublic good is so great and so evident as to justify the action, the\ncommendable use of this license causes us naturally to attribute to the\n_parliament_ a right of using farther licenses; and the ancient bounds\nof the laws being once transgressed with approbation, we are not apt\nto be so strict in confining ourselves precisely within their limits.\nThe mind naturally runs on with any train of action which it has begun;\nnor do we commonly make any scruple concerning our duty, after the\nfirst action of any kind which we perform. Thus at the _revolution_,\nno one who thought the deposition of the father justifiable, esteemed\nthemselves to be confined to his infant son; though, had that unhappy\nmonarch died innocent at that time, and had his son, by any accident,\nbeen conveyed beyond seas, there is no doubt but a regency would have\nbeen appointed till he should come to age, and could be restored to\nhis dominions. As the slightest properties of the imagination have\nan effect on the judgments of the people, it shows the wisdom of the\nlaws and of the parliament to take advantage of such properties, and\nto choose the magistrates either in or out of a line, according as the\nvulgar will most naturally attribute authority and right to them.\n\n_Secondly_, Though the accession of the Prince of Orange to the throne,\nmight at first give occasion to many disputes, and his title be\ncontested, it ought not now to appear doubtful, but must have acquired\na sufficient authority from those three princes who have succeeded\nhim upon the same title. Nothing is more usual, though nothing may,\nat first sight, appear more unreasonable, than this way of thinking.\nPrinces often _seem_ to acquire a right from their successors, as well\nas from their ancestors; and a king who, during his lifetime, might\njustly be deemed an usurper, will be regarded by posterity as a lawful\nprince, because he has had the good fortune to settle his family on\nthe throne, and entirely change the ancient form of government. Julius\nC\u00e6sar is regarded as the first Roman emperor; while Sylla and Marius,\nwhose titles were really the same as his, are treated as tyrants and\nusurpers. Time and custom give authority to all forms of government,\nand all successions of princes; and that power, which at first was\nfounded only on injustice and violence, becomes in time legal and\nobligatory. Nor does the mind rest there; but, returning back upon\nits footsteps, transfers to their predecessors and ancestors that\nright which it naturally ascribes to the posterity, as being related\ntogether, and united in the imagination. The present King of France\nmakes Hugh Capet a more lawful prince than Cromwell; as the established\nliberty of the Dutch is no inconsiderable apology for their obstinate\nresistance to Philip the Second.\n\n\n[10] This proposition must hold strictly true with regard to every\nquality that is determined merely by sentiment. In what sense we can\ntalk either of a _right_ or a _wrong_ taste in morals, eloquence, or\nbeauty, shall be considered afterwards. In the mean time it may be\nobserved, that there is such an uniformity in the _general_ sentiments\nof mankind, as to render such questions of but small importance.\n\n[11] It is not here asserted, that _present possession_ or _conquest_\nare sufficient to give a title against _long possession_ and _positive\nlaws_: but only that they have some force, and will be able to cast\nthe balance where the titles are otherwise equal, and will even be\nsufficient _sometimes_ to sanctify the weaker title. What degree of\nforce they have is difficult to determine. I believe all moderate men\nwill allow, that they have great force in all disputes concerning the\nrights of princes.\n\n[12] To prevent mistakes I must observe, that this case of succession\nis not the same with that of hereditary monarchies, where custom has\nfixed the right of succession. These depend upon the principle of long\npossession above explained.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION XI.\n\nOF THE LAWS OF NATIONS.\n\n\nWhen civil government has been established over the greatest part of\nmankind, and different societies have been formed contiguous to each\nother, there arises a new set of duties among the neighbouring states,\nsuitable to the nature of that commerce which they carry on with each\nother. Political writers tell us, that in every kind of intercourse\na body politic is to be considered as one person; and indeed, this\nassertion is so far just, that different nations, as well as private\npersons, require mutual assistance; at the same time that their\nselfishness and ambition are perpetual sources of war and discord. But\nthough nations in this particular resemble individuals, yet as they are\nvery different in other respects, no wonder they regulate themselves by\ndifferent maxims, and give rise to a new set of rules, which we call\n_the laws of nations_. Under this head we may comprise the sacredness\nof the persons of ambassadors, the declaration of war, the abstaining\nfrom poisoned arms, with other duties of that kind, which are evidently\ncalculated for the commerce that is peculiar to different societies.\n\nBut though these rules be superadded to the laws of nature, the former\ndo not entirely abolish the latter; and one may safely affirm, that the\nthree fundamental rules of justice, the stability of possession, its\ntransference by consent, and the performance of promises, are duties\nof princes as well as of subjects. The same interest produces the same\neffect in both cases. Where possession has no stability, there must\nbe perpetual war. Where property is not transferred by consent, there\ncan be no commerce. Where promises are not observed, there can be no\nleagues nor alliances. The advantages, therefore, of peace, commerce,\nand mutual succour, make us extend to different kingdoms the same\nnotions of justice which take place among individuals.\n\nThere is a maxim very current in the world, which few politicians are\nwilling to avow, but which has been authorized by the practice of\nall ages, _that there is a system of morals calculated for princes,\nmuch more free than that which ought to govern private persons_.\n'Tis evident this is not to be understood of the lesser _extent_ of\npublic duties and obligations; nor will any one be so extravagant as\nto assert, that the most solemn treaties ought to have no force among\nprinces. For as princes do actually form treaties among themselves,\nthey must propose some advantage from the execution of them; and the\nprospect of such advantage for the future must engage them to perform\ntheir part, and must establish that law of nature. The meaning,\ntherefore, of this political maxim is, that though the morality of\nprinces has the same _extent_, yet it has not the same _force_ as\nthat of private persons, and may lawfully be transgressed from a\nmore trivial motive. However shocking such a proposition may appear\nto certain philosophers, 'twill be easy to defend it upon those\nprinciples, by which we have accounted for the origin of justice and\nequity.\n\nWhen men have found by experience that 'tis impossible to subsist\nwithout society, and that 'tis impossible to maintain society, while\nthey give free course to their appetites; so urgent an interest\nquickly restrains their actions, and imposes an obligation to observe\nthose rules which we call _the laws of justice_. This obligation of\ninterest rests not here; but, by the necessary course of the passions\nand sentiments, gives rise to the moral obligation of duty; while we\napprove of such actions as tend to the peace of society, and disapprove\nof such as tend to its disturbance. The same _natural_ obligation of\ninterest takes place among independent kingdoms, and gives rise to\nthe same _morality_; so that no one of ever so corrupt morals will\napprove of a prince, who voluntarily, and of his own accord, breaks his\nword, or violates any treaty. But here we may observe, that though the\nintercourse of different states be advantageous, and even sometimes\nnecessary, yet it is not so necessary nor advantageous as that among\nindividuals, without which 'tis utterly impossible for human nature\never to subsist. Since, therefore, the _natural_ obligation to justice,\namong different states, is not so strong as among individuals, the\n_moral_ obligation which arises from it must partake of its weakness;\nand we must necessarily give a greater indulgence to a prince or\nminister who deceives another, than to a private gentleman who breaks\nhis word of honour.\n\nShould it be asked, _what proportion these two species of morality\nbear to each other_? I would answer, that this is a question to which\nwe can never give any precise answer; nor is it possible to reduce to\nnumbers the proportion, which we ought to fix betwixt them. One may\nsafely affirm, that this proportion finds itself without any art or\nstudy of men; as we may observe on many other occasions. The practice\nof the world goes farther in teaching us the degrees of our duty,\nthan the most subtile philosophy which was ever yet invented. And\nthis may serve as a convincing proof, that all men have an implicit\nnotion of the foundation of those moral rules concerning natural and\ncivil justice, and are sensible that they arise merely from human\nconventions, and from the interest which we have in the preservation\nof peace and order. For otherwise the diminution of the interest would\nnever produce a relaxation of the morality, and reconcile us more\neasily to any transgression of justice among princes and republics,\nthan in the private commerce of one subject with another.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION XII.\n\nOF CHASTITY AND MODESTY.\n\n\nIf any difficulty attend this system concerning the laws of nature and\nnations, 'twill be with regard to the universal approbation or blame\nwhich follows their observance or transgression, and which some may not\nthink sufficiently explained from the general interests of society.\nTo remove, as far as possible, all scruples of this kind, I shall\nhere consider another set of duties, viz. the _modesty_ and _chastity_\nwhich belong to the fair sex: and I doubt not but these virtues will be\nfound to be still more conspicuous instances of the operation of those\nprinciples which I have insisted on.\n\nThere are some philosophers who attack the female virtues with great\nvehemence, and fancy they have gone very far in detecting popular\nerrors, when they can show, that there is no foundation in nature for\nall that exterior modesty which we require in the expressions, and\ndress, and behaviour of the fair sex. I believe I may spare myself the\ntrouble of insisting on so obvious a subject, and may proceed, without\nfarther preparation, to examine after what manner such notions arise\nfrom education, from the voluntary conventions of men, and from the\ninterest of society.\n\nWhoever considers the length and feebleness of human infancy, with\nthe concern which both sexes naturally have for their offspring, will\neasily perceive, that there must be an union of male and female for the\neducation of the young, and that this union must be of considerable\nduration. But, in order to induce the men to impose on themselves this\nrestraint, and undergo cheerfully all the fatigues and expenses to\nwhich it subjects them, they must believe that their children are their\nown, and that their natural instinct is not directed to a wrong object,\nwhen they give a loose to love and tenderness. Now, if we examine the\nstructure of the human body, we shall find, that this security is very\ndifficult to be attained on our part; and that since, in the copulation\nof the sexes, the principle of generation goes from the man to the\nwoman, an error may easily take place on the side of the former, though\nit be utterly impossible with regard to the latter. From this trivial\nand anatomical observation is derived that vast difference betwixt the\neducation and duties of the two sexes.\n\nWere a philosopher to examine the matter a _priori_, he would reason\nafter the following manner. Men are induced to labour for the\nmaintenance and education of their children, by the persuasion that\nthey are really their own; and therefore 'tis reasonable, and even\nnecessary, to give them some security in this particular. This security\ncannot consist entirely in the imposing of severe punishments on any\ntransgressions of conjugal fidelity on the part of the wife; since\nthese public punishments cannot be inflicted without legal proof, which\n'tis difficult to meet with in this subject. What restraint, therefore,\nshall we impose on women, in order to counterbalance so strong a\ntemptation as they have to infidelity? There seems to be no restraint\npossible, but in the punishment of bad fame or reputation; a punishment\nwhich has a mighty influence on the human mind, and at the same time\nis inflicted by the world upon surmises and conjectures, and proofs\nthat would never be received in any court of judicature. In order,\ntherefore, to impose a due restraint on the female sex, we must attach\na peculiar degree of shame to their infidelity, above what arises\nmerely from its injustice, and must bestow proportionable praises on\ntheir chastity.\n\nBut though this be a very strong motive to fidelity, our philosopher\nwould quickly discover that it would not alone be sufficient to that\npurpose. All human creatures, especially of the female sex, are apt\nto overlook remote motives in favour of any present temptation: the\ntemptation is here the strongest imaginable; its approaches are\ninsensible and seducing; and a woman easily finds, or flatters\nherself she shall find, certain means of securing her reputation, and\npreventing all the pernicious consequences of her pleasures. 'Tis\nnecessary, therefore, that, beside the infamy attending such licenses,\nthere should be some preceding backwardness or dread, which may prevent\ntheir first approaches, and may give the female sex a repugnance to\nall expressions, and postures, and liberties, that have an immediate\nrelation to that enjoyment.\n\nSuch would be the reasonings of our speculative philosopher; but I am\npersuaded that, if he had not a perfect knowledge of human nature, he\nwould be apt to regard them as mere chimerical speculations, and would\nconsider the infamy attending infidelity, and backwardness to all its\napproaches, as principles that were rather to be wished than hoped\nfor in the world. For what means, would he say, of persuading mankind\nthat the transgressions of conjugal duty are more infamous than any\nother kind of injustice, when 'tis evident they are more excusable,\nupon account of the greatness of the temptation? And what possibility\nof giving a backwardness to the approaches of a pleasure to which\nnature has inspired so strong a propensity, and a propensity that 'tis\nabsolutely necessary in the end to comply with, for the support of the\nspecies?\n\nBut speculative reasonings, which cost so much pains to philosophers,\nare often formed by the world naturally, and without reflection; as\ndifficulties which seem unsurmountable in theory, are easily got over\nin practice. Those who have an interest in the fidelity of women,\nnaturally disapprove of their infidelity, and all the approaches to it.\nThose who have no interest are carried along with the stream. Education\ntakes possession of the ductile minds of the fair sex in their\ninfancy. And when a general rule of this kind is once established,\nmen are apt to extend it beyond those principles from which it first\narose. Thus, bachelors, however debauched, cannot choose but be shocked\nwith any instance of lewdness or impudence in woman. And though all\nthese maxims have a plain reference to generation, yet women past\nchild-bearing have no more privilege in this respect than those who\nare in the flower of their youth and beauty. Men have undoubtedly an\nimplicit notion, that all those ideas of modesty and decency have a\nregard to generation; since they impose not the same laws, _with the\nsame force_, on the male sex, where that reason takes not place. The\nexception is there obvious and extensive, and founded on a remarkable\ndifference, which produces a clear separation and disjunction of ideas.\nBut as the case is not the same with regard to the different ages of\nwomen, for this reason, though men know that these notions are founded\non the public interest, yet the general rule carries us beyond the\noriginal principle, and makes us extend the notions of modesty over the\nwhole sex, from their earliest infancy to their extremest old age and\ninfirmity.\n\nCourage, which is the point of honour among men, derives its merit in a\ngreat measure from artifice, as well as the chastity of women; though\nit has also some foundation in nature, as we shall see afterwards.\n\nAs to the obligations which the male sex lie under with regard to\nchastity, we may observe that, according to the general notions of\nthe world, they bear nearly the same proportion to the obligations of\nwomen, as the obligations of the law of nations do to those of the\nlaw of nature. 'Tis contrary to the interest of civil society, that\nmen should have an _entire_ liberty of indulging their appetites\nin venereal enjoyment; but as this interest is weaker than in the\ncase of the female sex, the moral obligation arising from it must be\nproportionably weaker. And to prove this we need only appeal to the\npractice and sentiments of all nations and ages.\n\n\n\n\nPART III.\n\nOF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES.\n\n\n\nSECTION I.\n\nOF THE ORIGIN OF THE NATURAL VIRTUES AND VICES.\n\n\nWe come now to the examination of such virtues and vices as are\nentirely natural, and have no dependence on the artifice and\ncontrivance of men. The examination of these will conclude this system\nof morals.\n\nThe chief spring or actuating principle of the human mind is pleasure\nor pain; and when these sensations are removed, both from our thought\nand feeling, we are in a great measure incapable of passion or action,\nof desire or volition. The most immediate effects of pleasure and pain\nare the propense and averse motions of the mind; which are diversified\ninto volition, into desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear,\naccording as the pleasure or pain changes its situation, and becomes\nprobable or improbable, certain or uncertain, or is considered as out\nof our power for the present moment. But when, along with this, the\nobjects that cause pleasure or pain acquire a relation to ourselves or\nothers, they still continue to excite desire and aversion, grief and\njoy; but cause, at the same time, the indirect passions of pride or\nhumility, love or hatred, which in this case have a double relation of\nimpressions and ideas to the pain or pleasure.\n\nWe have already observed, that moral distinctions depend entirely on\ncertain peculiar sentiments of pain and pleasure, and that whatever\nmental quality in ourselves or others gives us a satisfaction, by the\nsurvey or reflection, is of course virtuous; as every thing of this\nnature that gives uneasiness is vicious. Now, since every quality\nin ourselves or others which gives pleasure, always causes pride\nor love, as every one that produces uneasiness excites humility or\nhatred, it follows, that these two particulars are to be considered\nas equivalent, with regard to our mental qualities, _virtue_ and the\npower of producing love or pride, _vice_ and the power of producing\nhumility or hatred. In every case, therefore, we must judge of the one\nby the other, and may pronounce any _quality_ of the mind virtuous\nwhich causes love or pride, and any one vicious which causes hatred or\nhumility.\n\nIf any _action_ be either virtuous or vicious, 'tis only as a sign\nof some quality or character. It must depend upon durable principles\nof the mind, which extend over the whole conduct, and enter into\nthe personal character. Actions themselves, not proceeding from any\nconstant principle, have no influence on love or hatred, pride or\nhumility; and consequently are never considered in morality.\n\nThis reflection is self-evident, and deserves to be attended to, as\nbeing of the utmost importance in the present subject. We are never\nto consider any single action in our inquiries concerning the origin\nof morals, but only the quality or character from which the action\nproceeded. These alone are _durable_ enough to affect our sentiments\nconcerning the person. Actions are indeed better indications of a\ncharacter than words, or even wishes and sentiments; but 'tis only so\nfar as they are such indications, that they are attended with love or\nhatred, praise or blame.\n\nTo discover the true origin of morals, and of that love or hatred which\narises from mental qualities, we must take the matter pretty deep, and\ncompare some principles which have been already examined and explained.\n\nWe may begin with considering anew the nature and force of _sympathy_.\nThe minds of all men are similar in their feelings and operations; nor\ncan any one be actuated by any affection of which all others are not\nin some degree susceptible. As in strings equally wound up, the motion\nof one communicates itself to the rest, so all the affections readily\npass from one person to another, and beget correspondent movements\nin every human creature. When I see the _effects_ of passion in the\nvoice and gesture of any person, my mind immediately passes from these\neffects to their causes, and forms such a lively idea of the passion as\nis presently converted into the passion itself. In like manner, when I\nperceive the causes of any emotion, my mind is conveyed to the effects,\nand is actuated with a like emotion. Were I present at any of the more\nterrible operations of surgery, 'tis certain that, even before it\nbegun, the preparation of the instruments, the laying of the bandages\nin order, the heating of the irons, with all the signs of anxiety and\nconcern in the patient and assistants, would have a great effect upon\nmy mind, and excite the strongest sentiments of pity and terror. No\npassion of another discovers itself immediately to the mind. We are\nonly sensible of its causes or effects. From _these_ we infer the\npassion; and consequently _these_ give rise to our sympathy.\n\nOur sense of beauty depends very much on this principle; and where\nany object has a tendency to produce pleasure in its possessor, it is\nalways regarded as beautiful; as every object that has a tendency to\nproduce pain, is disagreeable and deformed. Thus, the conveniency of a\nhouse, the fertility of a field, the strength of a horse, the capacity,\nsecurity, and swift-sailing of a vessel, form the principal beauty of\nthese several objects. Here the object, which is denominated beautiful,\npleases only by its tendency to produce a certain effect. That effect\nis the pleasure or advantage of some other person. Now, the pleasure of\na stranger for whom we have no friendship, pleases us only by sympathy.\nTo this principle, therefore, is owing the beauty which we find in\nevery thing that is useful. How considerable a part this is of beauty\nwill easily appear upon reflection. Wherever an object has a tendency\nto produce pleasure in the possessor, or, in other words, is the proper\n_cause_ of pleasure, it is sure to please the spectator, by a delicate\nsympathy with the possessor. Most of the works of art are esteemed\nbeautiful, in proportion to their fitness for the use of man; and even\nmany of the productions of nature derive their beauty from that source.\nHandsome and beautiful, on most occasions, is not an absolute, but a\nrelative quality, and pleases us by nothing but its tendency to produce\nan end that is agreeable.[1]\n\nThe same principle produces, in many instances, our sentiments of\nmorals, as well as those of beauty. No virtue is more esteemed than\njustice, and no vice more detested than injustice; nor are there\nany qualities which go farther to the fixing the character, either\nas amiable or odious. Now justice is a moral virtue, merely because\nit has that tendency to the good of mankind, and indeed is nothing\nbut an artificial invention to that purpose. The same may be said of\nallegiance, of the laws of nations, of modesty, and of good manners.\nAll these are mere human contrivances for the interest of society. And\nsince there is a very strong sentiment of morals, which in all nations\nand all ages has attended them, we must allow that the reflecting on\nthe tendency of characters and mental qualities is sufficient to give\nus the sentiments of approbation and blame. Now, as the means to an\nend can only be agreeable where the end is agreeable, and as the good\nof society, where our own interest is not concerned, or that of our\nfriends, pleases only by sympathy, it follows, that sympathy is the\nsource of the esteem which we pay to all the artificial virtues.\n\nThus it appears, _that_ sympathy is a very powerful principle in\nhuman nature, _that_ it has a great influence on our taste of beauty,\nand _that_ it produces our sentiment of morals in all the artificial\nvirtues. From thence we may presume, that it also gives rise to many\nof the other virtues, and that qualities acquire our approbation\nbecause of their tendency to the good of mankind. This presumption\nmust become a certainty, when we find that most of those qualities\nwhich we _naturally_ approve of, have actually that tendency, and\nrender a man a proper member of society; while the qualities which\nwe _naturally_ disapprove of have a contrary tendency, and render\nany intercourse with the person dangerous or disagreeable. For having\nfound, that such tendencies have force enough to produce the strongest\nsentiment of morals, we can never reasonably, in these cases, look for\nany other cause of approbation or blame; it being an inviolable maxim\nin philosophy, that where any particular cause is sufficient for an\neffect, we ought to rest satisfied with it, and ought not to multiply\ncauses without necessity. We have happily attained experiments in the\nartificial virtues, where the tendency of qualities to the good of\nsociety is the _sole_ cause of our approbation, without any suspicion\nof the concurrence of another principle. From thence we learn the force\nof that principle. And where that principle may take place, and the\nquality approved of is really beneficial to society, a true philosopher\nwill never require any other principle to account for the strongest\napprobation and esteem.\n\nThat many of the natural virtues have this tendency to the good\nof society, no one can doubt of. Meekness, beneficence, charity,\ngenerosity, clemency, moderation, equity, bear the greatest figure\namong the moral qualities, and are commonly denominated the _social_\nvirtues, to mark their tendency to the good of society. This goes so\nfar, that some philosophers have represented all moral distinctions\nas the effect of artifice and education, when skilful politicians\nendeavoured to restrain the turbulent passions of men, and make them\noperate to the public good, by the notions of honour and shame. This\nsystem, however, is not consistent with experience. For, _first_,\nThere are other virtues and vices beside those which have this\ntendency to the public advantage and loss. _Secondly_, Had not men a\nnatural sentiment of approbation and blame, it could never be excited\nby politicians, nor would the words _laudable_ and _praiseworthy,\nblameable_ and _odious_, be any more intelligible than if they were\na language perfectly unknown to us, as we have already observed.\nBut though this system be erroneous, it may teach us that moral\ndistinctions arise in a great measure from the tendency of qualities\nand characters to the interests of society, and that 'tis our concern\nfor that interest which makes us approve or disapprove of them. Now,\nwe have no such extensive concern for society, but from sympathy; and\nconsequently 'tis that principle which takes us so far out of ourselves\nas to give us the same pleasure or uneasiness in the characters of\nothers, as if they had a tendency to our own advantage or loss.\n\nThe only difference betwixt the natural virtues and justice lies in\nthis, that the good which results from the former arises from every\nsingle act, and is the object of some natural passion; whereas a\nsingle act of justice, considered in itself, may often be contrary\nto the public good; and 'tis only the concurrence of mankind, in a\ngeneral scheme or system of action, which is advantageous. When I\nrelieve persons in distress, my natural humanity is my motive; and so\nfar as my succour extends, so far have I promoted the happiness of my\nfellow-creatures. But if we examine all the questions that come before\nany tribunal of justice, we shall find that, considering each case\napart, it would as often be an instance of humanity to decide contrary\nto the laws of justice as conformable to them. Judges take from a poor\nman to give to a rich; they bestow on the dissolute the labour of the\nindustrious; and put into the hands of the vicious the means of harming\nboth themselves and others. The whole scheme, however, of law and\njustice is advantageous to the society; and 'twas with a view to this\nadvantage that men, by their voluntary conventions, established it.\nAfter it is once established by these conventions, it is _naturally_\nattended with a strong sentiment of morals, which can proceed from\nnothing but our sympathy with the interests of society. We need no\nother explication of that esteem which attends such of the natural\nvirtues as have a tendency to the public good.\n\nI must farther add, that there are several circumstances which render\nthis hypothesis much more probable with regard to the natural than\nthe artificial virtues. 'Tis certain, that the imagination is more\naffected by what is particular, than by what is general; and that the\nsentiments are always moved with difficulty, where their objects are\nin any degree loose and undetermined. Now, every particular act of\njustice is not beneficial to society, but the whole scheme or system;\nand it may not perhaps be any individual person for whom we are\nconcerned, who receives benefit from justice, but the whole society\nalike. On the contrary, every particular act of generosity, or relief\nof the industrious and indigent, is beneficial, and is beneficial to\na particular person, who is not undeserving of it. 'Tis more natural,\ntherefore, to think that the tendencies of the latter virtue will\naffect our sentiments, and command our approbation, than those of the\nformer; and therefore, since we find that the approbation of the former\narises from their tendencies, we may ascribe, with better reason, the\nsame cause to the approbation of the latter. In any number of similar\neffects, if a cause can be discovered for one, we ought to extend\nthat cause to all the other effects which can be accounted for by\nit; but much more, if these other effects be attended with peculiar\ncircumstances, which facilitate the operation of that cause.\n\nBefore I proceed farther, I must observe two remarkable circumstances\nin this affair, which may seem objections to the present system. The\nfirst may be thus explained. When any quality or character has a\ntendency to the good of mankind, we are pleased with it, and approve\nof it, because it presents the lively idea of pleasure; which idea\naffects us by sympathy, and is itself a kind of pleasure. But as this\nsympathy is very variable, it may be thought that our sentiments of\nmorals must admit of all the same variations. We sympathize more with\npersons contiguous to us, than with persons remote from us; with our\nacquaintance, than with strangers; with our countrymen, than with\nforeigners. But notwithstanding this variation of our sympathy, we\ngive the same approbation to the same moral qualities in China as in\nEngland. They appear equally virtuous, and recommend themselves equally\nto the esteem of a judicious spectator. The sympathy varies without\na variation in our esteem. Our esteem, therefore, proceeds not from\nsympathy.\n\nTo this I answer, the approbation of moral qualities most certainly\nis not derived from reason, or any comparison of ideas; but proceeds\nentirely from a moral taste, and from certain sentiments of pleasure\nor disgust, which arise upon the contemplation and view of particular\nqualities or characters. Now, 'tis evident that those sentiments,\nwhencever they are derived, must vary according to the distance or\ncontiguity of the objects; nor can I feel the same lively pleasure from\nthe virtues of a person who lived in Greece two thousand years ago,\nthat I feel from the virtues of a familiar friend and acquaintance.\nYet I do not say that I esteem the one more than the other; and\ntherefore, if the variation of the sentiment, without a variation of\nthe esteem, be an objection, it must have equal force against every\nother system, as against that of sympathy. But to consider the matter\naright, it has no force at all; and 'tis the easiest matter in the\nworld to account for it. Our situation with regard both to persons and\nthings is in continual fluctuation; and a man that lies at a distance\nfrom us, may in a little time become a familiar acquaintance. Besides,\nevery particular man has a peculiar position with regard to others;\nand 'tis impossible we could ever converse together on any reasonable\nterms, were each of us to consider characters and persons only as\nthey appear from his peculiar point of view. In order, therefore, to\nprevent those continual _contradictions_, and arrive at a more _stable_\njudgment of things, we fix on some _steady_ and _general_ points of\nview, and always, in our thoughts, place ourselves in them, whatever\nmay be our present situation. In like manner, external beauty is\ndetermined merely by pleasure; and 'tis evident a beautiful countenance\ncannot give so much pleasure, when seen at a distance of twenty paces,\nas when it is brought nearer us. We say not, however, that it appears\nto us less beautiful; because we know what effect it will have in such\na position, and by that reflection we correct its momentary appearance.\n\nIn general, all sentiments of blame or praise are variable, according\nto our situation of nearness or remoteness with regard to the person\nblamed or praised, and according to the present disposition of our\nmind. But these variations we regard not in our general decisions, but\nstill apply the terms expressive of our liking or dislike, in the same\nmanner as if we remained in one point of view. Experience soon teaches\nus this method of correcting our sentiments, or at least of correcting\nour language, where the sentiments are more stubborn and unalterable.\nOur servant, if diligent and faithful, may excite stronger sentiments\nof love and kindness than Marcus Brutus, as represented in history;\nbut we say not, upon that account, that the former character is more\nlaudable than the latter. We know that, were we to approach equally\nnear to that renowned patriot, he would command a much higher degree\nof affection and admiration. Such corrections are common with regard\nto all the senses; and indeed 'twere impossible we could ever make use\nof language, or communicate our sentiments to one another, did we not\ncorrect the momentary appearances of things, and overlook our present\nsituation.\n\n'Tis therefore from the influence of characters and qualities upon\nthose who have an intercourse with any person, that we blame or praise\nhim. We consider not whether the persons affected by the qualities\nbe our acquaintance or strangers, countrymen or foreigners. Nay, we\noverlook our own interest in those general judgments, and blame not a\nman for opposing us in any of our pretensions, when his own interest\nis particularly concerned. We make allowance for a certain degree of\nselfishness in men, because we know it to be inseparable from human\nnature, and inherent in our frame and constitution. By this reflection\nwe correct those sentiments of blame which so naturally arise upon any\nopposition.\n\nBut however the general principle of our blame or praise may be\ncorrected by those other principles, 'tis certain they are not\naltogether efficacious, nor do our passions often correspond entirely\nto the present theory. 'Tis seldom men heartily love what lies at\na distance from them, and what no way redounds to their particular\nbenefit; as 'tis no less rare to meet with persons who can pardon\nanother any opposition he makes to their interest, however justifiable\nthat opposition may be by the general rules of morality. Here we are\ncontented with saying, that reason requires such an impartial conduct,\nbut that 'tis seldom we can bring ourselves to it, and that our\npassions do not readily follow the determination of our judgment. This\nlanguage will be easily understood, if we consider what we formerly\nsaid concerning that _reason_ which is able to oppose our passion, and\nwhich we have found to be nothing but a general calm determination\nof the passions, founded on some distant view or reflection. When\nwe form our judgments of persons merely from the tendency of their\ncharacters to our own benefit, or to that of our friends, we find so\nmany contradictions to our sentiments in society and conversation, and\nsuch an uncertainty from the incessant changes of our situation, that\nwe seek some other standard of merit and demerit, which may not admit\nof so great variation. Being thus loosened from our first station, we\ncannot afterwards fix ourselves so commodiously by any means as by a\nsympathy with those who have any commerce with the person we consider.\nThis is far from being as lively as when our own interest is concerned,\nor that of our particular friends; nor has it such an influence on our\nlove and hatred; but being equally conformable to our calm and general\nprinciples, 'tis said to have an equal authority over our reason, and\nto command our judgment and opinion. We blame equally a bad action\nwhich we read of in history, with one performed in our neighbourhood\nt'other day; the meaning of which is, that we know from reflection that\nthe former action would excite as strong sentiments of disapprobation\nas the latter, were it placed in the same position.\n\nI now proceed to the _second_ remarkable circumstance which I proposed\nto take notice of. Where a person is possessed of a character that\nin its natural tendency is beneficial to society, we esteem him\nvirtuous, and are delighted with the view of his character, even though\nparticular accidents prevent its operation, and incapacitate him from\nbeing serviceable to his friends and country. Virtue in rags is still\nvirtue; and the love which it procures attends a man into a dungeon or\ndesart, where the virtue can no longer be exerted in action, and is\nlost to all the world. Now, this may be esteemed an objection to the\npresent system. Sympathy interests us in the good of mankind; and if\nsympathy were the source of our esteem for virtue, that sentiment of\napprobation could only take place where the virtue actually attained\nits end, and was beneficial to mankind. Where it fails of its end, 'tis\nonly an imperfect means; and therefore can never acquire any merit from\nthat end. The goodness of an end can bestow a merit on such means alone\nas are complete, and actually produce the end.\n\nTo this we may reply, that where any object, in all its parts, is\nfitted to attain any agreeable end, it naturally gives us pleasure,\nand is esteemed beautiful, even though some external circumstances be\nwanting to render it altogether effectual. 'Tis sufficient if every\nthing be complete in the object itself. A house that is contrived\nwith great judgment for all the commodities of life, pleases us upon\nthat account; though perhaps we are sensible, that no one will ever\ndwell in it. A fertile soil, and a happy climate, delight us by a\nreflection on the happiness which they would afford the inhabitants,\nthough at present the country be desart and uninhabited. A man, whose\nlimbs and shape promise strength and activity, is esteemed handsome,\nthough condemned to perpetual imprisonment. The imagination has a set\nof passions belonging to it, upon which our sentiments of beauty much\ndepend. These passions are moved by degrees of liveliness and strength,\nwhich are inferior to _belief_, and independent of the real existence\nof their objects. Where a character is, in every respect, fitted to be\nbeneficial to society, the imagination passes easily from the cause to\nthe effect, without considering that there are still some circumstances\nwanting to render the cause a complete one. _General rules_ create a\nspecies of probability, which sometimes influences the judgment, and\nalways the imagination.\n\n'Tis true, when the cause is complete, and a good disposition is\nattended with good fortune, which renders it really beneficial to\nsociety, it gives a stronger pleasure to the spectator, and is attended\nwith a more lively sympathy. We are more affected by it; and yet we do\nnot say that it is more virtuous, or that we esteem it more. We know\nthat an alteration of fortune may render the benevolent disposition\nentirely impotent; and therefore we separate, as much as possible, the\nfortune from the disposition. The case is the same as when we correct\nthe different sentiments of virtue, which proceed from its different\ndistances from ourselves. The passions do not always follow our\ncorrections; but these corrections serve sufficiently to regulate our\nabstract notions, and are alone regarded when we pronounce in general\nconcerning the degrees of vice and virtue.\n\n'Tis observed by critics, that all words or sentences which are\ndifficult to the pronunciation, are disagreeable to the ear. There\nis no difference, whether a man hear them pronounced, or read them\nsilently to himself. When I run over a book with my eye, I imagine\nI hear it all; and also, by the force of imagination, enter into\nthe uneasiness which the delivery of it would give the speaker. The\nuneasiness is not real; but, as such a composition of words has a\nnatural tendency to produce it, this is sufficient to affect the\nmind with a painful sentiment, and render the discourse harsh and\ndisagreeable. 'Tis a similar case, where any real quality is, by\naccidental circumstances, rendered impotent, and is deprived of its\nnatural influence on society.\n\nUpon these principles we may easily remove any contradiction which\nmay appear to be betwixt the _extensive sympathy_, on which our\nsentiments of virtue depend, and that _limited generosity_, which I\nhave frequently observed to be natural to men, and which justice and\nproperty suppose, according to the precedent reasoning. My sympathy\nwith another may give me the sentiment of pain and disapprobation, when\nany object is presented that has a tendency to give him uneasiness;\nthough I may not be willing to sacrifice any thing of my own interest,\nor cross any of my passions, for his satisfaction. A house may\ndisplease me by being ill-contrived for the convenience of the owner;\nand yet I may refuse to give a shilling towards the rebuilding of it.\nSentiments must touch the heart to make them control our passions: but\nthey need not extend beyond the imagination, to make them influence\nour taste. When a building seems clumsy and tottering to the eye, it is\nugly and disagreeable; though we may be fully assured of the solidity\nof the workmanship. 'Tis a kind of fear which causes this sentiment\nof disapprobation; but the passion is not the same with that which we\nfeel when obliged to stand under a wall that we really think tottering\nand insecure. The _seeming tendencies_ of objects affect the mind:\nand the emotions they excite are of a like species with those which\nproceed from the _real consequences_ of objects, but their feeling is\ndifferent. Nay, these emotions are so different in their feeling, that\nthey may often be contrary, without destroying each other; as when the\nfortifications of a city belonging to an enemy are esteemed beautiful\nupon account of their strength, though we could wish that they were\nentirely destroyed. The imagination adheres to the _general_ views of\nthings, and distinguishes the feelings they produce from those which\narise from our particular and momentary situation.\n\nIf we examine the panegyrics that are commonly made of great men, we\nshall find, that most of the qualities which are attributed to them\nmay be divided into two kinds, viz. such as make them perform their\npart in society; and such as render them serviceable to themselves, and\nenable them to promote their own interest. Their _prudence, temperance,\nfrugality, industry, assiduity, enterprise, dexterity_, are celebrated,\nas well as their _generosity_ and _humanity_. If we ever give an\nindulgence to any quality that disables a man from making a figure in\nlife, 'tis to that of _indolence_, which is not supposed to deprive\none of his parts and capacity, but only suspends their exercise; and\nthat without any inconvenience to the person himself, since 'tis, in\nsome measure, from his own choice. Yet indolence is always allowed to\nbe a fault, and a very great one, if extreme: nor do a man's friends\never acknowledge him to be subject to it, but in order to save his\ncharacter in more material articles. He could make a figure, say they,\nif he pleased to give application: his understanding is sound, his\nconception quick, and his memory tenacious; but he hates business, and\nis indifferent about his fortune. And this a man sometimes may make\neven a subject of vanity, though with the air of confessing a fault:\nbecause he may think, that this incapacity for business implies much\nmore noble qualities; such as a philosophical spirit, a fine taste, a\ndelicate wit, or a relish for pleasure and society. But take any other\ncase: suppose a quality that, without being an indication of any other\ngood qualities, incapacitates a man _always_ for business, and is\ndestructive to his interest; such as a blundering understanding, and a\nwrong judgment of every thing in life; inconstancy and irresolution; or\na want of address in the management of men and business: these are all\nallowed to be imperfections in a character; and many men would rather\nacknowledge the greatest crimes, than have it suspected that they are\nin any degree subject to them.\n\n'Tis very happy, in our philosophical researches, when we find the\nsame phenomenon diversified by a variety of circumstances; and by\ndiscovering what is common among them, can the better assure ourselves\nof the truth of any hypothesis we may make use of to explain it. Were\nnothing esteemed virtue but what were beneficial to society, I am\npersuaded that the foregoing explication of the moral sense ought still\nto be received, and that upon sufficient evidence: but this evidence\nmust grow upon us, when we find other kinds of virtue which will not\nadmit of any explication except from that hypothesis. Here is a man\nwho is not remarkably defective in his social qualities; but what\nprincipally recommends him is his dexterity in business, by which he\nhas extricated himself from the greatest difficulties, and conducted\nthe most delicate affairs with a singular address and prudence. I\nfind an esteem for him immediately to arise in me: his company is a\nsatisfaction to me; and before I have any farther acquaintance with\nhim, I would rather do him a service than another whose character is\nin every other respect equal, but is deficient in that particular. In\nthis case, the qualities that please me are all considered as useful\nto the person, and as having a tendency to promote his interest and\nsatisfaction. They are only regarded as means to an end, and please me\nin proportion to their fitness for that end. The end, therefore must\nbe agreeable to me. But what makes the end agreeable? The person is a\nstranger: I am no way interested in him, nor lie under any obligation\nto him: his happiness concerns not me, farther than the happiness\nof every human, and indeed of every sensible creature; that is, it\naffects me only by sympathy. From that principle, whenever I discover\nhis happiness and good, whether in its causes or effects, I enter so\ndeeply into it, that it gives me a sensible emotion. The appearance\nof qualities that have a _tendency_ to promote it, have an agreeable\neffect upon my imagination, and command my love and esteem.\n\nThis theory may serve to explain, why the same qualities, in all cases,\nproduce both pride and love, humility and hatred; and the same man\nis always virtuous or vicious, accomplished or despicable to others,\nwho is so to himself. A person in whom we discover any passion or\nhabit, which originally is only incommodious to himself, becomes always\ndisagreeable to us merely on its account; as, on the other hand, one\nwhose character is only dangerous and disagreeable to others, can\nnever be satisfied with himself, as long as he is sensible of that\ndisadvantage. Nor is this observable only with regard to characters and\nmanners, but may be remarked even in the most minute circumstances. A\nviolent cough in another gives us uneasiness; though in itself it does\nnot in the least affect us. A man will be mortified if you tell him he\nhas a stinking breath; though 'tis evidently no annoyance to himself.\nOur fancy easily changes its situation; and, either surveying ourselves\nas we appear to others, or considering others as they feel themselves,\nwe enter, by that means, into sentiments which no way belong to us,\nand in which nothing but sympathy is able to interest us. And this\nsympathy we sometimes carry so far, as even to be displeased with a\nquality commodious to us, merely because it displeases others, and\nmakes us disagreeable in their eyes; though perhaps we never can have\nany interest in rendering ourselves agreeable to them.\n\nThere have been many systems of morality advanced by philosophers\nin all ages; but if they are strictly examined, they may be reduced\nto two, which alone merit our attention. Moral good and evil are\ncertainly distinguished by our _sentiments_, not by _reason_: but these\nsentiments may arise either from the mere species or appearance of\ncharacters and passions, or from reflections on their tendency to the\nhappiness of mankind, and of particular persons. My opinion is, that\nboth these causes are intermixed in our judgments of morals; after the\nsame manner as they are in our decisions concerning most kinds of\nexternal beauty: though I am also of opinion, that reflections on the\ntendencies of actions have by far the greatest influence, and determine\nall the great lines of our duty. There are, however, instances in cases\nof less moment, wherein this immediate taste or sentiment produces our\napprobation. Wit, and a certain easy and disengaged behaviour, are\nqualities _immediately agreeable_ to others, and command their love\nand esteem. Some of these qualities produce satisfaction in others\nby particular _original_ principles of human nature, which cannot be\naccounted for: odiers may be resolved into principles which are more\ngeneral. This will best appear upon a particular inquiry.\n\nAs some qualities acquire their merit from their being _immediately\nagreeable_ to others, without any tendency to public interest; so some\nare denominated virtuous from their being _immediately agreeable_\nto the person himself, who possesses them. Each of the passions and\noperations of the mind has a particular feeling, which must be either\nagreeable or disagreeable. The first is virtuous, the second vicious.\nThis particular feeling constitutes the very nature of the passion; and\ntherefore needs not be accounted for.\n\nBut, however directly the distinction of vice and virtue may seem\nto flow from the immediate pleasure or uneasiness, which particular\nqualities cause to ourselves or others, 'tis easy to observe, that it\nhas also a considerable dependence on the principle of _sympathy_ so\noften insisted on. We approve of a person who is possessed of qualities\n_immediately agreeable_ to those with whom he has any commerce, though\nperhaps we ourselves never reaped any pleasure from them. We also\napprove of one who is possessed of qualities that are _immediately\nagreeable_ to himself, though they be of no service to any mortal. To\naccount for this, we must have recourse to the foregoing principles.\n\nThus, to take a general review of the present hypothesis: Every quality\nof the mind is denominated virtuous which gives pleasure by the mere\nsurvey, as every quality which produces pain is called vicious. This\npleasure and this pain may arise from four different sources. For\nwe reap a pleasure from the view of a character which is naturally\nfitted to be useful to others, or to the person himself, or which is\nagreeable to others, or to the person himself. One may perhaps be\nsurprised, that, amidst all these interests and pleasures, we should\nforget our own, which touch us so nearly on every other occasion. But\nwe shall easily satisfy ourselves on this head, when we consider, that\nevery particular person's pleasure and interest being different, 'tis\nimpossible men could ever agree in their sentiments and judgments,\nunless they chose some common point of view, from which they might\nsurvey their object, and which might cause it to appear the same to all\nof them. Now, in judging of characters, the only interest or pleasure\nwhich appears the same to every spectator, is that of the person\nhimself whose character is examined, or that of persons who have a\nconnexion with him. And, though such interests and pleasures touch us\nmore faintly than our own, yet, being more constant and universal, they\ncounterbalance the latter even in practice, and are alone admitted in\nspeculation as the standard of virtue and morality. They alone produce\nthat particular feeling or sentiment on which moral distinctions depend.\n\nAs to the good or ill desert of virtue or vice, 'tis an evident\nconsequence of the sentiments of pleasure or uneasiness. These\nsentiments produce love or hatred; and love or hatred, by the original\nconstitution of human passion, is attended with benevolence or anger;\nthat is, with a desire of making happy the person we love, and\nmiserable the person we hate. We have treated of this more fully on\nanother occasion.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II.\n\nOF GREATNESS OF MIND.\n\n\nIt may now be proper to illustrate this general system of morals, by\napplying it to particular instances of virtue and vice, and showing how\ntheir merit or demerit arises from the four sources here explained. We\nshall begin with examining the passions of _pride_ and _humility_, and\nshall consider the vice or virtue that lies in their excesses or just\nproportion. An excessive pride or overweening conceit of ourselves,\nis always esteemed vicious, and is universally hated, as modesty, or\na just sense of our weakness, is esteemed virtuous, and procures the\ngood will of every one. Of the four sources of moral distinctions, this\nis to be ascribed to the _third_; viz. the immediate agreeableness and\ndisagreeableness of a quality to others, without any reflections on the\ntendency of that quality.\n\nIn order to prove this, we must have recourse to two principles,\nwhich are very conspicuous in human nature. The _first_ of these is\nthe _sympathy_ and communication of sentiments and passions above\nmentioned. So close and intimate is the correspondence of human souls,\nthat no sooner any person approaches me, than he diffuses on me all\nhis opinions, and draws along my judgment in a greater or lesser\ndegree. And though, on many occasions, my sympathy with him goes not\nso far as entirely to change my sentiments and way of thinking, yet it\nseldom is so weak as not to disturb the easy course of my thought, and\ngive an authority to that opinion which is recommended to me by his\nassent and approbation. Nor is it any way material upon what subject he\nand I employ our thoughts. Whether we judge of an indifferent person,\nor of my own character, my sympathy gives equal force to his decision:\nand even his sentiments of his own merit make me consider him in the\nsame light in which he regards himself.\n\nThis principle of sympathy is of so powerful and insinuating a nature,\nthat it enters into most of our sentiments and passions, and often\ntakes place under the appearance of its contrary. For 'tis remarkable,\nthat when a person opposes me in any thing which I am strongly bent\nupon, and rouses up my passion by contradiction, I have always a\ndegree of sympathy with him, nor does my commotion proceed from any\nother origin. We may here observe an evident conflict or rencounter\nof opposite principles and passions. On the one side, there is that\npassion or sentiment which is natural to me; and 'tis observable, that\nthe stronger this passion is, the greater is the commotion. There must\nalso be some passion or sentiment on the other side; and this passion\ncan proceed from nothing but sympathy. The sentiments of others can\nnever affect us, but by becoming in some measure our own; in which case\nthey operate upon us, by opposing and increasing our passions, in the\nvery same manner as if they had been originally derived from our own\ntemper and disposition. While they remain concealed in the minds of\nothers, they can never have any influence upon us: and even when they\nare known, if they went no farther than the imagination or conception,\nthat faculty is so accustomed to objects of every different kind, that\na mere idea, though contrary to our sentiments and inclinations, would\nnever alone be able to affect us.\n\nThe _second_ principle I shall take notice of is that of _comparison_,\nor the variation of our judgments concerning objects, according to\nthe proportion they bear to those with which we compare them. We\njudge more of objects by comparison than by their intrinsic worth and\nvalue; and regard every thing as mean, when set in opposition to what\nis superior of the same kind. But no comparison is more obvious than\nthat with ourselves; and hence it is, that on all occasions it takes\nplace, and mixes with most of our passions. This kind of comparison is\ndirectly contrary to sympathy in its operation, as we have observed in\ntreating of _compassion and malice_.[2] _In all kinds of comparison, an\nobject makes us always receive from another, to which it is compared,\na sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and\nimmediate survey. The direct survey of another's pleasure naturally\ngives us pleasure; and therefore produces pain, when compared with our\nown. His pain, considered in itself is painful; but augments the idea\nof our own happiness, and gives us pleasure_.\n\nSince then those principles of sympathy, and a comparison with\nourselves, are directly contrary, it may be worth while to consider,\nwhat general rules can be formed, beside the particular temper of\nthe person, for the prevalence of the one or the other. Suppose I am\nnow in safety at land, and would willingly reap some pleasure from\nthis consideration, I must think on the miserable condition of those\nwho are at sea in a storm, and must endeavour to render this idea as\nstrong and lively as possible, in order to make me more sensible of\nmy own happiness. But whatever pains I may take, the comparison will\nnever have an equal efficacy, as if I were really on the shore,[3] and\nsaw a ship at a distance tost by a tempest, and in danger every moment\nof perishing on a rock or sand-bank. But suppose this idea to become\nstill more lively. Suppose the ship to be driven so near me, that I can\nperceive distinctly the horror painted on the countenance of the seamen\nand passengers, hear their lamentable cries, see the dearest friends\ngive their last adieu, or embrace with a resolution to perish in each\nother's arms: no man has so savage a heart as to reap any pleasure from\nsuch a spectacle, or withstand the motions of the tenderest compassion\nand sympathy. 'Tis evident, therefore, there is a medium in this case;\nand that, if the idea be too faint, it has no influence by comparison;\nand on the other hand, if it be too strong, it operates on us entirely\nby sympathy, which is the contrary to comparison. Sympathy being the\nconversion of an idea into an impression, demands a greater force and\nvivacity in the idea than is requisite to comparison.\n\nAll this is easily applied to the present subject. We sink very much\nin our own eyes when in the presence of a great man, or one of a\nsuperior genius; and this humility makes a considerable ingredient in\nthat _respect_ which we pay our superiors, according to our foregoing\nreasonings on that passion.[4] Sometimes even envy and hatred arise\nfrom the comparison; but in the greatest part of men, it rests at\nrespect and esteem. As sympathy has such a powerful influence on the\nhuman mind, it causes pride to have in some measure the same effect as\nmerit; and, by making us enter into those elevated sentiments which the\nproud man entertains of himself, presents that comparison, which is so\nmortifying and disagreeable. Our judgment does not entirely accompany\nhim in the flattering conceit in which he pleases himself; but still\nis so shaken as to receive the idea it presents, and to give it an\ninfluence above the loose conceptions of the imagination. A man who,\nin an idle humour, would form a notion of a person of a merit very\nmuch superior to his own, would not be mortified by that fiction: but\nwhen a man, whom we are really persuaded to be of inferior merit, is\npresented to us; if we observe in him any extraordinary degree of pride\nand self-conceit, the firm persuasion he has of his own merit, takes\nhold of the imagination, and diminishes us in our own eyes, in the same\nmanner as if he were really possessed of all the good qualities which\nhe so liberally attributes to himself. Our idea is here precisely in\nthat medium which is requisite to make it operate on us by comparison.\nWere it accompanied with belief, and did the person appear to have\nthe same merit which he assumes to himself, it would have a contrary\neffect, and would operate on us by sympathy. The influence of that\nprinciple would then be superior to that of comparison, contrary to\nwhat happens where the person's merit seems below his pretensions.\n\nThe necessary consequence of these principles is, that pride, or\nan overweening conceit of ourselves, must be vicious; since it\ncauses uneasiness in all men, and presents them every moment with a\ndisagreeable comparison. 'Tis a trite observation in philosophy, and\neven in common life and conversation, that 'tis our own pride, which\nmakes us so much displeased with the pride of other people; and that\nvanity becomes insupportable to us merely because we are vain. The gay\nnaturally associate themselves with the gay, and the amorous with the\namorous; but the proud never can endure the proud, and rather seek the\ncompany of those who are of an opposite disposition. As we are all of\nus proud in some degree, pride is universally blamed and condemned\nby all mankind, as having a natural tendency to cause uneasiness in\nothers by means of comparison. And this effect must follow the more\nnaturally, that those, who have an ill-grounded conceit of themselves,\nare for ever making those comparisons; nor have they any other method\nof supporting their vanity. A man of sense and merit is pleased with\nhimself, independent of all foreign considerations; but a fool must\nalways find some person that is more foolish, in order to keep himself\nin good humour with his own parts and understanding.\n\nBut though an overweening conceit of our own merit be vicious and\ndisagreeable, nothing can be more laudable than to have a value for\nourselves, where we really have qualities that are valuable. The\nutility and advantage of any quality to ourselves is a source of\nvirtue, as well as its agreeableness to others; and 'tis certain, that\nnothing is more useful to us in the conduct of life, than a due degree\nof pride, which makes us sensible of our own merit, and gives us a\nconfidence and assurance in all our projects and enterprises. Whatever\ncapacity any one may be endowed with, 'tis entirely useless to him, if\nhe be not acquainted with it, and form not designs suitable to it. 'Tis\nrequisite on all occasions to know our own force; and were it allowable\nto err on either side, 'twould be more advantageous to over-rate our\nmerit, than to form ideas of it below its just standard. Fortune\ncommonly favours the bold and enterprising; and nothing inspires us\nwith more boldness than a good opinion of ourselves.\n\nAdd to this, that though pride, or self-applause, be sometimes\ndisagreeable to others, 'tis always agreeable to ourselves; as, on the\nother hand, modesty, though it give pleasure to every one who observes\nit, produces often uneasiness in the person endowed with it. Now, it\nhas been observed, that our own sensations determine the vice and\nvirtue of any quality, as well as those sensations, which it may excite\nin others.\n\nThus, self-satisfaction and vanity may not only be allowable, but\nrequisite in a character. 'Tis however certain, that good breeding and\ndecency require that we should avoid all signs and expressions, which\ntend directly to show that passion. We have, all of us, a wonderful\npartiality for ourselves, and were we always to give vent to our\nsentiments in this particular, we should mutually cause the greatest\nindignation in each other, not only by the immediate presence of so\ndisagreeable a subject of comparison, but also by the contrariety of\nour judgments. In like manner, therefore, as we establish the _laws\nof nature_, in order to secure property in society, and prevent the\nopposition of self-interest, we establish the _rules of good breeding_,\nin order to prevent the opposition of men's pride, and render\nconversation agreeable and offensive. Nothing is more disagreeable than\na man's overweening conceit of himself. Every one almost has a strong\npropensity to this vice. No one can well distinguish _in himself_\nbetwixt the vice and virtue, or be certain that his esteem of his\nown merit is well-founded; for these reasons, all direct expressions\nof this passion are condemned; nor do we make any exception to this\nrule in favour of men of sense and merit. They are not allowed to do\nthemselves justice openly in words, no more than other people; and even\nif they show a reserve and secret doubt in doing themselves justice\nin their own thoughts, they will be more applauded. That impertinent,\nand almost universal propensity of men, to overvalue themselves, has\ngiven us such a _prejudice_ against self-applause, that we are apt to\ncondemn it by a _general rule_ wherever we meet with it; and 'tis with\nsome difficulty we give a privilege to men of sense, even in their\nmost secret thoughts. At least, it must be owned that some disguise in\nthis particular is absolutely requisite; and that, if we harbour pride\nin our breasts, we must carry a fair outside, and have the appearance\nof modesty and mutual deference in all our conduct and behaviour. We\nmust, on every occasion, be ready to prefer others to ourselves; to\ntreat them with a kind of deference, even though they be our equals; to\nseem always the lowest and least in the company, where we are not very\nmuch distinguished above them; and if we observe these rules in our\nconduct, men will have more indulgence for our secret sentiments, when\nwe discover them in an oblique manner.\n\nI believe no one who has any practice of the world, and can penetrate\ninto the inward sentiments of men, will assert that the humility which\ngood-breeding and decency require of us, goes beyond the outside,\nor that a thorough sincerity in this particular is esteemed a real\npart of our duty. On the contrary, we may observe, that a genuine and\nhearty pride, or self-esteem, if well concealed and well founded, is\nessential to the character of a man of honour, and that there is no\nquality of the mind which is more indispensably requisite to procure\nthe esteem and approbation of mankind. There are certain deferences and\nmutual submissions which custom requires of the different ranks of men\ntowards each other; and whoever exceeds in this particular, if through\ninterest, is accused of meanness, if through ignorance, of simplicity.\n'Tis necessary, therefore, to know our rank and station in the world,\nwhether it be fixed by our birth, fortune, employments, talents, or\nreputation. 'Tis necessary to feel the sentiment and passion of pride\nin conformity to it, and to regulate our actions accordingly. And\nshould it be said, that prudence may suffice to regulate our actions in\nthis particular, without any real pride, I would observe, that here the\nobject of prudence is to conform our actions to the general usage and\ncustom; and that 'tis impossible those tacit airs of superiority should\never have been established and authorized by custom, unless men were\ngenerally proud, and unless that passion were generally approved, when\nwell-grounded.\n\nIf we pass from common life and conversation to history, this reasoning\nacquires new force, when we observe, that all those great actions and\nsentiments which have become the admiration of mankind, are founded on\nnothing but pride and self-esteem. 'Go,' says Alexander the Great to\nhis soldiers, when they refused to follow him to the Indies, 'go tell\nyour countrymen, that you left Alexander completing the conquest of\nthe world.' This passage was always particularly admired by the prince\nof Cond\u00e9, as we learn from St Evremond. 'Alexander,' said that prince,\n'abandoned by his soldiers, among barbarians not yet fully subdued,\nfelt in himself such a dignity and right of empire, that he could not\nbelieve it possible any one could refuse to obey him. Whether in Europe\nor in Asia, among Greeks or Persians, all was indifferent to him;\nwherever he found men, he fancied he had found subjects.'\n\nIn general, we may observe, that whatever we call _heroic virtue_,\nand admire under the character of greatness and elevation of mind, is\neither nothing but a steady and well-established pride and self-esteem,\nor partakes largely of that passion. Courage, intrepidity, ambition,\nlove of glory, magnanimity, and all the other shining virtues of that\nkind, have plainly a strong mixture of self-esteem in them, and derive\na great part of their merit from that origin. Accordingly we find,\nthat many religious declaimers decry those virtues as purely pagan\nand natural, and represent to us the excellency of the _Christian_\nreligion, which places humility in the rank of virtues, and corrects\nthe judgment of the world, and even of philosophers, who so generally\nadmire all the efforts of pride and ambition. Whether this virtue of\nhumility has been rightly understood, I shall not pretend to determine.\nI am content with the concession, that the world naturally esteems a\nwell-regulated pride, which secretly animates our conduct, without\nbreaking out into such indecent expressions of vanity as may offend the\nvanity of others.\n\nThe merit of pride or self-esteem is derived from two circumstances,\nviz. its utility, and its agreeableness to ourselves; by which it\ncapacitates us for business, and at the same time gives us an immediate\nsatisfaction. When it goes beyond its just bounds, it loses the first\nadvantage, and even becomes prejudicial; which is the reason why we\ncondemn an extravagant pride and ambition, however regulated by the\ndecorums of good-breeding and politeness. But as such a passion is\nstill agreeable, and conveys an elevated and sublime sensation to the\nperson who is actuated by it, the sympathy with that satisfaction\ndiminishes considerably the blame which naturally attends its dangerous\ninfluence on our conduct and behaviour. Accordingly we may observe,\nthat an excessive courage and magnanimity, especially when it displays\nitself under the frowns of fortune, contributes in a great measure to\nthe character of a hero, and will render a person the admiration of\nposterity, at the same time that it ruins his affairs, and leads him\ninto dangers and difficulties with which otherwise he would never have\nbeen acquainted.\n\nHeroism, or military glory, is much admired by the generality of\nmankind. They consider it as the most sublime kind of merit. Men\nof cool reflection are not so sanguine in their praises of it. The\ninfinite confusions and disorder which it has caused in the world,\ndiminish much of its merit in their eyes. When they would oppose the\npopular notions on this head, they always paint out the evils which\nthis supposed virtue has produced in human society; the subversion of\nempires, the devastation of provinces, the sack of cities. As long as\nthese are present to us, we are more inclined to hate than admire the\nambition of heroes. But when we fix our view on the person himself,\nwho is the author of all this mischief, there is something so dazzling\nin his character, the mere contemplation of it so elevates the mind,\nthat we cannot refuse it our admiration. The pain which we receive from\nits tendency to the prejudice of society, is overpowered by a stronger\nand more immediate sympathy.\n\nThus, our explication of the merit or demerit which attends the\ndegrees of pride or self-esteem, may serve as a strong argument for\nthe preceding hypothesis, by showing the effects of those principles\nabove explained in all the variations of our judgments concerning\nthat passion. Nor will this reasoning be advantageous to us only by\nshowing, that the distinction of vice and virtue arises from the _four_\nprinciples of the _advantage_ and of the _pleasure_ of the _person\nhimself_ and of _others_, but may also afford us a strong proof of some\nunder parts of that hypothesis.\n\nNo one who duly considers of this matter will make any scruple of\nallowing, that any piece of ill-breeding, or any expression of pride\nand haughtiness, is displeasing to us, merely because it shocks our\nown pride, and leads us by sympathy into a comparison which causes the\ndisagreeable passion of humility. Now, as an insolence of this kind\nis blamed even in a person who has always been civil to ourselves in\nparticular, nay, in one whose name is only known to us in history, it\nfollows that our disapprobation proceeds from a sympathy with others,\nand from the reflection that such a character is highly displeasing\nand odious to every one who converses or has any intercourse with\nthe person possest of it. We sympathize with those people in their\nuneasiness; and as their uneasiness proceeds in part from a sympathy\nwith the person who insults them, we may here observe a double rebound\nof the sympathy, which is a principle very similar to what we have\nobserved on another occasion.[5]\n\n\n[1] Decentior equus cujus astricta sunt ilia; sed idem velocior.\nPulcher aspectu sit athleta, cujus lacertos exercitatio expressit; idem\ncertamini paratior. Nunquam vero _species ab utilitate_ dividitur. Sed\nhoc quidem discernere, modici judicii est.--Quinct. lib. 8.\n\n[2] Book II. Part II. Sect 8.\n\n[3]\n\nSuavi mari magno turbantibus \u00e6quora ventis E terra magnum alterius\nspectare laborem; Non quia vexari quenquam est jucunda voluptas, Sed\nquibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suav'est.--_Lucret_.\n\n\n\n[4] Book II. Part II. Sect 10.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III.\n\nOF GOODNESS AND BENEVOLENCE.\n\n\nHaving thus explained the origin of that praise and approbation which\nattends every thing we call _great_ in human affections, we now proceed\nto give an account of their _goodness_, and show whence its merit is\nderived.\n\nWhen experience has once given us a competent knowledge of human\naffairs, and has taught us the proportion they bear to human passion,\nwe perceive that the generosity of men is very limited, and that it\nseldom extends beyond their friends and family, or, at most, beyond\ntheir native country. Being thus acquainted with the nature of man,\nwe expect not any impossibilities from him; but confine our view to\nthat narrow circle in which any person moves, in order to form a\njudgment of his moral character. When the natural tendency of his\npassions leads him to be serviceable and useful within his sphere,\nwe approve of his character, and love his person, by a sympathy with\nthe sentiments of those who have a more particular connexion with\nhim. We are quickly obliged to forget get our own interest in our\njudgments of this kind, by reason of the perpetual contradictions\nwe meet with in society and conversation, from persons that are not\nplaced in the same situation, and have not the same interest with\nourselves. The only point of view in which our sentiments concur with\nthose of others, is when we consider the tendency of any passion to\nthe advantage or harm of those who have any immediate connexion or\nintercourse with the person possessed of it. And though this advantage\nor harm be often very remote from ourselves, yet sometimes 'tis very\nnear us, and interests us strongly by sympathy. This concern we\nreadily extend to other cases that are resembling; and when these are\nvery remote, our sympathy is proportionably weaker, and our praise or\nblame fainter and more doubtful. The case is here the same as in our\njudgments concerning external bodies. All objects seem to diminish by\ntheir distance; but though the appearance of objects to our senses\nbe the original standard by which we judge of them, yet we do not\nsay that they actually diminish by the distance; but, correcting the\nappearance by reflection, arrive at a more constant and established\njudgment concerning them. In like manner, though sympathy be much\nfainter than our concern for ourselves, and a sympathy with persons\nremote from us much fainter than that with persons near and contiguous,\nyet we neglect all these differences in our calm judgments concerning\nthe characters of men. Besides that we ourselves often change our\nsituation in this particular, we every day meet with persons who are\nin a different situation from ourselves, and who could never converse\nwith us on any reasonable terms, were we to remain constantly in that\nsituation and point of view which is peculiar to us. The intercourse\nof sentiments, therefore, in society and conversation, makes us form\nsome general unalterable standard by which we may approve or disapprove\nof characters and manners. And though the _heart_ does not always take\npart with those general notions, or regulate its love and hatred by\nthem, yet are they sufficient for discourse, and serve all our purposes\nin company, in the pulpit, on the theatre, and in the schools.\n\nFrom these principles, we may easily account for that merit which is\ncommonly ascribed to _generosity, humanity, compassion, gratitude,\nfriendship, fidelity, zeal, disinterestedness, liberality_, and all\nthose other qualities which form the character of good and benevolent.\nA propensity to the tender passions makes a man agreeable and useful\nin all the parts of life, and gives a just direction to all his other\nqualities, which otherwise may become prejudicial to society. Courage\nand ambition, when not regulated by benevolence, are fit only to make\na tyrant and public robber. 'Tis the same case with judgment and\ncapacity, and all the qualities of that kind. They are indifferent in\nthemselves to the interests of society, and have a tendency to the\ngood or ill of mankind, according as they are directed by these other\npassions.\n\nAs love is _immediately agreeable_ to the person who is actuated by it,\nand hatred _immediately disagreeable_, this may also be a considerable\nreason why we praise all the passions that partake of the former,\nand blame all those that have any considerable share of the latter.\n'Tis certain we are infinitely touched with a tender sentiment, as\nwell as with a great one. The tears naturally start in our eyes at\nthe conception of it; nor can we forbear giving a loose to the same\ntenderness towards the person who exerts it. All this seems to me a\nproof that our approbation has, in these cases, an origin different\nfrom the prospect of utility and advantage, either to ourselves or\nothers. To which we may add, that men naturally, without reflection,\napprove of that character which is most like their own. The man of a\nmild disposition and tender affections, in forming a notion of the\nmost perfect virtue, mixes in it more of benevolence and humanity than\nthe man of courage and enterprise, who naturally looks upon a certain\nelevation of the mind as the most accomplished character. This must\nevidently proceed from an _immediate_ sympathy, which men have with\ncharacters similar to their own. They enter with more warmth into such\nsentiments, and feel more sensibly the pleasure which arises from them.\n\n'Tis remarkable, that nothing touches a man of humanity more than\nany instance of extraordinary delicacy in love or friendship, where\na person is attentive to the smallest concerns of his friend, and is\nwilling to sacrifice to them the most considerable interest of his own.\nSuch delicacies have little influence on society; because they make\nus regard the greatest trifles: but they are the more engaging the\nmore minute the concern is, and are a proof of the highest merit in\nany one who is capable of them. The passions are so contagious, that\nthey pass with the greatest facility from one person to another, and\nproduce correspondent movements in all human breasts. Where friendship\nappears in very signal instances, my heart catches the same passion,\nand is warmed by those warm sentiments that display themselves before\nme. Such agreeable, movements must give me an affection to every one\nthat excites them. This is the case with every thing that is agreeable\nin any person. The transition from pleasure to love is easy: but the\ntransition must here be still more easy; since the agreeable sentiment\nwhich is excited by sympathy, is love itself; and there is nothing\nrequired but to change the object.\n\nHence the peculiar merit of benevolence in all its shapes and\nappearances. Hence even its weaknesses are virtuous and amiable; and a\nperson, whose grief upon the loss of a friend were excessive, would be\nesteemed upon that account. His tenderness bestows a merit, as it does\na pleasure, on his melancholy.\n\nWe are not, however, to imagine that all the angry passions are\nvicious, though they are disagreeable. There is a certain indulgence\ndue to human nature in this respect. Anger and hatred are passions\ninherent in our very frame and constitution. The want of them, on some\noccasions, may even be a proof of weakness and imbecility. And where\nthey appear only in a low degree, we not only excuse them because they\nare natural, but even bestow our applauses on them, because they are\ninferior to what appears in the greatest part of mankind.\n\nWhere these angry passions rise up to cruelty, they form the most\ndetested of all vices. All the pity and concern which we have for the\nmiserable sufferers by this vice, turns against the person guilty of\nit, and produces a stronger hatred than we are sensible of on any other\noccasion.\n\nEven when the vice of inhumanity rises not to this extreme degree, our\nsentiments concerning it are very much influenced by reflections on\nthe harm that results from it. And we may observe in general, that if\nwe can find any quality in a person, which renders him incommodious\nto those who live and converse with him, we always allow it to be a\nfault or blemish, without any farther examination. On the other hand,\nwhen we enumerate the good qualities of any person, we always mention\nthose parts of his character which render him a safe companion, an easy\nfriend, a gentle master, an agreeable husband, or an indulgent father.\nWe consider him with all his relations in society; and love or hate\nhim, according as he affects those who have any immediate intercourse\nwith him. And 'tis a most certain rule, that if there be no relation\nof life in which I could not wish to stand to a particular person, his\ncharacter must so far be allowed to be perfect. If he be as little\nwanting to himself as to others, his character is entirely perfect.\nThis is the ultimate test of merit and virtue.\n\n\n[5] Book II. Part II. Sect. 5.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IV.\n\nOF NATURAL ABILITIES.\n\n\nNo distinction is more usual in all systems of ethics, than that\nbetwixt _natural abilities_ and _moral virtues_; where the former are\nplaced on the same footing with bodily endowments, and are supposed\nto have no merit or moral worth annexed to them. Whoever considers\nthe matter accurately, will find, that a dispute upon this head would\nbe merely a dispute of words, and that, though these qualities are\nnot altogether of the same kind, yet they agree in the most material\ncircumstances. They are both of them equally mental qualities: and both\nof them equally produce pleasure; and have of course an equal tendency\nto procure the love and esteem of mankind. There are few who are not as\njealous of their character, with regard to sense and knowledge, as to\nhonour and courage; and much more than with regard to temperance and\nsobriety. Men are even afraid of passing for good-natured, lest _that_\nshould be taken for want of understanding; and often boast of more\ndebauches than they have been really engaged in, to give themselves\nairs of fire and spirit. In short, the figure a man makes in the\nworld, the reception he meets with in company, the esteem paid him\nby his acquaintance; all these advantages depend almost as much upon\nhis good sense and judgment, as upon any other part of his character.\nLet a man have the best intentions in the world, and be the farthest\nfrom all injustice and violence, he will never be able to make himself\nbe much regarded, without a moderate share, at least, of parts and\nunderstanding. Since then natural abilities, though perhaps inferior,\nyet are on the same footing, both as to their causes and effects, with\nthose qualities which we call moral virtues, why should we make any\ndistinction betwixt them?\n\nThough we refuse to natural abilities the title of virtues, we must\nallow, that they procure the love and esteem of mankind; that they give\na new lustre to the other virtues; and that a man possessed of them is\nmuch more entitled to our good will and services than one entirely void\nof them. It may indeed be pretended, that the sentiment of approbation\nwhich those qualities produce, besides its being _inferior_, is also\nsomewhat _different_ from that which attends the other virtues. But\nthis, in my opinion, is not a sufficient reason for excluding them\nfrom the catalogue of virtues. Each of the virtues, even benevolence,\njustice, gratitude, integrity, excites a different sentiment or\nfeeling in the spectator. The characters of C\u00e6sar and Cato, as drawn by\nSallust, are both of them virtuous, in the strictest sense of the word,\nbut in a different way: nor are the sentiments entirely the same which\narise from them. The one produces love, the other esteem; the one is\namiable, the other awful: we could wish to meet with the one character\nin a friend, the other character we would be ambitious of in ourselves.\nIn like manner, the approbation which attends natural abilities, may\nbe somewhat different to the feeling from that which arises from the\nother virtues, without making them entirely of a different species. And\nindeed we may observe, that the natural abilities, no more than the\nother virtues, produce not, all of them, the same kind of approbation.\nGood sense and genius beget esteem; wit and humour excite love.[6]\n\nThose who represent the distinction betwixt natural abilities and\nmoral virtues as very material, may say, that the former are entirely\ninvoluntary, and have therefore no merit attending them, as having no\ndependence on liberty and free will. But to this I answer, _first_,\nThat many of those qualities which all moralists, especially the\nancients, comprehend under the title of moral virtues, are equally\ninvoluntary and necessary with the qualities of the judgment and\nimagination. Of this nature are constancy, fortitude, magnanimity;\nand, in short, all the qualities which form the _great_ man. I might\nsay the same, in some degree, of the others; it being almost impossible\nfor the mind to change its character in any considerable article, or\ncure itself of a passionate or splenetic temper, when they are natural\nto it. The greater degree there is of these blameable qualities,\nthe more vicious they become, and yet they are the less voluntary.\n_Secondly_, I would have any one give me a reason, why virtue and vice\nmay not be involuntary, as well as beauty and deformity. These moral\ndistinctions arise from the natural distinctions of pain and pleasure;\nand when we receive those feelings from the general consideration\nof any quality or character, we denominate it vicious or virtuous.\nNow I believe no one will assert, that a quality can never produce\npleasure or pain to the person who considers it, unless it be perfectly\nvoluntary in the person who possesses it. _Thirdly_, As to free will,\nwe have shown that it has no place with regard to the actions, no more\nthan the qualities of men. It is not a just consequence, that what is\nvoluntary is free. Our actions are more voluntary than our judgments;\nbut we have not more liberty in the one than in the other.\n\nBut, though this distinction betwixt voluntary and involuntary, be not\nsufficient to justify the distinction betwixt natural abilities and\nmoral virtues, yet the former distinction will afford us a plausible\nreason, why moralists have invented the latter. Men have observed,\nthat, though natural abilities and moral qualities be in the main on\nthe same footing, there is, however, this difference betwixt them,\nthat the former are almost invariable by any art or industry; while\nthe latter, or at least the actions that proceed from them, may be\nchanged by the motives of rewards and punishment, praise and blame.\nHence legislators and divines and moralists have principally applied\nthemselves to the regulating these voluntary actions, and have\nendeavoured to produce additional motives for being virtuous in that\nparticular. They knew, that to punish a man for folly, or exhort him to\nbe prudent and sagacious, would have but little effect; though the same\npunishments and exhortations, with regard to justice and injustice,\nmight have a considerable influence. But as men, in common life and\nconversation, do not carry those ends in view, but naturally praise\nor blame whatever pleases or displeases them, they do not seem much\nto regard this distinction, but consider prudence under the character\nof virtue as well as benevolence, and penetration as well as justice.\nNay, we find that all moralists, whose judgment is not perverted by a\nstrict adherence to a system, enter into the same way of thinking; and\nthat the ancient moralists, in particular, made no scruple of placing\nprudence at the head of the cardinal virtues. There is a sentiment\nof esteem and approbation, which may be excited, in some degree, by\nany faculty of the mind, in its perfect state and condition; and to\naccount for this sentiment is the business of _philosophers_. It\nbelongs to _grammarians_ to examine what qualities are entitled to the\ndenomination of _virtue_; nor will they find, upon trial, that this is\nso easy a task as at first sight they may be apt to imagine.\n\nThe principal reason why natural abilities are esteemed, is because\nof their tendency to be useful to the person who is possessed of\nthem. 'Tis impossible to execute any design with success, where it is\nnot conducted with prudence and discretion; nor will the goodness\nof our intentions alone suffice to procure us a happy issue to our\nenterprises. Men are superior to beasts principally by the superiority\nof their reason; and they are the degrees of the same faculty, which\nset such an infinite difference betwixt one man and another. All the\nadvantages of art are owing to human reason; and where fortune is not\nvery capricious, the most considerable part of these advantages must\nfall to the share of the prudent and sagacious.\n\nWhen it is asked, whether a quick or a slow apprehension be most\nvaluable? whether one, that at first view penetrates into a subject,\nbut can perform nothing upon study; or a contrary character, which must\nwork out every thing by dint of application? whether a clear head, or\na copious invention? whether a profound genius, or a sure judgment? in\nshort, what character, or peculiar understanding, is more excellent\nthan another? 'Tis evident we can answer none of these questions,\nwithout considering which of those qualities capacitates a man best for\nthe world, and carries him farthest in any of his undertakings.\n\nThere are many other qualities of the mind, whose merit is derived\nfrom the same origin. _Industry, perseverance, patience, activity,\nvigilance, application, constancy_, with other virtues of that kind,\nwhich 'twill be easy to recollect, are esteemed valuable upon no other\naccount than their advantage in the conduct of life. 'Tis the same case\nwith _temperance, frugality, economy, resolution_; as, on the other\nhand, _prodigality, luxury, irresolution, uncertainty_, are vicious,\nmerely because they draw ruin upon us, and incapacitate us for business\nand action.\n\nAs wisdom and good sense are valued because they are _useful_ to the\nperson possessed of them, so _wit_ and _eloquence_ are valued because\nthey are _immediately agreeable_ to others. On the other hand, _good\nhumour_ is loved and esteemed, because it is _immediately agreeable_ to\nthe person himself. 'Tis evident, that the conversation of a man of wit\nis very satisfactory; as a cheerful good-humoured companion diffuses\na joy over the whole company, from a sympathy with his gaiety. These\nqualities, therefore, being agreeable, they naturally beget love and\nesteem, and answer to all the characters of virtue.\n\n'Tis difficult to tell, on many occasions, what it is that renders one\nman's conversation so agreeable and entertaining, and another's so\ninsipid and distasteful. As conversation is a transcript of the mind as\nwell as books, the same qualities which render the one valuable must\ngive us an esteem for the other. This we shall consider afterwards.\nIn the mean time, it may be affirmed in general, that all the merit\na man may derive from his conversation (which, no doubt, may be very\nconsiderable) arises from nothing but the pleasure it conveys to those\nwho are present.\n\nIn this view, _cleanliness_ is also to be regarded as a virtue,\nsince it naturally renders us agreeable to others, and is a very\nconsiderable source of love and affection. No one will deny that a\nnegligence in this particular is a fault; and as faults are nothing\nbut smaller vices, and this fault can have no other origin than the\nuneasy sensation which it excites in others, we may in this instance,\nseemingly so trivial, clearly discover the origin of the moral\ndistinction of vice and virtue in other instances.\n\nBesides all those qualities which render a person lovely or valuable,\nthere is also a certain _je-ne-s\u00e7ai-quoi_ of agreeable and handsome\nthat concurs to the same effect. In this case, as well as in that of\nwit and eloquence, we must have recourse to a certain sense, which\nacts without reflection, and regards not the tendencies of qualities\nand characters. Some moralists account for all the sentiments of\nvirtue by this sense. Their hypothesis is very plausible. Nothing but\na particular inquiry can give the preference to any other hypothesis.\nWhen we find that almost all the virtues have such particular\ntendencies, and also find that these tendencies are sufficient alone to\ngive a strong sentiment of approbation, we cannot doubt, after this,\nthat qualities are approved of in proportion to the advantage which\nresults from them.\n\nThe _decorum_ or _indecorum_ of a quality, with regard to the age,\nor character, or station, contributes also to its praise or blame.\nThis decorum depends in a great measure upon experience. 'Tis usual\nto see men lose their levity as they advance in years. Such a degree\nof gravity, therefore, and such years, are connected together in our\nthoughts. When we observe, them separated in any person's character,\nthis imposes a kind of violence on our imagination, and is disagreeable.\n\nThat faculty of the soul which, of all others, is of the least\nconsequence to the character, and has the least virtue or vice in its\nseveral degrees, at the same time that it admits of a great variety\nof degrees, is the _memory_. Unless it rise up to that stupendous\nheight as to surprise us, or sink so low as in some measure to affect\nthe judgment, we commonly take no notice of its variations, nor ever\nmention them to the praise or dispraise of any person. 'Tis so far\nfrom being a virtue to have a good memory, that men generally affect\nto complain of a bad one; and, endeavouring to persuade the world\nthat what they say is entirely of their own invention, sacrifice it\nto the praise of genius and judgment. Yet, to consider the matter\nabstractedly,'twould be difficult to give a reason why the faculty\nof recalling past ideas with truth and clearness, should not have as\nmuch merit in it as the faculty of placing our present ideas in such\nan order as to form true propositions and opinions. The reason of the\ndifference certainly must be, that the memory is exerted without any\nsensation of pleasure or pain, and in all its middling degrees serves\nalmost equally well in business and affairs. But the least variations\nin the judgment are sensibly felt in their consequences; while at\nthe same time that faculty is never exerted in any eminent degree,\nwithout an extraordinary delight and satisfaction. The sympathy with\nthis utility and pleasure bestows a merit on the understanding; and\nthe absence of it makes us consider the memory as a faculty very\nindifferent to blame or praise.\n\nBefore I leave this subject of _natural abilities_, I must observe,\nthat perhaps one source of the esteem and affection which attends\nthem, is derived from the _importance_ and _weight_ which they bestow\non the person possessed of them. He becomes of greater consequence\nin life. His resolutions and actions affect a greater number of his\nfellow-creatures. Both his friendship and enmity are of moment. And\n'tis easy to observe, that whoever is elevated, after this manner,\nabove the rest of mankind, must excite in us the sentiments of esteem\nand approbation. Whatever is important engages our attention, fixes\nour thought, and is contemplated with satisfaction. The histories of\nkingdoms are more interesting than domestic stories; the histories of\ngreat empires more than those of small cities and principalities; and\nthe histories of wars and revolutions more than those of peace and\norder. We sympathize with the persons that suffer, in all the various\nsentiments which belong to their fortunes. The mind is occupied by\nthe multitude of the objects, and by the strong passions that display\nthemselves. And this occupation or agitation of the mind is commonly\nagreeable and amusing. The same theory accounts for the esteem and\nregard we pay to men of extraordinary parts and abilities. The good\nand ill of multitudes are connected with their actions. Whatever they\nundertake is important, and challenges our attention. Nothing is to be\noverlooked and despised that regards them. And where any person can\nexcite these sentiments, he soon acquires our esteem, unless other\ncircumstances of his character render him odious and disagreeable.\n\n\n[6] Love and esteem are at the bottom the same passions, and arise from\nlike causes. The qualities that produce both are agreeable, and give\npleasure. But where this pleasure is severe and serious; or where its\nobject is great, and makes a strong impression; or where it produces\nany degree of humility and awe: in all these cases, the passion which\narises from the pleasure is more properly denominated esteem than love.\nBenevolence attends both; but is connected with love in a more eminent\ndegree.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION V.\n\nSOME FARTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING THE NATURAL VIRTUES.\n\n\nIt has been observed, in treating of the Passions, that pride\nand humility, love and hatred, are excited by any advantages or\ndisadvantages of the _mind, body_, or _fortune_; and that these\nadvantages or disadvantages have that effect by producing a separate\nimpression of pain or pleasure. The pain or pleasure which arises from\nthe general survey or view of any action or quality of the _mind_,\nconstitutes its vice or virtue, and gives rise to our approbation\nor blame, which is nothing but a fainter and more imperceptible love\nor hatred. We have assigned four different sources of this pain and\npleasure; and, in order to justify more fully that hypothesis, it may\nhere be proper to observe, that the advantages or disadvantages of\nthe _body_ and of _fortune_, produce a pain or pleasure from the very\nsame principles. The tendency of any object to be _useful_ to the\nperson possessed of it, or to others; to convey _pleasure_ to him or\nto others; all these circumstances convey an immediate pleasure to the\nperson who considers the object, and command his love and approbation.\n\nTo begin with the advantages of the _body_; we may observe a phenomenon\nwhich might appear somewhat trivial and ludicrous, if any thing\ncould be trivial which fortified a conclusion of such importance, or\nludicrous, which was employed in a philosophical reasoning. 'Tis a\ngeneral remark, that those we call good _women's men_, who have either\nsignalized themselves by their amorous exploits, or whose make of body\npromises any extraordinary vigour of that kind, are well received by\nthe fair sex, and naturally engage the affections even of those whose\nvirtue prevents any design of ever giving employment to those talents.\nHere 'tis evident that the ability of such a person to give enjoyment,\nis the real source of that love and esteem he meets with among the\nfemales; at the same time that the women who love and esteem him have\nno prospect of receiving that enjoyment themselves, and can only be\naffected by means of their sympathy with one that has a commerce of\nlove with him. This instance is singular, and merits our attention.\n\nAnother source of the pleasure we receive from considering bodily\nadvantages, is their utility to the person himself who is possessed of\nthem. 'Tis certain, that a considerable part of the beauty of men, as\nwell as of other animals, consists in such a conformation of members as\nwe find by experience to be attended with strength and agility, and to\ncapacitate the creature for any action or exercise. Broad shoulders,\na lank belly, firm joints, taper legs; all these are beautiful in our\nspecies, because they are signs of force and vigour, which, being\nadvantages we naturally sympathize with, they convey to the beholder a\nshare of that satisfaction they produce in the possessor.\n\nSo far as to the _utility_ which may attend any quality of the body.\nAs to the immediate _pleasure_, 'tis certain that an air of health, as\nwell as of strength and agility, makes a considerable part of beauty;\nand that a sickly air in another is always disagreeable, upon account\nof that idea of pain and uneasiness which it conveys to us. On the\nother hand, we are pleased with the regularity of our own features,\nthough it be neither useful to ourselves nor others; and 'tis necessary\nfor us in some measure to set ourselves at a distance, to make it\nconvey to us any satisfaction. We commonly consider ourselves as we\nappear in the eyes of others, and sympathize with the advantageous\nsentiments they entertain with regard to us.\n\nHow far the advantages of _fortune_ produce esteem and approbation\nfrom the same principles, we may satisfy ourselves by reflecting on\nour precedent reasoning on that subject. We have observed, that our\napprobation of those who are possessed of the advantages of fortune,\nmay be ascribed to three different causes. _First_, To that immediate\npleasure which a rich man gives us, by the view of the beautiful\nclothes, equipage, gardens, or houses, which he possesses. _Secondly_,\nTo the advantage which we hope to reap from him by his generosity and\nliberality. _Thirdly_, To the pleasure and advantage which he himself\nreaps from his possessions, and which produce an agreeable sympathy\nin us. Whether we ascribe our esteem of the rich and great to one or\nall of these causes, we may clearly see the traces of those principles\nwhich give rise to the sense of vice and virtue. I believe most people,\nat first sight, will be inclined to ascribe our esteem of the rich\nto self-interest and the prospect of advantage. But as 'tis certain\nthat our esteem or deference extends beyond any prospect of advantage\nto ourselves, 'tis evident that that sentiment must proceed from a\nsympathy with those who are dependent on the person we esteem and\nrespect, and who have an immediate connexion with him. We consider him\nas a person capable of contributing to the happiness or enjoyment of\nhis fellow-creatures, whose sentiments with regard to him we naturally\nembrace. And this consideration will serve to justify my hypothesis in\npreferring the _third_ principle to the other two, and ascribing our\nesteem of the rich to a sympathy with the pleasure and advantage which\nthey themselves receive from their possessions. For as even the other\ntwo principles cannot operate to a due extent, or account for all the\nphenomena without having recourse to a sympathy of one kind or other,\n'tis much more natural to choose that sympathy which is immediate and\ndirect, than that which is remote and indirect. To which we may add,\nthat where the riches or power are very great, and render the person\nconsiderable and important, in the world, tire esteem attending them\nmay in part be ascribed to another source, distinct from these three,\nviz. their interesting the mind by a prospect of the multitude and\nimportance of their consequences; though, in order to account for the\noperation of this principle, we must also have recourse to _sympathy_,\nas we have observed in the preceding section.\n\nIt may not be amiss, on this occasion, to remark the flexibility of\nour sentiments, and the several changes they so readily receive from\nthe objects with which they are conjoined. All the sentiments of\napprobation which attend any particular species of objects, have a\ngreat resemblance to each other, though derived from different sources;\nand, on the other hand, those sentiments, when directed to different\nobjects, are different to the feeling, though derived from the same\nsource. Thus, the beauty of all visible objects causes a pleasure\npretty much the same, though it be sometimes derived from the mere\n_species_ and appearance of the objects; sometimes from sympathy,\nand an idea of their utility. In like manner, whenever we survey the\nactions and characters of men, without any particular interest in them,\nthe pleasure or pain which arises from the survey (with some minute\ndifferences) is in the main of the same kind, though perhaps there be\na great diversity in the causes from which it is derived. On the other\nhand, a convenient house and a virtuous character cause not the same\nfeeling of approbation, even though the source of our approbation be\nthe same, and flow from sympathy and an idea of their utility. There\nis something very inexplicable in this variation of our feelings; but\n'tis what we have experience of with regard to all our passions and\nsentiments.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VI.\n\nCONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK.\n\n\nThus, upon the whole, I am hopeful that nothing is wanting to an\naccurate proof of this system of ethics. We are certain that sympathy\nis a very powerful principle in human nature. We are also certain\nthat it has a great influence on our sense of beauty, when we regard\nexternal objects, as well as when we judge of morals. We find that\nit has force sufficient to give us the strongest sentiments of\napprobation, when it operates alone, without the concurrence of any\nother principle; as in the cases of justice, allegiance, chastity, and\ngood manners. We may observe, that all the circumstances requisite for\nits operation are found in most of the virtues, which have, for the\nmost part, a tendency to the good of society, or to that of the person\npossessed of them. If we compare all these circumstances, we shall\nnot doubt that sympathy is the chief source of moral distinctions;\nespecially when we reflect, that no objection can be raised against\nthis hypothesis in one case, which will not extend to all cases.\nJustice is certainly approved of, for no other reason than because it\nhas a tendency to the public good; and the public good is indifferent\nto us, except so far as sympathy interests us in it. We may presume the\nlike with regard to all the other virtues, which have a like tendency\nto the public good. They must derive all their merit from our sympathy\nwith those who reap any advantage from them; as the virtues, which have\na tendency to the good of the person possessed of them, derive their\nmerit from our sympathy with him.\n\nMost people will readily allow, that the useful qualities of the\nmind are virtuous, because of their utility. This way of thinking is\nso natural, and occurs on so many occasions, that few will make any\nscruple of admitting it. Now, this being once admitted, the force of\nsympathy must necessarily be acknowledged. Virtue is considered as\nmeans to an end. Means to an end are only valued so far as the end is\nvalued. But the happiness of strangers affects us by sympathy alone.\nTo that principle, therefore, we are to ascribe the sentiment of\napprobation which arises from the survey of all those virtues that are\nuseful to society, or to the person possessed of them. These form the\nmost considerable part of morality.\n\nWere it proper, in such a subject, to bribe the reader's assent, or\nemploy any thing but solid argument, we are here abundantly supplied\nwith topics to engage the affections. All lovers of virtue (and such\nwe all are in speculation, however we may degenerate in practice)\nmust certainly be pleased to see moral distinctions derived from so\nnoble a source, which gives us a just notion both of the _generosity_\nand _capacity_ of human nature. It requires but very little knowledge\nof human affairs to perceive, that a sense of morals is a principle\ninherent in the soul, and one of the most powerful that enters into\nthe composition. But this sense must certainly acquire new force when,\nreflecting on itself, it approves of those principles from whence it is\nderived, and finds nothing but what is great and good in its rise and\norigin. Those who resolve the sense of morals into original instincts\nof the human mind, may defend the cause of virtue with sufficient\nauthority, but want the advantage which those possess who account for\nthat sense by an extensive sympathy with mankind. According to their\nsystem, not only virtue must be approved of, but also the sense of\nvirtue: and not only that sense, but also the principles from whence\nit is derived. So that nothing is presented on any side but what is\nlaudable and good.\n\nThis observation may be extended to justice, and the other virtues of\nthat kind. Though justice be artificial, the sense of its morality is\nnatural. 'Tis the combination of men in a system of conduct, which\nrenders any act of justice beneficial to society. But when once it has\nthat tendency, we _naturally_ approve of it; and if we did not so,\n'tis impossible any combination or convention could ever produce that\nsentiment.\n\nMost of the inventions of men are subject to change. They depend upon\nhumour and caprice. They have a vogue for a time, and then sink into\noblivion. It may perhaps be apprehended, that if justice were allowed\nto be a human invention, it must be placed on the same footing. But the\ncases are widely different. The interest on which justice is founded is\nthe greatest imaginable, and extends to all times and places. It cannot\npossibly be served by any other invention. It is obvious, and discovers\nitself on the very first formation of society. All these causes render\nthe rules of justice steadfast and immutable; at least, as immutable\nas human nature. And if they were founded on original instincts, could\nthey have any greater stability?\n\nThe same system may help us to form a just notion of the _happiness_,\nas well as of the _dignity_ of virtue, and may interest every principle\nof our nature in the embracing and cherishing that noble quality. Who\nindeed does not feel an accession of alacrity in his pursuits of\nknowledge and ability of every kind, when he considers, that besides\nthe advantages which immediately result from these acquisitions, they\nalso give him a new lustre in the eyes of mankind, and are universally\nattended with esteem and approbation? And who can think any advantages\nof fortune a sufficient compensation for the least breach of the\n_social_ virtues, when he considers, that not only his character with\nregard to others, but also his peace and inward satisfaction entirely\ndepend upon his strict observance of them; and that a mind will never\nbe able to bear its own survey, that has been wanting in its parts to\nmankind and society? But I forbear insisting on this subject. Such\nreflections require a work apart, very different from the genius of\nthe present. The anatomist ought never to emulate the painter; nor\nin his accurate dissections and portraitures of the smaller parts of\nthe human body, pretend to give his figures any graceful and engaging\nattitude or expression. There is even something hideous, or at least\nminute, in the views of things which he presents; and 'tis necessary\nthe objects should be set more at a distance, and be more covered\nup from sight, to make them engaging to the eye and imagination. An\nanatomist, however, is admirably fitted to give advice to a painter;\nand 'tis even impracticable to excel in the latter art, without the\nassistance of the former. We must have an exact knowledge of the parts,\ntheir situation and connection, before we can design with any elegance\nor correctness. And thus the most abstract speculations concerning\nhuman nature, however cold and unentertaining, become subservient to\n_practical morality_; and may render this latter science more correct\nin its precepts, and more persuasive in its exhortations.\n\nSee Appendix at the end of the volume.\n\n\n\n\nDIALOGUES\n\nCONCERNING\n\nNATURAL RELIGION\n\n\nPAMPHILUS TO HERMIPPUS.\n\n\nIt has been remarked, my Hermippus, that though the ancient\nphilosophers conveyed most of their instruction in the form of\ndialogue, this method of composition has been little practised in\nlater ages, and has seldom succeeded in the hands of those who have\nattempted it. Accurate and regular argument, indeed, such as is now\nexpected of philosophical inquirers, naturally throws a man into the\nmethodical and didactic manner; where he can immediately, without\npreparation, explain the point at which he aims; and thence proceed,\nwithout interruption, to deduce the proofs on which it is established.\nTo deliver a *SYSTEM in conversation, scarcely appears natural; and\nwhile the dialogue-writer desires, by departing from the direct style\nof composition, to give a freer air to his performance, and avoid the\nappearance of _Author_ and _Reader_, he is apt to run into a worse\ninconvenience, and convey the image of _Pedagogue_ and _Pupil_. Or,\nif he carries on the dispute in the natural spirit of good company,\nby throwing in a variety of topics, and preserving a proper balance\namong the speakers, he often loses so much time in preparations and\ntransitions, that the reader will scarcely think himself compensated,\nby all the graces of dialogue, for the order, brevity and precision,\nwhich are sacrificed to them.\n\nThere are some subjects, however, to which dialogue-writing is\npeculiarly adapted, and where it is still preferable to the direct and\nsimple method of composition.\n\nAny point of doctrine, which is so _obvious_ that it scarcely admits\nof dispute, but at the same time so _important_ that it cannot be too\noften inculcated, seems to require some such method of handling it;\nwhere the novelty of the manner may compensate the triteness of the\nsubject; where the vivacity of conversation may enforce the precept;\nand where the variety of lights, presented by various personages and\ncharacters, may appear neither tedious nor redundant.\n\nAny question of philosophy, on the other hand, which is so _obscure_\nand _uncertain_, that human reason, can reach no fixed determination\nwith regard to it; if it should be treated at all, seems to lead us\nnaturally into the style of dialogue and conversation. Reasonable men\nmay be allowed to differ, where no one can reasonably be positive:\nOpposite sentiments, even without any decision, afford an agreeable\namusement; and if the subject be curious and interesting, the book\ncarries us, in a manner, into company; and unites the two greatest and\npurest pleasures of human life, study and society.\n\nHappily, these circumstances are all to be found in the subject of\nNATURAL RELIGION. What truth so obvious, so certain, as the being of a\nGod, which the most ignorant ages have acknowledged, for which the most\nrefined geniuses have ambitiously striven to produce new proofs and\narguments? What truth so important as this, which is the ground of all\nour hopes, the surest foundation of morality, the firmest support of\nsociety, and the only principle which ought never to be a moment absent\nfrom our thoughts and meditations? But, in treating of this obvious and\nimportant truth, what obscure questions occur concerning the nature of\nthat Divine Being, his attributes, his decrees, his plan of providence?\nThese have been always subjected to the disputations of men; concerning\nthese human reason has not reached any certain determination. But\nthese are topics so interesting, that we cannot restrain our restless\ninquiry with regard to them; though nothing but doubt, uncertainty\nand contradiction, have as yet been the result of our most accurate\nresearches.\n\nThis I had lately occasion to observe, while I passed, as usual,\npart of the summer season with Cleanthes, and was present at those\nconversations of his with Philo and Demea, of which I gave you lately\nsome imperfect account. Your curiosity, you then told me, was so\nexcited, that I must, of necessity, enter into a more exact detail of\ntheir reasonings, and display those various systems which they advanced\nwith regard to so delicate a subject as that of natural religion. The\nremarkable contrast in their characters still farther raised your\nexpectations; while you opposed the accurate philosophical turn of\nCleanthes to the careless scepticism of Philo, or compared either of\ntheir dispositions with the rigid inflexible orthodoxy of Demea. My\nyouth rendered me a mere auditor of their disputes; and that curiosity,\nnatural to the early season of life, has so deeply imprinted in my\nmemory the whole chain and connexion of their arguments, that, I hope,\nI shall not omit or confound any considerable part of them in the\nrecital.\n\n\n\n\nPART I.\n\n\nAfter I joined the company, whom I found sitting in Cleanthes's\nlibrary, Demea paid Cleanthes some compliments on the great care\nwhich he took of my education, and on his unwearied perseverance and\nconstancy in all his friendships. The father of Pamphilus, said he, was\nyour intimate friend: The son is your pupil; and may indeed be regarded\nas your adopted son, were we to judge by the pains which you bestow in\nconveying to him every useful branch of literature and science. You\nare no more wanting, I am persuaded, in prudence than in industry. I\nshall, therefore, communicate to you a maxim, which I have observed\nwith regard to my own children, that I may learn how far it agrees with\nyour practice. The method I follow in their education is founded on\nthe saying of an ancient, 'That students of philosophy ought first to\nlearn logics, then ethics, next physics, last of all the nature of the\ngods.'[1] This science of natural theology, according to him, being the\nmost profound and abstruse of any, required the maturest judgment in\nits students; and none but a mind enriched with all the other sciences,\ncan safely be intrusted with it.\n\nAre you so late, says Philo, in teaching your children the principles\nof religion? Is there no danger of their neglecting, or rejecting\naltogether those opinions of which they have heard so little during\nthe whole course of their education? It is only as a science, replied\nDemea, subjected to human reasoning and disputation, that I postpone\nthe study of Natural Theology. To season their minds with early piety,\nis my chief care; and by continual precept and instruction, and I hope\ntoo by example, I imprint deeply on their tender minds an habitual\nreverence for all the principles of religion. While they pass through\nevery other science, I still remark the uncertainty of each part;\nthe eternal disputations of men; the obscurity of all philosophy;\nand the strange, ridiculous conclusions, which some of the greatest\ngeniuses have derived from the principles of mere human reason. Having\nthus tamed their mind to a proper submission and self-diffidence, I\nhave no longer any scruple of opening to them the greatest mysteries\nof religion; nor apprehend any danger from that assuming arrogance\nof philosophy, which may lead them to reject the most established\ndoctrines and opinions.\n\nYour precaution, says, Philo, of seasoning your childrens minds early\nwith piety, is certainly very reasonable; and no more than is requisite\nin this profane and irreligious age. But what I chiefly admire in your\nplan of education, is your method of drawing advantage from the very\nprinciples of philosophy and learning, which, by inspiring pride and\nself-sufficiency, have commonly, in all ages, been found so destructive\nto the principles of religion. The vulgar, indeed, we may remark, who\nare unacquainted with science and profound inquiry, observing the\nendless disputes of the learned, have commonly a thorough contempt for\nphilosophy; and rivet themselves the faster, by that means, in the\ngreat points of theology which have been taught them. Those who enter\na little into study and inquiry, finding many appearances of evidence\nin doctrines the newest and most extraordinary, think nothing too\ndifficult for human reason; and, presumptuously breaking through all\nfences, profane the inmost sanctuaries of the temple. But Cleanthes\nwill, I hope, agree with me, that, after we have abandoned ignorance,\nthe surest remedy, there is still one expedient left to prevent this\nprofane liberty. Let Demea's principles be improved and cultivated:\nLet us become thoroughly sensible of the weakness, blindness, and\nnarrow limits of human reason: Let us duly consider its uncertainty and\nendless contrarieties, even in subjects of common life and practice:\nLet the errors and deceits of our very senses be set before us; the\ninsuperable difficulties which attend first principles in all systems;\nthe contradictions which adhere to the very ideas of matter, cause and\neffect, extension, space, time, motion; and in a word, quantity of all\nkinds, the object of the only science that can fairly pretend to any\ncertainty or evidence. When these topics are displayed in their full\nlight, as they are by some philosophers and almost all divines; who\ncan retain such confidence in this frail faculty of reason as to pay\nany regard to its determinations in points so sublime, so abstruse,\nso remote from common life and experience? When the coherence of the\nparts of a stone, or even that composition of parts which renders it\nextended; when these familiar objects, I say, are so inexplicable,\nand contain circumstances so repugnant and contradictory; with what\nassurance can we decide concerning the origin of worlds, or trace their\nhistory from eternity to eternity?\n\nWhile Philo pronounced these words, I could observe a smile in the\ncountenance both of Demea and Cleanthes. That of Demea seemed to\nimply an unreserved satisfaction in the doctrines delivered: But, in\nCleanthes's features, I could distinguish an air of finesse; as if he\nperceived some raillery or artificial malice in the reasonings of Philo.\n\nYou propose then, Philo, said Cleanthes, to erect religious faith on\nphilosophical scepticism; and you think, that if certainty or evidence\nbe expelled from every other subject of inquiry, it will all retire to\nthese theological doctrines, and there acquire a superior force and\nauthority. Whether your scepticism be as absolute and sincere as you\npretend, we shall learn by and by, when the company breaks up: We shall\nthen see, whether you go out at the door or the window; and whether\nyou really doubt if your body has gravity, or can be injured by its\nfall; according to popular opinion, derived from our fallacious senses,\nand more fallacious experience. And this consideration, Demea, may, I\nthink, fairly serve to abate our ill-will to this humorous sect of the\nsceptics. If they be thoroughly in earnest, they will not long trouble\nthe world with their doubts, cavils, and disputes: If they be only in\njest, they are, perhaps, bad railers; but can never be very dangerous,\neither to the state, to philosophy, or to religion.\n\nIn reality, Philo, continued he, it seems certain, that though a\nman, in a flush of humour, after intense reflection on the many\ncontradictions and imperfections of human reason, may entirely renounce\nall belief and opinion, it is impossible for him to persevere in\nthis total scepticism, or make it appear in his conduct for a few\nhours. External objects press in upon him; passions solicit him; his\nphilosophical melancholy dissipates; and even the utmost violence upon\nhis own temper will not be able, during any time, to preserve the poor\nappearance of scepticism. And for what reason impose on himself such\na violence? This is a point in which it will be impossible for him\never to satisfy himself, consistently with his sceptical principles.\nSo that, upon the whole, nothing could be more ridiculous than the\nprinciples of the ancient Pyrrhonians; if in reality they endeavoured,\nas is pretended, to extend, throughout, the same scepticism which they\nhad learned from the declamations of their schools, and which they\nought to have confined to them.\n\nIn this view, there appears a great resemblance between the sects of\nthe Stoics and Pyrrhonians, though perpetual antagonists; and both\nof them seem founded on this erroneous maxim, That what a man can\nperform sometimes, and in some dispositions, he can perform always,\nand in every disposition. When the mind, by Stoical reflections, is\nelevated into a sublime enthusiasm of virtue, and strongly smit with\nany _species_ of honour or public good, the utmost bodily pain and\nsufferings will not prevail over such a high sense of duty; and it is\npossible, perhaps, by its means, even to smile and exult in the midst\nof tortures. If this sometimes may be the case in fact and reality,\nmuch more may a philosopher, in his school, or even in his closet,\nwork himself up to such an enthusiasm, and support in imagination the\nacutest pain or most calamitous event which he can possibly conceive.\nBut how shall he support this enthusiasm itself? The bent of his mind\nrelaxes, and cannot be recalled at pleasure; avocations lead him\nastray; misfortunes attack him unawares; and the _philosopher_ sinks\nby degrees into the _plebeian_.\n\nI allow of your comparison between the Stoics and Sceptics, replied\nPhilo. But you may observe, at the same time, that though the mind\ncannot, in Stoicism, support the highest flights of philosophy, yet,\neven when it sinks lower, it still retains somewhat of its former\ndisposition; and the effects of the Stoic's reasoning will appear in\nhis conduct in common life, and through the whole tenor of his actions.\nThe ancient schools, particularly that of Zeno, produced examples of\nvirtue and constancy which seem astonishing to present times.\n\n     Vain Wisdom all and false Philosophy.\n     Yet with a pleasing sorcery could charm\n     Pain, for a while, or anguish; and excite\n     Fallacious Hope, or arm the obdurate breast\n     With stubborn Patience, as with triple steel.\n\nIn like manner, if a man has accustomed himself to sceptical\nconsiderations on the uncertainty and narrow limits of reason, he\nwill not entirely forget them when he turns his reflection on other\nsubjects; but in all his philosophical principles and reasoning, I dare\nnot say in his common conduct, he will be found different from those,\nwho either never formed any opinions in the case, or have entertained\nsentiments more favourable to human reason.\n\nTo whatever length any one may push his speculative principles of\nscepticism, he must act, I own, and live, and converse, like other men;\nand for this conduct he is not obliged to give any other reason, than\nthe absolute necessity he lies under of so doing. If he ever carries\nhis speculations farther than this necessity constrains him, and\nphilosophizes either on natural or moral subjects, he is allured by a\ncertain pleasure and satisfaction which he finds in employing himself\nafter that manner. He considers besides, that every one, even in common\nlife, is constrained to have more or less of this philosophy; that\nfrom our earliest infancy we make continual advances in forming more\ngeneral principles of conduct and reasoning; that the larger experience\nwe acquire, and the stronger reason we are endued with, we always\nrender our principles the more general and comprehensive; and that\nwhat we call _philosophy_ is nothing but a more regular and methodical\noperation of the same kind. To philosophize on such subjects, is\nnothing essentially different from reasoning on common life; and we\nmay only expect greater stability, if not greater truth, from our\nphilosophy, on account of its exacter and more scrupulous method of\nproceeding.\n\nBut when we look beyond human affairs and the properties of the\nsurrounding bodies: when we carry our speculations into the two\neternities, before and after the present state of things; into the\ncreation and formation of the universe; the existence and properties of\nspirits; the powers and operations, of one universal Spirit existing\nwithout beginning and without end; omnipotent, omniscient, immutable,\ninfinite and incomprehensible: We must be far removed from the smallest\ntendency to scepticism not to be apprehensive, that we have here got\nquite beyond the reach of our faculties. So long as we confine our\nspeculations to trade, or morals, or politics, or criticism, we make\nappeals, every moment, to common sense and experience, which strengthen\nour philosophical conclusions, and remove, at least in part, the\nsuspicion which we so justly entertain with regard to every reasoning\nthat is very subtile and refined. But, in theological reasonings, we\nhave not this advantage; while, at the same time, we are employed upon\nobjects, which, we must be sensible, are too large for our grasp, and\nof all others require most to be familiarized to our apprehension. We\nare like foreigners in a strange country, to whom every thing must seem\nsuspicious, and who are in danger every moment of transgressing against\nthe laws and customs of the people with whom they live and converse. We\nknow not how far we ought to trust our vulgar methods of reasoning in\nsuch a subject; since, even in common life, and in that province which\nis peculiarly appropriated to them, we cannot account for them, and are\nentirely guided by a kind of instinct or necessity in employing them.\n\nAll sceptics pretend, that, if reason be considered in an abstract\nview, it furnishes invincible arguments against itself: and that we\ncould never retain any conviction or assurance, on any subject, were\nnot the sceptical reasonings so refined and subtile, that they are\nnot able to counterpoise the more solid and more natural arguments\nderived from the senses and experience. But it is evident, whenever our\narguments lose this advantage, and run wide of common life, that the\nmost refined scepticism comes to be upon a footing with them, and is\nable to oppose and counterbalance them. The one has no more weight than\nthe other. The mind must remain in suspense between them; and it is\nthat very suspense or balance, which is the triumph of scepticism.\n\nBut I observe, says Cleanthes, with regard to you, Philo, and all\nspeculative sceptics, that your doctrine and practice are as much at\nvariance in the most abstruse points of theory as in the conduct of\ncommon life. Wherever evidence discovers itself, you adhere to it,\nnotwithstanding your pretended scepticism; and I can observe, too, some\nof your sect to be as decisive as those who make greater professions of\ncertainty and assurance. In reality, would not a man be ridiculous, who\npretended to reject Newton's explication of the wonderful phenomenon\nof the rainbow, because that explication gives a minute anatomy\nof the rays of light; a subject, forsooth, too refined for human\ncomprehension? And what would you say to one, who, having nothing\nparticular to object to the arguments of Copernicus and Galil\u00e6o for\nthe motion of the earth, should withhold his assent, on that general\nprinciple, that these subjects were too magnificent and remote to be\nexplained by the narrow and fallacious reason of mankind?\n\nThere is indeed a kind of brutish and ignorant scepticism, as you well\nobserved, which gives the vulgar a general prejudice against what they\ndo not easily understand, and makes them reject every principle which\nrequires elaborate reasoning to prove and establish it. This species of\nscepticism is fatal to knowledge, not to religion; since we find, that\nthose who make greatest profession of it, give often their assent, not\nonly to the great truths of Theism and natural theology, but even to\nthe most absurd tenets which a traditional superstition has recommended\nto them. They firmly believe in witches, though they will not believe\nnor attend to the most simple proposition of Euclid. But the refined\nand philosophical sceptics fall into an inconsistence of an opposite\nnature. They push their researches into the most abstruse corners of\nscience; and their assent attends them in every step, proportioned\nto the evidence which they meet with. They are even obliged to\nacknowledge, that the most abstruse and remote objects are those which\nare best explained by philosophy. Light is in reality anatomized: The\ntrue system of the heavenly bodies is discovered and ascertained. But\nthe nourishment of bodies by food is still an inexplicable mystery:\nThe cohesion of the parts of matter is still incomprehensible. These\nsceptics, therefore, are obliged, in every question, to consider\neach particular evidence apart, and proportion their assent to the\nprecise degree of evidence which occurs. This is their practice in all\nnatural, mathematical, moral, and political science. And why not the\nsame, I ask, in the theological and religious? Why must conclusions\nof this nature be alone rejected on the general presumption of the\ninsufficiency of human reason, without any particular discussion of the\nevidence? Is not such an unequal conduct a plain proof of prejudice and\npassion?\n\nOur senses, you say, are fallacious; our understanding erroneous; our\nideas, even of the most familiar objects, extension, duration, motion,\nfull of absurdities and contradictions. You defy me to solve the\ndifficulties, or reconcile the repugnancies which you discover in them.\nI have not capacity for so great an undertaking: I have not leisure\nfor it: I perceive it to be superfluous. Your own conduct, in every\ncircumstance, refutes your principles, and shows the firmest reliance\non all the received maxims of science, morals, prudence, and behaviour.\n\nI shall never assent to so harsh an opinion as that of a celebrated\nwriter,[2] who says, that the Sceptics are not a sect of philosophers:\nThey are only a sect of liars. I may, however, affirm (I hope without\noffence), that they are a sect of jesters or railers. But for my\npart, whenever I find myself disposed to mirth and amusement, I shall\ncertainly choose my entertainment of a less perplexing and abstruse\nnature. A comedy, a novel, or at most a history, seems a more natural\nrecreation than such metaphysical subtilties and abstractions.\n\nIn vain would the sceptic make a distinction between science and common\nlife, or between one science and another. The arguments employed in\nall, if just, are of a similar nature, and contain the same force and\nevidence. Or if there be any difference among them, the advantage lies\nentirely on the side of theology and natural religion. Many principles\nof mechanics are founded on very abstruse reasoning; yet no man who has\nany pretensions to science, even no speculative sceptic, pretends to\nentertain the least doubt with regard to them. The Copernican system\ncontains the most surprising paradox, and the most contrary to our\nnatural conceptions, to appearances, and to our very senses: yet even\nmonks and inquisitors are now constrained to withdraw their opposition\nto it. And shall Philo, a man of so liberal a genius and extensive\nknowledge, entertain any general undistinguished scruples with regard\nto the religious hypothesis, which is founded on the simplest and most\nobvious arguments, and, unless it meets with artificial obstacles, has\nsuch easy access and admission into the mind of man?\n\nAnd here we may observe, continued he, turning himself towards Demea,\na pretty curious circumstance in the history of the sciences. After\nthe union of philosophy with the popular religion, upon the first\nestablishment of Christianity, nothing was more usual, among all\nreligious teachers, than declamations against reason, against the\nsenses, against every principle derived merely from human research\nand inquiry. All the topics of the ancient academics were adopted by\nthe fathers; and thence propagated for several ages in every school\nand pulpit throughout Christendom. The Reformers embraced the same\nprinciples of reasoning, or rather declamation; and all panegyrics on\nthe excellency of faith, were sure to be interlarded with some severe\nstrokes of satire against natural reason. A celebrated prelate too,[3]\nof the Romish communion, a man of the most extensive learning, who\nwrote a demonstration of Christianity, has also composed a treatise,\nwhich contains all the cavils of the boldest and most determined\nPyrrhonism. Locke seems to have been the first Christian who ventured\nopenly to assert, that _faith_ was nothing but a species of _reason_;\nthat religion was only a branch of philosophy; and that a chain of\narguments, similar to that which established any truth in morals,\npolitics, or physics, was always employed in discovering all the\nprinciples of theology, natural and revealed. The ill use which Bayle\nand other libertines made of the philosophical scepticism of the\nfathers and first reformers, still farther propagated the judicious\nsentiment of Mr Locke: And it is now in a manner avowed, by all\npretenders to reasoning and philosophy, that Atheist and Sceptic are\nalmost synonymous. And as it is certain that no man is in earnest when\nhe professes the latter principle, I would fain hope that there are as\nfew who seriously maintain the former.\n\nDon't you remember, said Philo, the excellent saying of Lord Bacon\non this head? That a little philosophy, replied Cleanthes, makes a\nman an Atheist: A great deal converts him to religion. That is a very\njudicious remark too, said Philo. But what I have in my eye is another\npassage, where, having mentioned David's fool, who said in his heart\nthere is no God, this great philosopher observes, that the Atheists\nnow-a-days have a double share of folly; for they are not contented to\nsay in their hearts there is no God, but they also utter that impiety\nwith their lips, and are thereby guilty of multiplied indiscretion and\nimprudence. Such people, though they were ever so much in earnest,\ncannot, methinks, be very formidable.\n\nBut though you should rank me in this class of fools, I cannot forbear\ncommunicating a remark that occurs to me, from the history of the\nreligious and irreligious scepticism with which you have entertained\nus. It appears to me, that there are strong symptoms of priestcraft in\nthe whole progress of this affair. During ignorant ages, such as those\nwhich followed the dissolution of the ancient schools, the priests\nperceived, that Atheism, Deism, or heresy of any kind, could only\nproceed from the presumptuous questioning of received opinions, and\nfrom a belief that human reason was equal to every thing. Education had\nthen a mighty influence over the minds of men, and was almost equal in\nforce to those suggestions of the senses and common understanding, by\nwhich the most determined sceptic must allow himself to be governed.\nBut at present, when the influence of education is much diminished,\nand men, from a more open commerce of the world, have learned to\ncompare the popular principles of different nations and ages, our\nsagacious divines have changed their whole system of philosophy, and\ntalk the language of Stoics, Platonists, and Peripatetics, not that of\nPyrrhonians and Academics. If we distrust human reason, we have now no\nother principle to lead us into religion. Thus, sceptics in one age,\ndogmatists in another; whichever system best suits the purpose of these\nreverend gentlemen, in giving them an ascendant over mankind, they are\nsure to make it their favourite principle, and established tenet.\n\nIt is very natural, said Cleanthes, for men to embrace those\nprinciples, by which they find they can best defend their doctrines;\nnor need we have any recourse to priestcraft to account for so\nreasonable an expedient. And, surely nothing can afford a stronger\npresumption, that any set of principles are true, and ought to be\nembraced, than to observe that they tend to the confirmation of true\nreligion, and serve to confound the cavils of Atheists, Libertines, and\nFreethinkers of all denominations.\n\n[1] Chrysippus apud Plut. de repug. Stoicorum.\n\n[2] L'art de penser.\n\n[3] Mons. Huet.\n\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\n\nI must own, Cleanthes, said Demea, that nothing can more surprise\nme, than the light in which you have all along put this argument.\nBy the whole tenor of your discourse, one would imagine that you\nwere maintaining the Being of a God, against the cavils of Atheists\nand Infidels; and were necessitated to become a champion for that\nfundamental principle of all religion. But this, I hope, is not by any\nmeans a question among us. No man, no man at least of common sense,\nI am persuaded, ever entertained a serious doubt with regard to a\ntruth so certain and self-evident. The question is not concerning the\n*BEING, but the $NATURE of *GOD. This, I affirm, from the infirmities\nof human understanding, to be altogether incomprehensible and unknown\nto us. The essence of that supreme Mind, his attributes, the manner\nof his existence, the very nature of his duration; these, and every\nparticular which regards so divine a Being, are mysterious to men.\nFinite, weak, and blind creatures, we ought to humble ourselves in his\naugust presence; and, conscious of our frailties, adore in silence his\ninfinite perfections, which eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,\nneither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive. They are\ncovered in a deep cloud from human curiosity: It is profaneness to\nattempt penetrating through these sacred obscurities: And, next to the\nimpiety of denying his existence, is the temerity of prying into his\nnature and essence, decrees and attributes.\n\nBut lest you should think that my _piety_ has here got the better of my\n_philosophy_, I shall support my opinion, if it needs any support, by\na very great authority. I might cite all the divines, almost, from the\nfoundation of Christianity, who have ever treated of this or any other\ntheological subject: But I shall confine myself, at present, to one\nequally celebrated for piety and philosophy. It is Father Malebranche,\nwho, I remember, thus expresses himself.[1] 'One ought not so much,'\nsays he, 'to call God a spirit, in order to express positively what\nhe is, as in order to signify that he is not matter. He is a Being\ninfinitely perfect: Of this we cannot doubt. But in the same manner\nas we ought not to imagine, even supposing him corporeal, that he is\nclothed with a human body, as the Anthropomorphites asserted, under\ncolour that that figure was the most perfect of any; so, neither\nought we to imagine that the spirit of God has human ideas, or bears\nany resemblance to our spirit, under colour that we know nothing\nmore perfect than a human mind. We ought rather to believe, that as\nhe comprehends the perfections of matter without being material....\nhe comprehends also the perfections of created spirits without being\nspirit, in the manner we conceive spirit: That his true name is, _He\nthat is_; or, in other words, Being without restriction, All Being, the\nBeing infinite and universal.'\n\nAfter so great an authority, Demea, replied Philo, as that which\nyou have produced, and a thousand more which you might produce, it\nwould appear ridiculous in me to add my sentiment, or express my\napprobation of your doctrine. But surely, where reasonable men treat\nthese subjects, the question can never be concerning the _Being_,\nbut only the _Nature_, of the Deity. The former truth, as you well\nobserve, is unquestionable and self-evident. Nothing exists without a\ncause; and the original cause of this universe (whatever it be) we call\nGod; and piously ascribe to him every species of perfection. Whoever\nscruples this fundamental truth, deserves every punishment which\ncan be inflicted among philosophers, to wit, the greatest ridicule,\ncontempt, and disapprobation. But as all perfection is entirely\nrelative, we ought never to imagine that we comprehend the attributes\nof this divine Being, or to suppose that his perfections have any\nanalogy or likeness to the perfections of a human creature. Wisdom,\nThought, Design, Knowledge; these we justly ascribe to him; because\nthese words are honourable among men, and we have no other language\nor other conceptions by which we can express our adoration of him.\nBut let us beware, lest we think that our ideas anywise correspond to\nhis perfections, or that his attributes have any resemblance to these\nqualities among men. He is infinitely superior to our limited view and\ncomprehension; and is more the object of worship in the temple, than of\ndisputation in the schools.\n\nIn reality, Cleanthes, continued he, there is no need of having\nrecourse to that affected scepticism so displeasing to you, in order\nto come at this determination. Our ideas reach no farther than our\nexperience: We have no experience of divine attributes and operations:\nI need not conclude my syllogism: You can draw the inference yourself.\nAnd it is a pleasure to me (and I hope to you too) that just reasoning\nand sound piety here concur in the same conclusion, and both of them\nestablish the adorably mysterious and incomprehensible nature of the\nSupreme Being.\n\nNot to lose any time in circumlocutions, said Cleanthes, addressing\nhimself to Demea, much less in replying to the pious declamations of\nPhilo; I shall briefly explain how I conceive this matter. Look round\nthe world: contemplate the whole and every part of it: You will find it\nto be nothing but one great machine, subdivided into an infinite number\nof lesser machines, which again admit of subdivisions to a degree\nbeyond what human senses and faculties can trace and explain. All these\nvarious machines, and even their most minute parts, are adjusted to\neach other with an accuracy which ravishes into admiration all men who\nhave ever contemplated them. The curious adapting of means to ends,\nthroughout all nature, resembles exactly, though it much exceeds, the\nproductions of human contrivance; of human design, thought, wisdom,\nand intelligence. Since therefore the effects resemble each other, we\nare led to infer, by all the rules of analogy, that the causes also\nresemble; and that the Author of Nature is somewhat similar to the\nmind of man, though possessed of much larger faculties, proportioned\nto the grandeur of the work which he has executed. By this argument\n_a posteriori_, and by this argument alone, do we prove at once the\nexistence of a Deity, and his similarity to human mind and intelligence.\n\nI shall be so free, Cleanthes, said Demea, as to tell you, that from\nthe beginning I could not approve of your conclusion concerning the\nsimilarity of the Deity to men; still less can I approve of the mediums\nby which you endeavour to establish it. What! No demonstration of\nthe Being of God! No abstract arguments! No proofs _a priori_! Are\nthese, which have hitherto been so much insisted on by philosophers,\nall fallacy, all sophism? Can we reach no farther in this subject than\nexperience and probability? I will not say that this is betraying\nthe cause of a Deity; But surely, by this affected candour, you give\nadvantages to Atheists, which they never could obtain by the mere dint\nof argument and reasoning.\n\nWhat I chiefly scruple in this subject, said Philo, is not so much\nthat all religious arguments are by Cleanthes reduced to experience,\nas that they appear not to be even the most certain and irrefragable\nof that inferior kind. That a stone will fall, that fire will burn,\nthat the earth has solidity, we have observed a thousand and a thousand\ntimes; and when any new instance of this nature is presented, we draw\nwithout hesitation the accustomed inference. The exact similarity\nof the cases gives us a perfect assurance of a similar event; and a\nstronger evidence is never desired nor sought after. But wherever you\ndepart, in the least, from the similarity of the cases, you diminish\nproportionably the evidence; and may at last bring it to a very weak\n_analogy_, which is confessedly liable to error and uncertainty. After\nhaving experienced the circulation of the blood in human creatures, we\nmake no doubt that it takes place in Titius and M\u00e6vius: But from its\ncirculation in frogs and fishes, it is only a presumption, though a\nstrong one, from analogy, that it takes place in men and other animals.\nThe analogical reasoning is much weaker, when we infer the circulation\nof the sap in vegetables from our experience that the blood circulates\nin animals; and those, who hastily followed that imperfect analogy, are\nfound, by more accurate experiments, to have been mistaken.\n\nIf we see a house, Cleanthes, we conclude, with the greatest certainty,\nthat it had an architect or builder; because this is precisely that\nspecies of effect which we have experienced to proceed from that\nspecies of cause. But surely you will not affirm, that the universe\nbears such a resemblance to a house, that we can with the same\ncertainty infer a similar cause, or that the analogy is here entire and\nperfect. The dissimilitude is so striking, that the utmost you can here\npretend to is a guess, a conjecture, a presumption concerning a similar\ncause; and how that pretension will be received in the world, I leave\nyou to consider.\n\nIt would surely be very ill received, replied Cleanthes; and I should\nbe deservedly blamed and detested, did I allow, that the proofs of a\nDeity amounted to no more than a guess or conjecture. But is the whole\nadjustment of means to ends in a house and in the universe so slight a\nresemblance? The economy of final causes? The order, proportion, and\narrangement of every part? Steps of a stair are plainly contrived, that\nhuman legs may use them in mounting; and this inference is certain and\ninfallible. Human legs are also contrived for walking and mounting; and\nthis inference, I allow, is not altogether so certain, because of the\ndissimilarity which you remark; but does it, therefore, deserve the\nname only of presumption or conjecture?\n\nGood God! cried Demea, interrupting him, where are we? Zealous\ndefenders of religion allow, that the proofs of a Deity fall short\nof perfect evidence! And you, Philo, on whose assistance I depended\nin proving the adorable mysteriousness of the Divine Nature, do you\nassent to all these extravagant opinions of Cleanthes? For what other\nname can I give them? or, why spare my censure, when such principles\nare advanced, supported by such an authority, before so young a man as\nPamphilus?\n\nYou seem not to apprehend, replied Philo, that I argue with Cleanthes\nin his own way; and, by showing him the dangerous consequences of his\ntenets, hope at last to reduce him to our opinion. But what sticks most\nwith you, I observe, is the representation which Cleanthes has made of\nthe argument _a posteriori_; and finding that that argument is likely\nto escape your hold and vanish into air, you think it so disguised,\nthat you can scarcely believe it to be set in its true light. Now,\nhowever much I may dissent, in other respects, from the dangerous\nprinciples of Cleanthes, I must allow that he has fairly represented\nthat argument; and I shall endeavour so to state the matter to you,\nthat you will entertain no farther scruples with regard to it.\n\nWere a man to abstract from every thing which he knows or has seen, he\nwould be altogether incapable, merely from his own ideas, to determine\nwhat kind of scene the universe must be, or to give the preference\nto one state or situation of things above another. For as nothing\nwhich he clearly conceives could be esteemed impossible or implying\na contradiction, every chimera of his fancy would be upon an equal\nfooting; nor could he assign any just reason why he adheres to one idea\nor system, and rejects the others which are equally possible.\n\nAgain; after he opens his eyes, and contemplates the world as it really\nis, it would be impossible for him at first to assign the cause of\nany one event, much less of the whole of things, or of the universe.\nHe might set his fancy a rambling; and she might bring him in an\ninfinite variety of reports and representations. These would all be\npossible; but being all equally possible, he would never of himself\ngive a satisfactory account for his preferring one of them to the rest.\nExperience alone can point out to him the true cause of any phenomenon.\n\nNow, according to this method of reasoning, Demea, it follows, (and is,\nindeed, tacitly allowed by Cleanthes himself), that order, arrangement,\nor the adjustment of final causes, is not of itself any proof of\ndesign; but only so far as it has been experienced to proceed from\nthat principle. For aught we can know _a priori_, matter may contain\nthe source or spring of order originally within itself, as well as\nmind does; and there is no more difficulty in conceiving, that the\nseveral elements, from an internal unknown cause, may fall into the\nmost exquisite arrangement, than to conceive that their ideas, in the\ngreat universal mind, from a like internal unknown cause, fall into\nthat arrangement. The equal possibility of both these suppositions is\nallowed. But, by experience, we find, (according to Cleanthes), that\nthere is a difference between them. Throw several pieces of steel\ntogether, without shape or form; they will never arrange themselves\nso as to compose a watch. Stone, and mortar, and wood, without an\narchitect, never erect a house. But the ideas in a human mind, we see,\nby an unknown, inexplicable economy, arrange themselves so as to form\nthe plan of a watch or house. Experience, therefore, proves, that there\nis an original principle of order in mind, not in matter. From similar\neffects we infer similar causes. The adjustment of means to ends is\nalike in the universe, as in a machine of human contrivance. The\ncauses, therefore, must be resembling.\n\nI was from the beginning scandalized, I must own, with this\nresemblance, which is asserted, between the Deity and human creatures;\nand must conceive it to imply such a degradation of the Supreme Being\nas no sound Theist could endure. With your assistance, therefore,\nDemea, I shall endeavour to defend what you justly call the adorable\nmysteriousness of the Divine Nature, and shall refute this reasoning of\nCleanthes, provided he allows that I have made a fair representation of\nit.\n\nWhen Cleanthes had assented, Philo, after a short pause, proceeded in\nthe following manner.\n\nThat all inferences, Cleanthes, concerning fact, are founded on\nexperience; and that all experimental reasonings are founded on the\nsupposition that similar causes prove similar effects, and similar\neffects similar causes; I shall not at present much dispute with\nyou. But observe, I entreat you, with what extreme caution all just\nreasoners proceed in the transferring of experiments to similar cases.\nUnless the cases be exactly similar, they repose no perfect confidence\nin applying their past observation to any particular phenomenon.\nEvery alteration of circumstances occasions a doubt concerning the\nevent; and it requires new experiments to prove certainly, that the\nnew circumstances are of no moment or importance. A change in bulk,\nsituation, arrangement, age, disposition of the air, or surrounding\nbodies; any of these particulars may be attended with the most\nunexpected consequences: And unless the objects be quite familiar to\nus, it is the highest temerity to expect with assurance, after any of\nthese changes, an event similar to that which before fell under our\nobservation. The slow and deliberate steps of philosophers here, if\nany where, are distinguished from the precipitate march of the vulgar,\nwho, hurried on by the smallest similitude, are incapable of all\ndiscernment or consideration.\n\nBut can you think, Cleanthes, that your usual phlegm and philosophy\nhave been preserved in so wide a step as you have taken, when you\ncompared to the universe houses, ships, furniture, machines, and, from\ntheir similarity in some circumstances, inferred a similarity in their\ncauses? Thought, design, intelligence, such as we discover in men\nand other animals, is no more than one of the springs and principles\nof the universe, as well as heat or cold, attraction or repulsion,\nand a hundred others, which fall under daily observation. It is an\nactive cause, by which some particular parts of nature, we find,\nproduce alterations on other parts. But can a conclusion, with any\npropriety, be transferred from parts to the whole? Does not the great\ndisproportion bar all comparison and inference? From observing the\ngrowth of a hair, can we learn any thing concerning the generation of a\nman? Would the manner of a leaf's blowing, even though perfectly known,\nafford us any instruction concerning the vegetation of a tree?\n\nBut, allowing that we were to take the _operations_ of one part of\nnature upon another, for the foundation of our judgment concerning the\n_origin_ of the whole, (which never can be admitted), yet why select\nso minute, so weak, so bounded a principle, as the reason and design\nof animals is found to be upon this planet? What peculiar privilege\nhas this little agitation of the brain which we call _thought_, that\nwe must thus make it the model of the whole universe? Our partiality\nin our own favour does indeed present it on all occasions; but sound\nphilosophy ought carefully to guard against so natural an illusion.\n\nSo far from admitting, continued Philo, that the operations of a part\ncan afford us any just conclusion concerning the origin of the whole,\nI will not allow any one part to form a rule for another part, if the\nlatter be very remote from the former. Is there any reasonable ground\nto conclude, that the inhabitants of other planets possess thought,\nintelligence, reason, or any thing similar to these faculties in men?\nWhen nature has so extremely diversified her manner of operation in\nthis small globe, can we imagine that she incessantly copies herself\nthroughout so immense a universe? And if thought, as we may well\nsuppose, be confined merely to this narrow corner, and has even there\nso limited a sphere of action, with what propriety can we assign it for\nthe original cause of all things? The narrow views of a peasant, who\nmakes his domestic economy the rule for the government of kingdoms, is\nin comparison a pardonable sophism.\n\nBut were we ever so much assured, that a thought and reason, resembling\nthe human, were to be found throughout the whole universe, and were\nits activity elsewhere vastly greater and more commanding than it\nappears in this globe; yet I cannot see, why the operations of a world\nconstituted, arranged, adjusted, can with any propriety be extended\nto a world which is in its embryo-state, and is advancing towards\nthat constitution and arrangement. By observation, we know somewhat\nof the economy, action, and nourishment of a finished animal; but we\nmust transfer with great caution that observation to the growth of a\nfoetus in the womb, and still more to the formation of an animalcule in\nthe loins of its male parent. Nature, we find, even from our limited\nexperience, possesses an infinite number of springs and principles,\nwhich incessantly discover themselves on every change of her position\nand situation. And what new and unknown principles would actuate her in\nso new and unknown a situation as that of the formation of a universe,\nwe cannot, without the utmost temerity, pretend to determine.\n\nA very small part of this great system, during a very short time,\nis very imperfectly discovered to us; and do we thence pronounce\ndecisively concerning the origin of the whole?\n\nAdmirable conclusion! Stone, wood, brick, iron, brass, have not, at\nthis time, in this minute globe of earth, an order or arrangement\nwithout human art and contrivance; therefore the universe could not\noriginally attain its order and arrangement, without something similar\nto human art. But is a part of nature a rule for another part very wide\nof the former? Is it a rule for the whole? Is a very small part a rule\nfor the universe? Is nature in one situation, a certain rule for nature\nin another situation vastly different from the former?\n\nAnd can you blame me, Cleanthes, if I here imitate the prudent reserve\nof Simonides, who, according to the noted story, being asked by Hiero,\n_What God was_? desired a day to think of it, and then two days more;\nand after that manner continually prolonged the term, without ever\nbringing in his definition or description? Could you even blame me, if\nI had answered at first, _that I did not know_, and was sensible that\nthis subject lay vastly beyond the reach of my faculties? You might cry\nout sceptic and rallier, as much as you pleased: but having found, in\nso many other subjects much more familiar, the imperfections and even\ncontradictions of human reason, I never should expect any success from\nits feeble conjectures, in a subject so sublime, and so remote from the\nsphere of our observation. When two _species_ of objects have always\nbeen observed to be conjoined together, I can _infer_, by custom, the\nexistence of one wherever I _see_ the existence of the other; and\nthis I call an argument from experience. But how this argument can\nhave place, where the objects, as in the present case, are single,\nindividual, without parallel, or specific resemblance, may be difficult\nto explain. And will any man tell me with a serious countenance, that\nan orderly universe must arise from some thought and art like the\nhuman, because we have experience of it? To ascertain this reasoning,\nit were requisite that we had experience of the origin of worlds; and\nit is not sufficient, surely, that we have seen ships and cities arise\nfrom human art and contrivance.\n\nPhilo was proceeding in this vehement manner, somewhat between jest\nand earnest, as it appeared to me, when he observed some signs of\nimpatience in Cleanthes, and then immediately stopped short. What I had\nto suggest, said Cleanthes, is only that you would not abuse terms, or\nmake use of popular expressions to subvert philosophical reasonings.\nYou know, that the vulgar often distinguish reason from experience,\neven where the question relates only to matter of fact and existence;\nthough it is found, where that _reason_ is properly analyzed, that\nit is nothing but a species of experience. To prove by experience\nthe origin of the universe from mind, is not more contrary to common\nspeech, than to prove the motion of the earth from the same principle.\nAnd a caviller might raise all the same objections to the Copernican\nsystem, which you have urged against my reasonings. Have you other\nearths, might he say, which you have seen to move? Have....\n\nYes! cried Philo, interrupting him, we have other earths. Is not the\nmoon another earth, which we see to turn round its centre? Is not\nVenus another earth, where we observe the same phenomenon? Are not the\nrevolutions of the sun also a confirmation, from analogy, of the same\ntheory? All the planets, are they not earths, which revolve about the\nsun? Are not the satellites moons, which move round Jupiter and Saturn,\nand along with these primary planets round the sun? These analogies\nand resemblances, with others which I have not mentioned, are the sole\nproofs of the Copernican system; and to you it belongs to consider,\nwhether you have any analogies of the same kind to support your theory.\n\nIn reality, Cleanthes, continued he, the modern system of astronomy\nis now so much received by all inquirers, and has become so essential\na part even of our earliest education, that we are not commonly very\nscrupulous in examining the reasons upon which it is founded. It is now\nbecome a matter of mere curiosity to study the first writers on that\nsubject, who had the full force of prejudice to encounter, and were\nobliged to turn their arguments on every side in order to render them\npopular and convincing. But if we peruse Galil\u00e6o's famous Dialogues\nconcerning the system of the world, we shall find, that that great\ngenius, one of the sublimest that ever existed, first bent all his\nendeavours to prove, that there was no foundation for the distinction\ncommonly made between elementary and celestial substances. The schools,\nproceeding from the illusions of sense, had carried this distinction\nvery far; and had established the latter substances to be ingenerable,\nincorruptible, unalterable, impassible; and had assigned all the\nopposite qualities to the former. But Galil\u00e6o, beginning with the moon,\nproved its similarity in every particular to the earth; its convex\nfigure, its natural darkness when not illuminated, its density, its\ndistinction into solid and liquid, the variations of its phases, the\nmutual illuminations of the earth and moon, their mutual eclipses, the\ninequalities of the lunar surface, &c. After many instances of this\nkind, with regard to all the planets, men plainly saw that these bodies\nbecame proper objects of experience; and that the similarity of their\nnature enabled us to extend the same arguments and phenomena from one\nto the other.\n\nIn this cautious proceeding of the astronomers, you may read your\nown condemnation, Cleanthes; or rather may see, that the subject in\nwhich you are engaged exceeds all human reason and inquiry. Can you\npretend to show any such similarity between the fabric of a house, find\nthe generation of a universe? Have you ever seen nature in any such\nsituation as resembles the first arrangement of the elements? Have\nworlds ever been formed under your eye; and have you had leisure to\nobserve the whole progress of the phenomenon, from the first appearance\nof order to its final consummation? If you have, then cite your\nexperience, and deliver your theory.\n\n\n[1] Recherche de la Verit\u00e9, liv. 3, cap. 9.\n\n\n\n\nPART III.\n\n\nHow the most absurd argument, replied Cleanthes, in the hands of a\nman of ingenuity and invention, may acquire an air of probability!\nAre you not aware, Philo, that it became necessary for Copernicus\nand his first disciples to prove the similarity of the terrestrial\nand celestial matter; because several philosophers, blinded by old\nsystems, and supported by some sensible appearances, had denied this\nsimilarity? but that it is by no means necessary, that Theists should\nprove the similarity of the works of Nature to those of Art; because\nthis similarity is self-evident and undeniable? The same matter, a\nlike form; what more is requisite to show an analogy between their\ncauses, and to ascertain the origin of all things from a divine purpose\nand intention? Your objections, I must freely tell you, are no better\nthan the abstruse cavils of those philosophers who denied motion; and\nought to be refuted in the same manner, by illustrations, examples and\ninstances, rather than by serious argument and philosophy.\n\nSuppose, therefore, that an articulate voice were heard, in the clouds,\nmuch louder and more melodious than any which human art could ever\nreach: Suppose, that this voice were extended in the same instant\nover all nations, and spoke to each nation in its own language and\ndialect: Suppose, that the words delivered not only contain a just\nsense and meaning, but convey some instruction altogether worthy of a\nbenevolent Being, superior to mankind: Could you possibly hesitate a\nmoment concerning the cause of this voice? and must you not instantly\nascribe it to some design or purpose? Yet I cannot see but all the\nsame objections (if they merit that appellation) which lie against the\nsystem of Theism, may also be produced against this inference.\n\nMight you not say, that all conclusions concerning fact were founded\non experience: that when we hear an articulate voice in the dark,\nand thence infer a man, it is only the resemblance of the effects\nwhich leads us to conclude that there is a like resemblance in the\ncause: but that this extraordinary voice, by its loudness, extent, and\nflexibility to all languages, bears so little analogy to any human\nvoice, that we have no reason to suppose any analogy in their causes:\nand consequently, that a rational, wise, coherent speech proceeded, you\nknow not whence, from some accidental whistling of the winds, not from\nany divine reason or intelligence? You see clearly your own objections\nin these cavils, and I hope too you see clearly, that they cannot\npossibly have more force in the one case than in the other.\n\nBut to bring the case still nearer the present one of the universe,\nI shall make two suppositions, which imply not any absurdity or\nimpossibility. Suppose that there is a natural, universal, invariable\nlanguage, common to every individual of human race; and that books\nare natural productions, which perpetuate themselves in the same\nmanner with animals and vegetables, by descent and propagation.\nSeveral expressions of our passions contain a universal language: all\nbrute animals have a natural speech, which, however limited, is very\nintelligible to their own species. And as there are infinitely fewer\nparts and less contrivance in the finest composition of eloquence, than\nin the coarsest organized body, the propagation of an Iliad or \u00c6neid is\nan easier supposition than that of any plant or animal.\n\nSuppose, therefore, that you enter into your library, thus peopled by\nnatural volumes, containing the most refined reason and most exquisite\nbeauty; could you possibly open one of them, and doubt, that its\noriginal cause bore the strongest analogy to mind and intelligence?\nWhen it reasons and discourses; when it expostulates, argues, and\nenforces its views and topics; when it applies sometimes to the pure\nintellect, sometimes to the affections; when it collects, disposes, and\nadorns every consideration suited to the subject; could you persist in\nasserting, that all this, at the bottom, had really no meaning; and\nthat the first formation of this volume in the loins of its original\nparent proceeded not from thought and design? Your obstinacy, I know,\nreaches not that degree of firmness: even your sceptical play and\nwantonness would be abashed at so glaring an absurdity.\n\nBut if there be any difference, Philo, between this supposed case and\nthe real one of the universe, it is all to the advantage of the latter.\nThe anatomy of an animal affords many stronger instances of design than\nthe perusal of Livy or Tacitus; and any objection which you start in\nthe former case, by carrying me back to so unusual and extraordinary a\nscene as the first formation of worlds, the same objection has place on\nthe supposition of our vegetating library. Choose, then, your party,\nPhilo, without ambiguity or evasion; assert either that a rational\nvolume is no proof of a rational cause, or admit of a similar cause to\nall the works of nature.\n\nLet me here observe too, continued Cleanthes, that this religious\nargument, instead of being weakened by that scepticism so much\naffected by you, rather acquires force from it, and becomes more firm\nand undisputed. To exclude all argument or reasoning of every kind,\nis either affectation or madness. The declared profession of every\nreasonable sceptic is only to reject abstruse, remote, and refined\narguments; to adhere to common sense and the plain instincts of\nnature; and to assent, wherever any reasons strike him with so full\na force that he cannot, without the greatest violence, prevent it.\nNow the arguments for Natural Religion are plainly of this kind; and\nnothing but the most perverse, obstinate metaphysics can reject them.\nConsider, anatomize the eye; survey its structure and contrivance;\nand tell me, from your own feeling, if the idea of a contriver does\nnot immediately flow in upon you with a force like that of sensation.\nThe most obvious conclusion, surely, is in favour of design; and it\nrequires time, reflection, and study, to summon up those frivolous,\nthough abstruse objections, which can support Infidelity. Who can\nbehold the male and female of each species, the correspondence of\ntheir parts and instincts, their passions, and whole course of life\nbefore and after generation, but must be sensible, that the propagation\nof the species is intended by Nature? Millions and millions of such\ninstances present themselves through every part of the universe; and\nno language can convey a more intelligible irresistible meaning, than\nthe curious adjustment of final causes. To what degree, therefore, of\nblind dogmatism must one have attained, to reject such natural and such\nconvincing arguments?\n\nSome beauties in writing we may meet with, which seem contrary to\nrules, and which gain the affections, and animate the imagination, in\nopposition to all the precepts of criticism, and to the authority of\nthe established masters of art. And if the argument for Theism be, as\nyou pretend, contradictory to the principles of logic; its universal,\nits irresistible influence proves clearly, that there may be arguments\nof a like irregular nature. Whatever cavils may be urged, an orderly\nworld, as well as a coherent, articulate speech, will still be received\nas an incontestable proof of design and intention.\n\nIt sometimes happens, I own, that the religious arguments have not\ntheir due influence on an ignorant savage and barbarian; not because\nthey are obscure and difficult, but because he never asks himself any\nquestion with regard to them. Whence arises the curious structure of\nan animal? From the copulation of its parents. And these whence? From\n_their_ parents? A few removes set the objects at such a distance, that\nto him they are lost in darkness and confusion; nor is he actuated by\nany curiosity to trace them farther. But this is neither dogmatism\nnor scepticism, but stupidity: a state of mind very different from\nyour sifting, inquisitive disposition, my ingenious friend. You can\ntrace causes from effects: You can compare the most distant and\nremote objects: and your greatest errors proceed not from barrenness\nof thought and invention, but from too luxuriant a fertility, which\nsuppresses your natural good sense, by a profusion of unnecessary\nscruples and objections.\n\nHere I could observe, Hermippus, that Philo was a little embarrassed\nand confounded: But while he hesitated in delivering an answer, luckily\nfor him, Demea broke in upon the discourse, and saved his countenance.\n\nYour instance, Cleanthes, said he, drawn from books and language, being\nfamiliar, has, I confess, so much more force on that account: but is\nthere not some danger too in this very circumstance; and may it not\nrender us presumptuous, by making us imagine we comprehend the Deity,\nand have some adequate idea of his nature and attributes? When I read\na volume, I enter into the mind and intention of the author: I become\nhim, in a manner, for the instant; and have an immediate feeling and\nconception of those ideas which revolved in his imagination while\nemployed in that composition. But so near an approach we never surely\ncan make to the Deity. His ways are not our ways. His attributes are\nperfect, but incomprehensible. And this volume of nature contains a\ngreat and inexplicable riddle, more than any intelligible discourse or\nreasoning.\n\nThe ancient Platonists, you know, were the most religious and devout\nof all the Pagan philosophers; yet many of them, particularly\nPlotinus, expressly declare, that intellect or understanding is not\nto be ascribed to the Deity; and that our most perfect worship of him\nconsists, not in acts of veneration, reverence, gratitude, or love;\nbut in a certain mysterious self-annihilation, or total extinction of\nall our faculties. These ideas are, perhaps, too far stretched; but\nstill it must be acknowledged, that, by representing the Deity as so\nintelligible and comprehensible, and so similar to a human mind, we are\nguilty of the grossest and most narrow partiality, and make ourselves\nthe model of the whole universe.\n\nAll the _sentiments_ of the human mind, gratitude, resentment, love,\nfriendship, approbation, blame, pity, emulation, envy, have a plain\nreference to the state and situation of man, and are calculated for\npreserving the existence and promoting the activity of such a being\nin such circumstances. It seems, therefore, unreasonable to transfer\nsuch sentiments to a supreme existence, or to suppose him actuated by\nthem; and the phenomena besides of the universe will not support us in\nsuch a theory. All our _ideas_ derived from the senses are confessedly\nfalse and illusive; and cannot therefore be supposed to have place in\na supreme intelligence: And as the ideas of internal sentiment, added\nto those of the external senses, compose the whole furniture of human\nunderstanding, we may conclude, that none of the _materials_ of thought\nare in any respect similar in the human and in the divine intelligence.\nNow, as to the _manner_ of thinking; how can we make any comparison\nbetween them, or suppose them any wise resembling? Our thought is\nfluctuating, uncertain, fleeting, successive, and compounded; and\nwere we to remove these circumstances, we absolutely annihilate its\nessence, and it would in such a case be an abuse of terms to apply to\nit the name of thought or reason. At least if it appear more pious\nand respectful (as it really is) still to retain these terms, when we\nmention the Supreme Being, we ought to acknowledge, that their meaning,\nin that case, is totally incomprehensible; and that the infirmities\nof our nature do not permit us to reach any ideas which in the least\ncorrespond to the ineffable sublimity of the Divine attributes.\n\n\n\n\nPART IV.\n\n\nIt seems strange to me, said Cleanthes, that you, Demea, who are so\nsincere in the cause of religion, should still maintain the mysterious,\nincomprehensible nature of the Deity, and should insist so strenuously\nthat he has no manner of likeness or resemblance to human creatures.\nThe Deity, I can readily allow, possesses many powers and attributes of\nwhich we can have no comprehension: But if our ideas, so far as they\ngo, be not just, and adequate, and correspondent to his real nature,\nI know not what there is in this subject worth insisting on. Is the\nname, without any meaning, of such mighty importance? Or how do you\nmystics, who maintain the absolute incomprehensibility of the Deity,\ndiffer from Sceptics or Atheists, who assert, that the first cause of\nall is unknown and unintelligible? Their temerity must be very great,\nif, after rejecting the production by a mind, I mean a mind resembling\nthe human, (for I know of no other), they pretend to assign, with\ncertainty, any other specific intelligible cause: And their conscience\nmust be very scrupulous indeed, if they refuse to call the universal\nunknown cause a God or Deity; and to bestow on him as many sublime\neulogies and unmeaning epithets as you shall please to require of them.\n\nWho could imagine, replied Demea, that Cleanthes, the calm\nphilosophical Cleanthes, would attempt to refute his antagonists\nby affixing a nickname to them; and, like the common bigots and\ninquisitors of the age, have recourse to invective and declamation,\ninstead of reasoning? Or does he not perceive, that these topics\nare easily retorted, and that Anthropomorphite is an appellation as\ninvidious, and implies as dangerous consequences, as the epithet of\nMystic, with which he has honoured us? In reality, Cleanthes, consider\nwhat it is you assert when you represent the Deity as similar to a\nhuman mind and understanding. What is the soul of man? A composition\nof various faculties, passions, sentiments, ideas; united, indeed,\ninto one self or person, but still distinct from each other. When it\nreasons, the ideas, which are the parts of its discourse, arrange\nthemselves in a certain form or order; which is not preserved entire\nfor a moment, but immediately gives place to another arrangement. New\nopinions, new passions, new affections, new feelings arise, which\ncontinually diversify the mental scene, and produce in it the greatest\nvariety and most rapid succession imaginable. How is this compatible\nwith that perfect immutability and simplicity which all true Theists\nascribe to the Deity? By the same act, say they, he sees past,\npresent, and future: His love and hatred, his mercy and justice, are\none individual operation: He is entire in every point of space; and\ncomplete in every instant of duration. No succession, no change, no\nacquisition, no diminution. What he is implies not in it any shadow of\ndistinction or diversity. And what he is this moment he ever has been,\nand ever will be, without any new judgment, sentiment, or operation. He\nstands fixed in one simple, perfect state: nor can you ever gay, with\nany propriety, that this act of his is different from that other; or\nthat this judgment or idea has been lately formed, and will give place,\nby succession, to any different judgment or idea.\n\nI can readily allow, said Cleanthes, that those who maintain the\nperfect simplicity of the Supreme Being, to the extent in which you\nhave explained it, are complete Mystics, and chargeable with all the\nconsequences which I have drawn from their opinion. They are, in a\nword, Atheists, without knowing it For though it be allowed, that the\nDeity possesses attributes of which we have no comprehension, yet\nought we never to ascribe to him any attributes which are absolutely\nincompatible with that intelligent nature essential to him. A mind,\nwhose acts and sentiments and ideas are not distinct and successive;\none, that is wholly simple, and totally immutable, is a mind which has\nno thought, no reason, no will, no sentiment, no love, no hatred; or,\nin a word, is no mind at all. It is an abuse of terms to give it that\nappellation; and we may as well speak of limited extension without\nfigure, or of number without composition.\n\nPray consider, said Philo, whom you are at present inveighing against.\nYou are honouring with the appellation of _Atheist_ all the sound,\northodox divines, almost, who have treated of this subject; and you\nwill at last be, yourself, found, according to your reckoning, the\nonly sound Theist in the world. But if idolaters be Atheists, as, I\nthink, may justly be asserted, and Christian Theologians the same, what\nbecomes of the argument, so much celebrated, derived from the universal\nconsent of mankind?\n\nBut because I know you are not much swayed by names and authorities,\nI shall endeavour to show you, a little more distinctly, the\ninconveniences of that Anthropomorphism, which you have embraced; and\nshall prove, that there is no ground to suppose a plan of the world to\nbe formed in the Divine mind, consisting of distinct ideas, differently\narranged, in the same manner as an architect forms in his head the plan\nof a house which he intends to execute.\n\nIt is not easy, I own, to see what is gained by this supposition,\nwhether we judge of the matter by _Reason_ or by _Experience_. We are\nstill obliged to mount higher, in order to find the cause of this\ncause, which you had assigned as satisfactory and conclusive.\n\nIf _Reason_ (I mean abstract reason, derived from inquiries _a priori_)\nbe not alike mute with regard to all questions concerning cause and\neffect, this sentence at least it will venture to pronounce, That\na mental world, or universe of ideas, requires a cause as much, as\ndoes a material world, or universe of objects; and, if similar in its\narrangement, must require a similar cause. For what is there in this\nsubject, which should occasion a different conclusion or inference? In\nan abstract view, they are entirely alike; and no difficulty attends\nthe one supposition, which is not common to both of them.\n\nAgain, when we will needs force _Experience_ to pronounce some\nsentence, even on these subjects which lie beyond her sphere, neither\ncan she perceive any material difference in this particular, between\nthese two kinds of worlds; but finds them to be governed by similar\nprinciples, and to depend upon an equal variety of causes in their\noperations. We have specimens in miniature of both of them. Our own\nmind resembles the one; a vegetable or animal body the other. Let\nexperience, therefore, judge from these samples. Nothing seems more\ndelicate, with regard to its causes, than thought; and as these causes\nnever operate in two persons after the same manner, so we never find\ntwo persons who think exactly alike. Nor indeed does the same person\nthink exactly alike at any two different periods of time. A difference\nof age, of the disposition of his body, of weather, of food, of\ncompany, of books, of passions; any of these particulars, or others\nmore minute, are sufficient to alter the curious machinery of thought,\nand communicate to it very different movements and operations. As far\nas we can judge, vegetables and animal bodies are not more delicate\nin their motions, nor depend upon a greater variety or more curious\nadjustment of springs and principles.\n\nHow, therefore, shall we satisfy ourselves concerning the cause of that\nBeing whom you suppose the Author of Nature, or, according to your\nsystem of Anthropomorphism, the ideal world, into which you trace the\nmaterial? Have we not the same reason to trace that ideal world into\nanother ideal world, or new intelligent principle? But if we stop, and\ngo no farther; why go so far? why not stop at the material world? How\ncan we satisfy ourselves without going on _in infinitum_? And, after\nall, what satisfaction is there in that infinite progression? Let us\nremember the story of the Indian philosopher and his elephant. It was\nnever more applicable than to the present subject. If the material\nworld rests upon a similar ideal world, this ideal world must rest upon\nsome other; and so on, without end. It were better, therefore, never\nto look beyond the present material world. By supposing it to contain\nthe principle of its order within itself, we really assert it to be\nGod; and the sooner we arrive at that Divine Being, so much the better.\nWhen you go one step beyond the mundane system, you only excite an\ninquisitive humour which it is impossible ever to satisfy.\n\nTo say, that the different ideas which compose the reason of the\nSupreme Being, fall into order of themselves, and by their own nature,\nis really to talk without any precise meaning. If it has a meaning, I\nwould fain know, why it is not as good sense to say, that the parts\nof the material world fall into order of themselves and by their own\nnature. Can the one opinion be intelligible, while the other is not so?\n\nWe have, indeed, experience of ideas which fall into order of\nthemselves, and without any _known_ cause. But, I am sure, we have\na much larger experience of matter which does the same; as, in all\ninstances of generation and vegetation, where the accurate analysis of\nthe cause exceeds all human comprehension. We have also experience of\nparticular systems of thought and of matter which have no order; of the\nfirst in madness, of the second in corruption. Why, then, should we\nthink, that order is more essential to one than the other? And if it\nrequires a cause in both, what do we gain by your system, in tracing\nthe universe of objects into a similar universe of ideas? The first\nstep which we make leads us on for ever. It were, therefore, wise in\nus to limit all our inquiries to the present world, without looking\nfarther. No satisfaction can ever be attained by these speculations,\nwhich so far exceed the narrow bounds of human understanding.\n\nIt was usual with the Peripatetics, you know, Cleanthes, when the cause\nof any phenomenon was demanded, to have recourse to their _faculties_,\nor _occult qualities_; and to say, for instance, that bread, nourished\nby its nutritive faculty, and senna purged by its purgative. But it\nhas been discovered, that this subterfuge was nothing but the disguise\nof ignorance; and that these philosophers, though less ingenuous,\nreally said the same thing with the sceptics or the vulgar, who\nfairly confessed that they knew not the cause of these phenomena.\nIn like manner, when it is asked, what cause produces order in the\nideas of the Supreme Being; can any other reason be assigned by you,\nAnthropomorphites, than that it is a _rational_ faculty, and that\nsuch is the nature of the Deity? But why a similar answer will not be\nequally satisfactory in accounting for the order of the world, without\nhaving recourse to any such intelligent creator as you insist on, may\nbe difficult to determine. It is only to say, that _such_ is the nature\nof material objects, and that they are all originally possessed of a\n_faculty_ of order and proportion. These are only more learned and\nelaborate ways of confessing our ignorance; nor has the one hypothesis\nany real advantage above the other, except in its greater conformity to\nvulgar prejudices.\n\nYou have displayed this argument with great emphasis, replied\nCleanthes: You seem not sensible how easy it is to answer it. Even in\ncommon life, if I assign a cause for any event, is it any objection,\nPhilo, that I cannot assign the cause of that cause, and answer every\nnew question which may incessantly be started? And what philosophers\ncould possibly submit to so rigid a rule? philosophers, who confess\nultimate causes to be totally unknown; and are sensible, that the most\nrefined principles into which they trace the phenomena, are still to\nthem as inexplicable as these phenomena themselves are to the vulgar.\nThe order and arrangement of nature, the curious adjustment of final\ncauses, the plain use and intention of every part and organ; all these\nbespeak in the clearest language an intelligent cause or author. The\nheavens and the earth join in the same testimony: The whole chorus of\nNature raises one hymn to the praises of its Creator. You alone, or\nalmost alone, disturb this general harmony. You start abstruse doubts,\ncavils, and objections: You ask me, what is the cause of this cause? I\nknow not; I care not; that concerns not me. I have found a Deity; and\nhere I stop my inquiry. Let those go farther, who are wiser or more\nenterprising.\n\nI pretend to be neither, replied Philo: And for that very reason, I\nshould never perhaps have attempted to go so tar; especially when I\nam sensible, that I must at last be contented to sit down with the\nsame answer, which, without farther trouble, might have satisfied me\nfrom the beginning. If I am still to remain in utter ignorance of\ncauses, and can absolutely give an explication of nothing, I shall\nnever esteem it any advantage to shove off for a moment a difficulty,\nwhich, you acknowledge, must immediately, in its full force, recur\nupon me. Naturalists indeed very justly explain particular effects by\nmore general causes, though these general causes themselves should\nremain in the end totally inexplicable; but they never surely thought\nit satisfactory to explain a particular effect by a particular cause,\nwhich was no more to be accounted for than the effect itself. An ideal\nsystem, arranged of itself, without a precedent design, is not a whit\nmore explicable than a material one, which attains its order in a like\nmanner; nor is there any more difficulty in the latter supposition than\nin the former.\n\n\n\n\nPART V.\n\n\nBut to show you still more inconveniences, continued Philo, in your\nAnthropomorphism, please to take a new survey of your principles.\n_Like effects prove like causes_. This is the experimental argument;\nand this, you say too, is the sole theological argument. Now, it is\ncertain, that the liker the effects are which are seen, and the liker\nthe causes which are inferred, the stronger is the argument. Every\ndeparture on either side diminishes the probability, and renders the\nexperiment less conclusive. You cannot doubt of the principle; neither\nought you to reject its consequences.\n\nAll the new discoveries in astronomy, which prove the immense grandeur\nand magnificence of the works of Nature, are so many additional\narguments for a Deity, according to the true system of Theism; but,\naccording to your hypothesis of experimental Theism, they become\nso many objections, by removing the effect still farther from all\nresemblance to the effects of human art and contrivance. For, if\nLucretius,[1] even following the old system of the world, could exclaim,\n\n     Quis regere immensi summam, quis habere profundi\n     Indu manu validas potis est moderanter habenas?\n     Quis pariter coelos omnes convertere? et omnes\n     Ignibus \u00e6theriis terras suffire feraces?\n     Omnibus inque locis esse omni tempore pr\u00e6sto?\n\nIf Tully[2] esteemed this reasoning so natural, as to put it into\nthe mouth of his Epicurean: 'Quibus enim oculis animi intueri potuit\nvester Plato fabricam illam tanti operis, qua construi a Deo atque\n\u00e6dificari mundum facit? qu\u00e6 molito? qu\u00e6 ferramenta? qui vectes? qu\u00e6\nmachin\u00e6? qui minstri tanti muneris fuerunt? quemadmodum autem obedire\net parere voluntati architecti aer, ignis, aqua, terra potuerunt?' If\nthis argument, I say, had any force in former ages, how much greater\nmust it have at present, when the bounds of Nature are so infinitely\nenlarged, and such a magnificent scene is opened to us? It is still\nmore unreasonable to form our idea of so unlimited a cause from our\nexperience of the narrow productions of human design and invention.\n\nThe discoveries by microscopes, as they open a new universe in\nminiature, are still objections, according to you, arguments, according\nto me. The farther we push our researches of this kind, we are still\nled to infer the universal cause of all to be vastly different from\nmankind, or from any object of human experience and observation.\n\nAnd what say you to the discoveries in anatomy, chemistry, botany?...\nThese surely are no objections, replied Cleanthes; they only discover\nnew instances of art and contrivance. It is still the image of mind\nreflected on us from innumerable objects. Add, a mind _like the human_,\nsaid Philo. I know of no other, replied Cleanthes. And the liker the\nbetter, insisted Philo. To be sure, said Cleanthes.\n\nNow, Cleanthes, said Philo, with an air of alacrity and triumph, mark\nthe consequences. _First_, By this method of reasoning, you renounce\nall claim to infinity in any of the attributes of the Deity. For,\nas the cause ought only to be proportioned to the effect, and the\neffect, so far as it falls under our cognizance, is not infinite; what\npretensions have we, upon your suppositions, to ascribe that attribute\nto the Divine Being? You will still insist, that, by removing him so\nmuch from all similarity to human creatures, we give in to the most\narbitrary hypothesis, and at the same time weaken all proofs of his\nexistence.\n\n_Secondly_, You have no reason, on your theory, for ascribing\nperfection to the Deity, even in his finite capacity, or for\nsupposing him free from every error, mistake, or incoherence, in his\nundertakings. There are many inexplicable difficulties in the works of\nNature, which, if we allow a perfect author to be proved _a priori_,\nare easily solved, and become only seeming difficulties, from the\nnarrow capacity of man, who cannot trace infinite relations. But\naccording to your method of reasoning, these difficulties become all\nreal; and perhaps will be insisted on, as new instances of likeness to\nhuman art and contrivance. At least, you must acknowledge, that it is\nimpossible for us to tell, from our limited views, whether this system\ncontains any great faults, or deserves any considerable praise, if\ncompared to other possible, and even real systems. Could a peasant,\nif the \u00c6neid were read to him, pronounce that poem to be absolutely\nfaultless, or even assign to it its proper rank among the productions\nof human wit, he, who had never seen any other production?\n\nBut were this world ever so perfect a production, it must still remain\nuncertain, whether all the excellences of the work can justly be\nascribed to the workman. If we survey a ship, what an exalted idea must\nwe form of the ingenuity of the carpenter who framed so complicated,\nuseful, and beautiful a machine? And what surprise must we feel, when\nwe find him a stupid mechanic, who imitated others, and copied an art,\nwhich, through a long succession of ages, after multiplied trials,\nmistakes, corrections, deliberations, and controversies, had been\ngradually improving? Many worlds might have been botched and bungled,\nthroughout an eternity, ere this system was struck out; much labour\nlost, many fruitless trials made; and a slow, but continued improvement\ncarried on during infinite ages in the art of world-making. In such\nsubjects, who can determine, where the truth; nay, who can conjecture\nwhere the probability lies, amidst a great number of hypotheses which\nmay be proposed, and a still greater which may be imagined?\n\nAnd what shadow of an argument, continued Philo, can you produce, from\nyour hypothesis, to prove the unity of the Deity? A great number of\nmen join in building a house or ship, in rearing a city, in framing a\ncommonwealth; why may not several deities combine in contriving and\nframing a world? This is only so much greater similarity to human\naffairs. By sharing the work among several, we may so much farther\nlimit the attributes of each, and get rid of that extensive power and\nknowledge, which must be supposed in one deity, and which, according to\nyou, can only serve to weaken the proof of his existence. And if such\nfoolish, such vicious creatures as man, can yet often unite in framing\nand executing one plan, how much more those deities or demons, whom we\nmay suppose several degrees more perfect!\n\nTo multiply causes without necessity, is indeed contrary to true\nphilosophy: but this principle applies not to the present case. Were\none deity antecedently proved by your theory, who were possessed\nof every attribute requisite to the production of the universe; it\nwould be needless, I own, (though not absurd), to suppose any other\ndeity existent. But while it is still a question, Whether all these\nattributes are united in one subject, or dispersed among several\nindependent beings, by what phenomena in nature can we pretend to\ndecide the controversy? Where we see a body raised in a scale, we\nare sure that there is in the opposite scale, however concealed from\nsight, some counterpoising weight equal to it; but it is still allowed\nto doubt, whether that weight be an aggregate of several distinct\nbodies, or one uniform united mass. And if the weight requisite very\nmuch exceeds any thing which we have ever seen conjoined in any single\nbody, the former supposition becomes still more probable and natural.\nAn intelligent being of such vast power and capacity as is necessary\nto produce the universe, or, to speak in the language of ancient\nphilosophy, so prodigious an animal exceeds all analogy, and even\ncomprehension.\n\nBut farther, Cleanthes: Men are mortal, and renew their species by\ngeneration; and this is common to all living creatures. The two great\nsexes of male and female, says Milton, animate the world. Why must\nthis circumstance, so universal, so essential, be excluded from those\nnumerous and limited deities? Behold, then, the theogony of ancient\ntimes brought back upon us.\n\nAnd why not become a perfect Anthropomorphite? Why not assert the deity\nor deities to be corporeal, and to have eyes, a nose, mouth, ears, &c.?\nEpicurus maintained, that no man had ever seen reason but in a human\nfigure; therefore the gods must have a human figure. And this argument,\nwhich is deservedly so much ridiculed by Cicero, becomes, according to\nyou, solid and philosophical.\n\nIn a word, Cleanthes, a man who follows your hypothesis is able perhaps\nto assert, or conjecture, that the universe, sometime, arose from\nsomething like design: but beyond that position he cannot ascertain one\nsingle circumstance; and is left afterwards to fix every point of his\ntheology by the utmost license of fancy and hypothesis. This world, for\naught he knows, is very faulty and imperfect, compared to a superior\nstandard; and was only the first rude essay of some infant deity, who\nafterwards abandoned it, ashamed of his lame performance: it is the\nwork only of some dependent, inferior deity; and is the object of\nderision to his superiors: it is the production of old age and dotage\nin some superannuated deity; and ever since his death, has run on at\nadventures, from the first impulse and active force which it received\nfrom him. You justly give signs of horror, Demea, at these strange\nsuppositions; but these, and a thousand more of the same kind, are\nCleanthes's suppositions, not mine. From the moment the attributes of\nthe Deity are supposed finite, all these have place. And I cannot, for\nmy part, think that so wild and unsettled a system of theology is, in\nany respect, preferable to none at all.\n\nThese suppositions I absolutely disown, cried Cleanthes: they strike\nme, however, with no horror, especially when proposed in that\nrambling way in which they drop from you. On the contrary, they give\nme pleasure, when I see, that, by the utmost indulgence of your\nimagination, you never get rid of the hypothesis of design in the\nuniverse, but are obliged at every turn to have recourse to it. To\nthis concession I adhere steadily; and this I regard as a sufficient\nfoundation for religion.\n\n\n[1] Lib. xi. 1094.\n\n[2] De Nat Deor. lib. i.\n\n\n\n\nPART VI.\n\n\nIt must be a slight fabric, indeed, said Demea, which can be erected\non so tottering a foundation. While we are uncertain whether there is\none deity or many; whether the deity or deities, to whom we owe our\nexistence, be perfect or imperfect, subordinate or supreme, dead or\nalive, what trust or confidence can we repose in them? What devotion or\nworship address to them? What veneration or obedience pay them? To all\nthe purposes of life the theory of religion becomes altogether useless:\nand even with regard to speculative consequences, its uncertainty,\naccording to you, must render it totally precarious and unsatisfactory.\n\nTo render it still more unsatisfactory, said Philo, there occurs to me\nanother hypothesis, which must acquire an air of probability from the\nmethod of reasoning so much insisted on by Cleanthes. That like effects\narise from like causes: this principle he supposes the foundation of\nall religion. But there is another principle of the same kind, no less\ncertain, and derived from the same source of experience; that where\nseveral known circumstances are observed to be similar, the unknown\nwill also be found similar. Thus, if we see the limbs of a human body,\nwe conclude that it is also attended with a human head, though hid from\nus. Thus, if we see, through a chink in a wall, a small part of the\nsun, we conclude, that, were the wall removed, we should see the whole\nbody. In short, this method of reasoning is so obvious and familiar,\nthat no scruple can ever be made with regard to its solidity.\n\nNow, if we survey the universe, so far as it falls under our knowledge,\nit bears a great resemblance to an animal or organized body, and\nseems actuated with a like principle of life and motion. A continual\ncirculation of matter in it produces no disorder: a continual waste in\nevery part is incessantly repaired: the closest sympathy is perceived\nthroughout the entire system: and each part or member, in performing\nits proper offices, operates both to its own preservation and to that\nof the whole. The world, therefore, I infer, is an animal; and the\nDeity is the soul of the world, actuating it, and actuated by it.\n\nYou have too much learning, Cleanthes, to be at all surprised at this\nopinion, which, you know, was maintained by almost all the Theists of\nantiquity, and chiefly prevails in their discourses and reasonings.\nFor though, sometimes, the ancient philosophers reason from final\ncauses, as if they thought the world the workmanship of God; yet it\nappears rather their favourite notion to consider it as his body, whose\norganization renders it subservient to him. And it must be confessed,\nthat, as the universe resembles more a human body than it does the\nworks of human art and contrivance, if our limited analogy could ever,\nwith any propriety, be extended to the whole of nature, the inference\nseems juster in favour of the ancient than the modern theory.\n\nThere are many other advantages, too, in the former theory, which\nrecommended it to the ancient theologians. Nothing more repugnant\nto all their notions, because nothing more repugnant to common\nexperience, than mind without body; a mere spiritual substance,\nwhich fell not under their senses nor comprehension, and of which\nthey had not observed one single instance throughout all nature. Mind\nand body they knew, because they felt both: an order, arrangement,\norganization, or internal machinery, in both, they likewise knew, after\nthe same manner: and it could not but seem reasonable to transfer this\nexperience to the universe; and to suppose the divine mind and body\nto be also coeval, and to have, both of them, order and arrangement\nnaturally inherent in them, and inseparable from them.\n\nHere, therefore, is a new species of _Anthropomorphism_, Cleanthes,\non which you may deliberate; and a theory which seems not liable to\nany considerable difficulties. You are too much superior, surely, to\n_systematical prejudices_, to find any more difficulty in supposing\nan animal body to be, originally, of itself, or from unknown causes,\npossessed of order and organization, than in supposing a similar order\nto belong to mind. But the _vulgar prejudice_, that body and mind\nought always to accompany each other, ought not, one should think, to\nbe entirely neglected; since it is founded on _vulgar experience_,\nthe only guide which you profess to follow in all these theological\ninquiries. And if you assert, that our limited experience is an\nunequal standard, by which to judge of the unlimited extent of nature;\nyou entirely abandon your own hypothesis, and must thenceforward\nadopt our Mysticism, as you call it, and admit of the absolute\nincomprehensibility of the Divine Nature.\n\nThis theory, I own, replied Cleanthes, has never before occurred to me,\nthough a pretty natural one; and I cannot readily, upon so short an\nexamination and reflection, deliver any opinion with regard to it. You\nare very scrupulous, indeed, said Philo: were I to examine any system\nof yours, I should not have acted with half that caution and reserve,\nin starting objections and difficulties to it. However, if any thing\noccur to you, you will oblige us by proposing it.\n\nWhy then, replied Cleanthes, it seems to me, that, though the world\ndoes, in many circumstances, resemble an animal body; yet is the\nanalogy also defective in many circumstances the most material: no\norgans of sense; no seat of thought or reason; no one precise origin of\nmotion and action. In short, it seems to bear a stronger resemblance\nto a vegetable than to an animal, and your inference would be so far\ninconclusive in favour of the soul of the world.\n\nBut, in the next place, your theory seems to imply the eternity of\nthe world; and that is a principle, which, I think, can be refuted by\nthe strongest reasons and probabilities. I shall suggest an argument\nto this purpose, which, I believe, has not been insisted on by any\nwriter. Those, who reason from the late origin of arts and sciences,\nthough their inference wants not force, may perhaps be refuted by\nconsiderations derived from the nature of human society, which is in\ncontinual revolution, between ignorance and knowledge, liberty and\nslavery, riches and poverty; so that it is impossible for us, from\nour limited experience, to foretel with assurance what events may or\nmay not be expected. Ancient learning and history seem to have been\nin great danger of entirely perishing after the inundation of the\nbarbarous nations; and had these convulsions continued a little longer,\nor been a little more violent, we should not probably have now known\nwhat passed in the world a few centuries before us. Nay, were it not\nfor the superstition of the Popes, who preserved a little jargon of\nLatin, in order to support the appearance of an ancient and universal\nchurch, that tongue must have been utterly lost; in which case, the\nWestern world, being totally barbarous, would not have been in a fit\ndisposition for receiving the Greek language and learning, which was\nconveyed to them after the sacking of Constantinople. When learning\nand books had been extinguished, even the mechanical arts would have\nfallen considerably to decay; and it is easily imagined, that fable or\ntradition might ascribe to them a much later origin than the true one.\nThis vulgar argument, therefore, against the eternity of the world,\nseems a little precarious.\n\nBut here appears to be the foundation of a better argument. Lucullus\nwas the first that brought cherry-trees from Asia to Europe; though\nthat tree thrives so well in many European climates, that it grows\nin the woods without any culture. Is it possible, that throughout a\nwhole eternity, no European had ever passed into Asia, and thought of\ntransplanting so delicious a fruit into his own country? Or if the tree\nwas once transplanted and propagated, how could it ever afterwards\nperish? Empires may rise and fall, liberty and slavery succeed\nalternately, ignorance and knowledge give place to each other; but the\ncherry-tree will still remain in the woods of Greece, Spain and Italy,\nand will never be affected by the revolutions of human society.\n\nIt is not two thousand years since vines were transplanted into France,\nthough there is no climate in the world more favourable to them. It\nis not three centuries since horses, cows, sheep, swine, dogs, corn,\nwere known in America. Is it possible, that during the revolutions\nof a whole eternity, there never arose a Columbus, who might open\nthe communication between Europe and that continent? We may as well\nimagine, that all men would wear stockings for ten thousand years, and\nnever have the sense to think of garters to tie them. All these seem\nconvincing proofs of the youth, or rather infancy, of the world; as\nbeing founded on the operation of principles more constant and steady\nthan those by which human society is governed and directed. Nothing\nless than a total convulsion of the elements will ever destroy all\nthe European animals and vegetables which are now to be found in the\nWestern world.\n\nAnd what argument have you against such convulsions? replied Philo.\nStrong and almost incontestable proofs may be traced over the whole\nearth, that every part of this globe has continued for many ages\nentirely covered with water. And though order were supposed inseparable\nfrom matter, and inherent in it; yet may matter be susceptible of many\nand great revolutions, through the endless periods of eternal duration.\nThe incessant changes, to which every part of it is subject, seem to\nintimate some such general transformations; though, at the same time,\nit is observable, that all the changes and corruptions of which we\nhave ever had experience, are but passages from one state of order to\nanother; nor can matter ever rest in total deformity and confusion.\nWhat we see in the parts, we may infer in the whole; at least, that\nis the method of reasoning on which you rest your whole theory. And\nwere I obliged to defend any particular system of this nature, which I\nnever willingly should do, I esteem none more plausible than that which\nascribes an eternal inherent principle of order to the world, though\nattended with great and continual revolutions and alterations. This at\nonce solves all difficulties; and if the solution, by being so general,\nis not entirely complete and satisfactory, it is at least a theory that\nwe must sooner or later have recourse to, whatever system we embrace.\nHow could things have been as they are, were there not an original\ninherent principle of order somewhere, in thought or in matter? And it\nis very indifferent to which of these we give the preference. Chance\nhas no place, on any hypothesis, sceptical or religious. Every thing\nis surely governed by steady, inviolable laws. And were the inmost\nessence of things laid open to us, we should then discover a scene,\nof which, at present, we can have no idea. Instead of admiring the\norder of natural beings, we should clearly see that it was absolutely\nimpossible for them, in the smallest article, ever to admit of any\nother disposition.\n\nWere any one inclined to revive the ancient Pagan Theology, which\nmaintained, as we learn from Hesiod, that this globe was governed\nby 30,000 deities, who arose from the unknown powers of nature: you\nwould naturally object, Cleanthes, that nothing is gained by this\nhypothesis; and that it is as easy to suppose all men animals, beings\nmore numerous, but less perfect, to have sprung immediately from a\nlike origin. Push the same inference a step farther, and you will find\na numerous society of deities as explicable as one universal deity,\nwho possesses within himself the powers and perfections of the whole\nsociety. All these systems, then, of Scepticism, Polytheism, and\nTheism, you must allow, on your principles, to be on a like footing,\nand that no one of them has any advantage over the others. You may\nthence learn the fallacy of your principles.\n\n\n\n\nPART VII.\n\n\nBut here, continued Philo, in examining the ancient system of the soul\nof the world, there strikes me, all on a sudden, a new idea, which, if\njust, must go near to subvert all your reasoning, and destroy even your\nfirst inferences, on which you repose such confidence. If the universe\nbears a greater likeness to animal bodies and to vegetables, than to\nthe works of human art, it is more probable that its cause resembles\nthe cause of the former than that of the latter, and its origin ought\nrather to be ascribed to generation or vegetation, than to reason or\ndesign. Your conclusion, even according to your own principles, is\ntherefore lame and defective.\n\nPray open up this argument a little farther, said Demea, for I do not\nrightly apprehend it in that concise manner in which you have expressed\nit.\n\nOur friend Cleanthes, replied Philo, as you have heard, asserts, that\nsince no question of fact can be proved otherwise than by experience,\nthe existence of a Deity admits not of proof from any other medium. The\nworld, says he, resembles the works of human contrivance; therefore\nits cause must also resemble that of the other. Here we may remark,\nthat the operation of one very small part of nature, to wit man, upon\nanother very small part, to wit that inanimate matter lying within\nhis reach, is the rule by which Cleanthes judges of the origin of\nthe whole; and he measures objects, so widely disproportioned, by the\nsame individual standard. But to waive all objections drawn from this\ntopic, I affirm, that there are other parts of the universe (besides\nthe machines of human invention) which bear still a greater resemblance\nto the fabric of the world, and which, therefore, afford a better\nconjecture concerning the universal origin of this system. These parts\nare animals and vegetables. The world plainly resembles more an animal\nor a vegetable, than it does a watch or a knitting-loom. Its cause,\ntherefore, it is more probable, resembles the cause of the former. The\ncause of the former is generation or vegetation. The cause, therefore,\nof the world, we may infer to be something similar or analogous to\ngeneration or vegetation.\n\nBut how is it conceivable, said Demea, that the world can arise from\nany thing similar to vegetation or generation?\n\nVery easily, replied Philo. In like manner as a tree sheds its seed\ninto the neighbouring fields, and produces other trees; so the great\nvegetable, the world, or this planetary system, produces within itself\ncertain seeds, which, being scattered into the surrounding chaos,\nvegetate into new worlds. A comet, for instance, is the seed of a\nworld; and after it has been fully ripened, by passing from sun to sun,\nand star to star, it is at last tossed into the unformed elements which\nevery where surround this universe, and immediately sprouts up into a\nnew system.\n\nOr if, for the sake of variety (for I see no other advantage), we\nshould suppose this world to be an animal; a comet is the egg of this\nanimal: and in like manner as an ostrich lays its egg in the sand,\nwhich, without any farther care, hatches the egg, and produces a new\nanimal; so ... I understand you, says Demea: But what wild, arbitrary\nsuppositions are these! What _data_ have you for such extraordinary\nconclusions? And is the slight, imaginary resemblance of the world to\na vegetable or an animal sufficient to establish the same inference\nwith regard to both? Objects, which are in general so widely different,\nought they to be a standard for each other?\n\nRight, cries Philo: This is the topic on which I have all along\ninsisted. I have still asserted, that we have no _data_ to establish\nany system of cosmogony. Our experience, so imperfect in itself, and\nso limited both in extent and duration, can afford us no probable\nconjecture concerning the whole of things. But if we must needs fix\non some hypothesis; by what rule, pray, ought we to determine our\nchoice? Is there any other rule than the greater similarity of the\nobjects compared? And does not a plant or an animal, which springs from\nvegetation or generation, bear a stronger resemblance to the world,\nthan does any artificial machine, which arises from reason and design?\n\nBut what is this vegetation and generation of which you talk, said\nDemea? Can you explain their operations, and anatomize that fine\ninternal structure on which they depend?\n\nAs much, at least, replied Philo, as Cleanthes can explain the\noperations of reason, or anatomize that internal structure on which\n_it_ depends. But without any such elaborate disquisitions, when I\nsee an animal, I infer, that it sprang from generation; and that with\nas great certainty as you conclude a house to have been reared by\ndesign. These words, _generation, reason_, mark only certain powers\nand energies in nature, whose effects are known, but whose essence is\nincomprehensible; and one of these principles, more than the other, has\nno privilege for being made a standard to the whole of nature.\n\nIn reality, Demea, it may reasonably be expected, that the larger the\nviews are which we take of things, the better will they conduct us in\nour conclusions concerning such extraordinary and such magnificent\nsubjects. In this little corner of the world alone, there are four\nprinciples, _reason, instinct, generation, vegetation_, which are\nsimilar to each other, and are the causes of similar effects. What a\nnumber of other principles may we naturally suppose in the immense\nextent and variety of the universe, could we travel from planet to\nplanet, and from system to system, in order to examine each part of\nthis mighty fabric? Any one of these four principles above mentioned,\n(and a hundred others which lie open to our conjecture), may afford\nus a theory by which to judge of the origin of the world; and it is\na palpable and egregious partiality to confine our view entirely to\nthat principle by which our own minds operate. Were this principle\nmore intelligible on that account, such a partiality might be somewhat\nexcuseable: But reason, in its internal fabric and structure, is\nreally as little known to us as instinct or vegetation; and, perhaps,\neven that vague, undeterminate word, _Nature_, to which the vulgar\nrefer every thing, is not at the bottom more inexplicable. The\neffects of these principles are all known to us from experience;\nbut the principles themselves, and their manner of operation, are\ntotally unknown; nor is it less intelligible, or less conformable to\nexperience, to say, that the world arose by vegetation, from a seed\nshed by another world, than to say that it arose from a divine reason\nor contrivance, according to the sense in which Cleanthes understands\nit.\n\nBut methinks, said Demea, if the world had a vegetative quality, and\ncould sow the seeds of new worlds into the infinite chaos, this power\nwould be still an additional argument for design in its author. For\nwhence could arise so wonderful a faculty but from design? Or how can\norder spring from any thing which perceives not that order which it\nbestows?\n\nYou need only look around you, replied Philo, to satisfy yourself with\nregard to this question. A tree bestows order and organization on that\ntree which springs from it, without knowing the order; an animal in\nthe same manner on its offspring; a bird on its nest; and instances\nof this kind are even more frequent in the world than those of order,\nwhich arise from reason and contrivance. To say, that all this order\nin animals and vegetables proceeds ultimately from design, is begging\nthe question; nor can that great point be ascertained otherwise than by\nproving, _a priori_, both that order is, from its nature, inseparably\nattached to thought; and that it can never of itself, or from original\nunknown principles, belong to matter.\n\nBut farther, Demea; this objection which you urge can never be made\nuse of by Cleanthes, without renouncing a defence which he has already\nmade against one of my objections. When I inquired concerning the\ncause of that supreme reason and intelligence into which he resolves\nevery thing; he told me, that the impossibility of satisfying such\ninquiries could never be admitted as an objection in any species of\nphilosophy. _We must stop somewhere_, says he; _nor is it ever within\nthe reach of human capacity to explain ultimate causes, of show the\nlast connections of any objects. It is sufficient, if any steps, so\nfar as we go, are supported by experience and observation_. Now, that\nvegetation and generation, as well as reason, are experienced to be\nprinciples of order in nature, is undeniable. If I rest my system of\ncosmogony on the former, preferably to the latter, it is at my choice.\nThe matter seems entirely arbitrary. And when Cleanthes asks me what is\nthe cause of my great vegetative or generative faculty, I am equally\nentitled to ask him the cause of his great reasoning principle. These\nquestions we have agreed to forbear on both sides; and it is chiefly\nhis interest on the present occasion to stick to this agreement.\nJudging by our limited and imperfect experience, generation has some\nprivileges above reason: for we see every day the latter arise from the\nformer, never the former from the latter.\n\nCompare, I beseech you, the consequences on both sides. The world, say\nI, resembles an animal; therefore it is an animal, therefore it arose\nfrom generation. The steps, I confess, are wide; yet there is some\nsmall appearance of analogy in each step. The world, says Cleanthes,\nresembles a machine; therefore it is a machine, therefore it arose from\ndesign. The steps are here equally wide, and the analogy less striking.\nAnd if he pretends to carry on _my_ hypothesis a step farther, and\nto infer design or reason from the great principle of generation, on\nwhich I insist; I may, with better authority, use the same freedom\nto push farther _his_ hypothesis, and infer a divine generation or\ntheogony from his principle of reason. I have at least some faint\nshadow of experience, which is the utmost that can ever be attained in\nthe present subject. Reason, in innumerable instances, is observed to\narise from the principle of generation, and never to arise from any\nother principle.\n\nHesiod, and all the ancient mythologists, were so struck with this\nanalogy, that they universally explained the origin of nature from an\nanimal birth, and copulation. Plato too, so far as he is intelligible,\nseems to have adopted some such notion in his Tim\u00e6us.\n\nThe Brahmins assert, that the world arose from an infinite spider,\nwho spun this whole complicated mass from his bowels, and annihilates\nafterwards the whole or any part of it, by absorbing it again, and\nresolving it into his own essence. Here is a species of cosmogony,\nwhich appears to us ridiculous; because a spider is a little\ncontemptible animal, whose operations we are never likely to take for\na model of the whole universe. But still here is a new species of\nanalogy, even in our globe. And were there a planet wholly inhabited by\nspiders, (which is very possible), this inference would there appear\nas natural and irrefragable as that which in our planet ascribes the\norigin of all things to design and intelligence, as explained by\nCleanthes. Why an orderly system may not be spun from the belly as well\nas from the brain, it will be difficult for him to give a satisfactory\nreason.\n\nI must confess, Philo, replied Cleanthes, that of all men living, the\ntask which you have undertaken, of raising doubts and objections,\nsuits you best, and seems, in a manner, natural and unavoidable to\nyou. So great is your fertility of invention, that I am not ashamed\nto acknowledge myself unable, on a sudden, to solve regularly such\nout-of-the-way difficulties as you incessantly start upon me: though\nI clearly see, in general, their fallacy and error. And I question\nnot, but you are yourself, at present, in the same case, and have not\nthe solution so ready as the objection: while you must be sensible,\nthat common sense and reason are entirely against you; and that such\nwhimsies as you have delivered, may puzzle, but never can convince us.\n\n\n\n\nPART VIII.\n\n\nWhat you ascribe to the fertility of my invention, replied Philo,\nis entirely owing to the nature of the subject. In subjects adapted\nto the narrow compass of human reason, there is commonly but one\ndetermination, which carries probability or conviction with it; and to\na man of sound judgment, all other suppositions, but that one, appear\nentirely absurd and chimerical. But in such questions as the present, a\nhundred contradictory views may preserve a kind of imperfect analogy;\nand invention has here full scope to exert itself. Without any great\neffort of thought, I believe that I could, in an instant, propose other\nsystems of cosmogony, which would have some faint appearance of truth;\nthough it is a thousand, a million to one, if either yours or any one\nof mine be the true system.\n\nFor instance, what if I should revive the old Epicurean hypothesis?\nThis is commonly, and I believe justly, esteemed the most absurd\nsystem that has yet been proposed; yet I know not whether, with a few\nalterations, it might not be brought to bear a faint appearance of\nprobability. Instead of supposing matter infinite, as Epicurus did, let\nus suppose it finite. A finite number of particles is only susceptible\nof finite transpositions: and it must happen, in an eternal duration,\nthat every possible order or position must be tried an infinite number\nof times. This world, therefore, with all its events, even the most\nminute, has before been produced and destroyed, and will again be\nproduced and destroyed, without any bounds and limitations. No one, who\nhas a conception of the powers of infinite, in comparison of finite,\nwill ever scruple this determination.\n\nBut this supposes, said Demea, that matter can acquire motion, without\nany voluntary agent or first mover.\n\nAnd where is the difficulty, replied Philo, of that supposition? Every\nevent, before experience, is equally difficult and incomprehensible;\nand every event, after experience, is equally easy and intelligible.\nMotion, in many instances, from gravity, from elasticity, from\nelectricity, begins in matter, without any known voluntary agent:\nand to suppose always, in these cases, an unknown voluntary agent,\nis mere hypothesis; and hypothesis attended with no advantages. The\nbeginning of motion in matter itself is as conceivable _a priori_ as\nits communication from mind and intelligence.\n\nBesides, why may not motion have been propagated by impulse through all\neternity, and the same stock of it, or nearly the same, be still upheld\nin the universe? As much is lost by the composition of motion, as much\nis gained by its resolution. And whatever the causes are, the fact is\ncertain, that matter is, and always has been, in continual agitation,\nas far as human experience or tradition reaches. There is not probably,\nat present, in the whole universe, one particle of matter at absolute\nrest.\n\nAnd this very consideration too, continued Philo, which we have\nstumbled on in the course of the argument, suggests a new hypothesis\nof cosmogony, that is not absolutely absurd and improbable. Is there a\nsystem, an order, an economy of things, by which matter can preserve\nthat perpetual agitation which seems essential to it, and yet maintain\na constancy in the forms which it produces? There certainly is such\nan economy; for this is actually the case with the present world.\nThe continual motion of matter, therefore, in less than infinite\ntranspositions, must produce this economy or order; and by its very\nnature, that order, when once established, supports itself, for many\nages, if not to eternity. But wherever matter is so poized, arranged,\nand adjusted, as to continue in perpetual motion, and yet preserve a\nconstancy in the forms, its situation must, of necessity, have all the\nsame appearance of art and contrivance which we observe at present. All\nthe parts of each form must have a relation to each other, and to the\nwhole; and the whole itself must have a relation to the other parts\nof the universe; to the element in which the form subsists; to the\nmaterials with which it repairs its waste and decay; and to every other\nform which is hostile or friendly. A defect in any of these particulars\ndestroys the form; and the matter of which it is composed is again set\nloose, and is thrown into irregular motions and fermentations, till it\nunite itself to some other regular form. If no such form be prepared\nto receive it, and if there be a great quantity of this corrupted\nmatter in the universe, the universe itself is entirely disordered;\nwhether it be the feeble embryo of a world in its first beginnings\nthat is thus destroyed, or the rotten carcase of one languishing in\nold age and infirmity. In either case, a chaos ensues; till finite,\nthough innumerable revolutions produce at last some forms, whose parts\nand organs are so adjusted as to support the forms amidst a continued\nsuccession of matter.\n\nSuppose (for we shall endeavour to vary the expression), that matter\nwere thrown into any position, by a blind, unguided force; it is\nevident that this first position must, in all probability, be the\nmost confused and most disorderly imaginable, without any resemblance\nto those works of human contrivance, which, along with a symmetry of\nparts, discover an adjustment of means to ends, and a tendency to\nself-preservation. If the actuating force cease after this operation,\nmatter must remain for ever in disorder, and continue an immense chaos,\nwithout any proportion or activity. But suppose that the actuating\nforce, whatever it be, still continues in matter, this first position\nwill immediately give place to a second, which will likewise in all\nprobability be as disorderly as the first, and so on through many\nsuccessions of changes and revolutions. No particular order or position\never continues a moment unaltered. The original force, still remaining\nin activity, gives a perpetual restlessness to matter. Every possible\nsituation is produced, and instantly destroyed. If a glimpse or dawn\nof order appears for a moment, it is instantly hurried away, and\nconfounded, by that never-ceasing force which actuates every part of\nmatter.\n\nThus the universe goes on for many ages in a continued succession\nof chaos and disorder. But is it not possible that it may settle at\nlast, so as not to lose its motion and active force (for that we\nhave supposed inherent in it), yet so as to preserve an uniformity\nof appearance, amidst the continual motion and fluctuation of its\nparts? This we find to be the case with the universe at present.\nEvery individual is perpetually changing, and every part of every\nindividual; and yet the whole remains, in appearance, the same. May we\nnot hope for such a position, or rather be assured of it, from the\neternal revolutions of unguided matter; and may not this account for\nall the appearing wisdom and contrivance which is in the universe?\nLet us contemplate the subject a little, and we shall find, that this\nadjustment, if attained by matter of a seeming stability in the forms,\nwith a real and perpetual revolution or motion of parts, affords a\nplausible, if not a true solution of the difficulty.\n\nIt is in vain, therefore, to insist upon the uses of the parts in\nanimals or vegetables, and their curious adjustment to each other. I\nwould fain know, how an animal could subsist, unless its parts were so\nadjusted? Do we not find, that it immediately perishes whenever this\nadjustment ceases, and that its matter corrupting tries some new form?\nIt happens indeed, that the parts of the world are so well adjusted,\nthat some regular form immediately lays claim to this corrupted matter:\nand if it were not so, could the world subsist? Must it not dissolve as\nwell as the animal, and pass through new positions and situations, till\nin great, but finite succession, it fall at last into the present or\nsome such order?\n\nIt is well, replied Cleanthes, you told us, that this hypothesis\nwas suggested on a sudden, in the course of the argument. Had\nyou had leisure to examine it, you would soon have perceived the\ninsuperable objections to which it is exposed. No form, you say, can\nsubsist, unless it possess those powers and organs requisite for its\nsubsistence: some new order or economy must be tried, and so on,\nwithout intermission; till at last some order, which can support and\nmaintain itself, is fallen upon. But according to this hypothesis,\nwhence arise the many conveniences and advantages which men and all\nanimals possess? Two eyes, two ears, are not absolutely necessary for\nthe subsistence of the species. Human race might have been propagated\nand preserved, without horses, dogs, cows, sheep, and those innumerable\nfruits and products which serve to our satisfaction and enjoyment. If\nno camels had been created for the use of man in the sandy deserts of\nAfrica and Arabia, would the world have been dissolved? If no loadstone\nhad been framed to give that wonderful and useful direction to the\nneedle, would human society and the human kind have been immediately\nextinguished? Though the maxims of Nature be in general very frugal,\nyet instances of this kind are far from being rare; and any one of them\nis a sufficient proof of design, and of a benevolent design, which gave\nrise to the order and arrangement of the universe.\n\nAt least, you may safely infer, said Philo, that the foregoing\nhypothesis is so far incomplete and imperfect, which I shall not\nscruple to allow. But can we ever reasonably expect greater success\nin any attempts of this nature? Or can we ever hope to erect a system\nof cosmogony, that will be liable to no exceptions, and will contain\nno circumstance repugnant to our limited and imperfect experience of\nthe analogy of Nature? Your theory itself cannot surely pretend to any\nsuch advantage, even though you have run into _Anthropomorphism_, the\nbetter to preserve a conformity to common experience. Let us once more\nput into trial. In all instances which we have ever seen, ideas are\ncopied from real objects, and are ectypal, not archetypal, to express\nmyself in learned terms: You reverse this order, and give thought the\nprecedence. In all instances which we have ever seen, thought has no\ninfluence upon matter, except where that matter is so conjoined with\nit as to have an equal reciprocal influence upon it. No animal can move\nimmediately any thing but the members of its own body; and indeed,\nthe equality of action and re-action seems to be an universal law of\nnature: But your theory implies a contradiction to this experience.\nThese instances, with many more, which it were easy to collect,\n(particularly the supposition of a mind or system of thought that is\neternal, or, in other words, an animal ingenerable and immortal); these\ninstances, I say, may teach all of us sobriety in condemning each\nother, and let us see, that as no system of this kind ought ever to be\nreceived from a slight analogy, so neither ought any to be rejected on\naccount of a small incongruity. For that is an inconvenience from which\nwe can justly pronounce no one to be exempted.\n\nAll religious systems, it is confessed, are subject to great and\ninsuperable difficulties. Each disputant triumphs in his turn; while he\ncarries on an offensive war, and exposes the absurdities, barbarities,\nand pernicious tenets of his antagonist. But all of them, on the whole,\nprepare a complete triumph for the _Sceptic_; who tells them, that no\nsystem ought ever to be embraced with regard to such subjects: For\nthis plain reason, that no absurdity ought ever to be assented to with\nregard to any subject. A total suspense of judgment is here our only\nreasonable resource. And if every attack, as is commonly observed, and\nno defence, among Theologians, is successful; how complete must be\n_his_ victory, who remains always, with all mankind, on the offensive,\nand has himself no fixed station or abiding city, which he is ever, on\nany occasion, obliged to defend?\n\n\n\n\nPART IX.\n\n\nBut if so many difficulties attend the argument _a posteriori_, said\nDemea, had we not better adhere to that simple and sublime argument _a\npriori_, which, by offering to us infallible demonstration, cuts off\nat once all doubt and difficulty? By this argument, too, we may prove\nthe INFINITY of the Divine attributes, which, I am afraid, can never be\nascertained with certainty from any other topic. For how can an effect,\nwhich either is finite, or, for aught we know, may be so; how can such\nan effect, I say, prove an infinite cause? The unity too of the Divine\nNature, it is very difficult, if not absolutely impossible, to deduce\nmerely from contemplating the works of nature; nor will the uniformity\nalone of the plan, even were it allowed, give us any assurance of that\nattribute. Whereas the argument _a priori_....\n\nYou seem to reason, Demea, interposed Cleanthes, as if those\nadvantages and conveniences in the abstract argument were full proofs\nof its solidity. But it is first proper, in my opinion, to determine\nwhat argument of this nature you choose to insist on; and we shall\nafterwards, from itself, better than from its _useful_ consequences,\nendeavour to determine what value we ought to put upon it.\n\nThe argument, replied Demea, which I would insist on, is the common\none. Whatever exists must have a cause or reason of its existence; it\nbeing absolutely impossible for any thing to produce itself, or be the\ncause of its own existence. In mounting up, therefore, from effects\nto causes, we must either go on in tracing an infinite succession,\nwithout any ultimate cause at all; or must at last have recourse to\nsome ultimate cause, that is _necessarily_ existent: Now, that the\nfirst supposition is absurd, may be thus proved. In the infinite chain\nor succession of causes and effects, each single effect is determined\nto exist by the power and efficacy of that cause which immediately\npreceded; but the whole eternal chain or succession, taken together,\nis not determined or caused by any thing; and yet it is evident that\nit requires a cause or reason, as much as any particular object\nwhich begins to exist in time. The question is still reasonable,\nwhy this particular succession of causes existed from eternity, and\nnot any other succession, or no succession at all. If there be no\nnecessarily existent being, any supposition which can be formed is\nequally possible; nor is there any more absurdity in Nothing's having\nexisted from eternity, than there is in that succession of causes\nwhich constitutes the universe. What was it, then, which determined\nSomething to exist rather than Nothing, and bestowed being on a\nparticular possibility, exclusive of the rest? _External causes_, there\nare supposed to be none. _Chance_ is a word without a meaning. Was it\n_Nothing_? But that can never produce any thing. We must, therefore,\nhave recourse to a necessarily existent Being, who carries the REASON\nof his existence in himself, and who cannot be supposed not to exist,\nwithout an express contradiction. There is, consequently, such a Being;\nthat is, there is a Deity.\n\nI shall not leave it to Philo, said Cleanthes, though I know that the\nstarting objections is his chief delight, to point out the weakness of\nthis metaphysical reasoning. It seems to me so obviously ill-grounded,\nand at the same time of so little consequence to the cause of true\npiety and religion, that I shall myself venture to show the fallacy of\nit.\n\nI shall begin with observing, that there is an evident absurdity in\npretending to demonstrate a matter of fact, or to prove it by any\narguments _a priori_. Nothing is demonstrable, unless the contrary\nimplies a contradiction. Nothing, that is distinctly conceivable,\nimplies a contradiction. Whatever we conceive as existent, we can\nalso conceive as non-existent. There is no being, therefore, whose\nnon-existence implies a contradiction. Consequently there is no being,\nwhose existence is demonstrable. I propose this argument as entirely\ndecisive, and am willing to rest the whole controversy upon it.\n\nIt is pretended that the Deity is a necessarily existent being; and\nthis necessity of his existence is attempted to be explained by\nasserting, that if we knew his whole essence or nature, we should\nperceive it to be as impossible for him not to exist, as for twice two\nnot to be four. But it is evident that this can never happen, while\nour faculties remain the same as at present. It will still be possible\nfor us, at any time, to conceive the non-existence of what we formerly\nconceived to exist; nor can the mind ever lie under a necessity of\nsupposing any object to remain always in being; in the same manner as\nwe lie under a necessity of always conceiving twice two to be four. The\nwords, therefore, _necessary existence_, have no meaning; or, which is\nthe same thing, none that is consistent.\n\nBut farther, why may not die material universe be the necessarily\nexistent Being, according to this pretended explication of necessity?\nWe dare not affirm that we know all the qualities of matter; and for\naught we can determine, it may contain some qualities, which, were they\nknown, would make its non-existence appear as great a contradiction as\nthat twice two is five. I find only one argument employed to prove,\nthat the material world is not the necessarily existent Being; and\nthis argument is derived from the contingency both of the matter and\nthe form of the world. 'Any particle of matter,' it is said,[1] 'may\nbe _conceived_ to be annihilated; and any form may be _conceived_ to\nbe altered. Such an annihilation or alteration, therefore, is not\nimpossible.' But it seems a great partiality not to perceive, that\nthe same argument extends equally to the Deity, so far as we have\nany conception of him; and that the mind can at least imagine him to\nbe non-existent, or his attributes to be altered. It must be some\nunknown, inconceivable qualities, which can make his non-existence\nappear impossible, or his attributes unalterable: And no reason can\nbe assigned, why these qualities may not belong to matter. As they\nare altogether unknown and inconceivable, they can never be proved\nincompatible with it.\n\nAdd to this, that in tracing an eternal succession of objects, it seems\nabsurd to inquire for a general cause or first author. How can any\nthing, that exists from eternity, have a cause, since that relation\nimplies a priority in time, and a beginning of existence?\n\nIn such a chain, too, or succession of objects, each part is caused\nby that which preceded it, and causes that which succeeds it. Where\nthen is the difficulty? But the WHOLE, you say, wants a cause. I\nanswer, that the uniting of these parts into a whole, like the uniting\nof several distinct countries into one kingdom, or several distinct\nmembers into one body, is performed merely by an arbitrary act of the\nmind, and has no influence on the nature of things. Did I show you\nthe particular causes of each individual in a collection of twenty\nparticles of matter, I should think it very unreasonable, should you\nafterwards ask me, what was the cause of the whole twenty. This is\nsufficiently explained in explaining the cause of the parts.\n\nThough the reasonings which you have urged, Cleanthes, may well\nexcuse me, said Philo, from starting any farther difficulties, yet\nI cannot forbear insisting still upon another topic. It is observed\nby arithmeticians, that the products of 9 compose always either 9,\nor some lesser product of 9, if you add together all the characters\nof which any of the former products is composed. Thus, of 18, 27,\n36, which are products of 9, you make 9 by adding 1 to 8, 2 to 7, 3\nto 6. Thus, 369 is a product also of 9; and if you add 3, 6, and 9,\nyou make 18, a lesser product of 9.[2] To a superficial observer, so\nwonderful a regularity may be admired as the effect either of chance\nor design: but a skilful algebraist immediately concludes it to be\nthe work of necessity, and demonstrates, that it must for ever result\nfrom the nature of these numbers. Is it not probable, I ask, that the\nwhole economy of the universe is conducted by a like necessity, though\nno human algebra can furnish a key which solves the difficulty? And\ninstead of admiring the order of natural beings, may it not happen,\nthat, could we penetrate into the intimate nature of bodies, we should\nclearly see why it was absolutely impossible they could ever admit of\nany other disposition? So dangerous is it to introduce this idea of\nnecessity into the present question! and so naturally does it afford an\ninference directly opposite to the religious hypothesis!\n\nBut dropping all these abstractions, continued Philo, and confining\nourselves to more familiar topics, I shall venture to add an\nobservation, that the argument _a priori_ has seldom been found\nvery convincing, except to people of a metaphysical head, who have\naccustomed themselves to abstract reasoning, and who, finding from\nmathematics, that the understanding frequently leads to truth through\nobscurity, and, contrary to first appearances, have transferred the\nsame habit of thinking to subjects where it ought not to have place.\nOther people, even of good sense and the best inclined to religion,\nfeel always some deficiency in such arguments, though they are not\nperhaps able to explain distinctly where it lies; a certain proof that\nmen ever did, and ever will derive their religion from other sources\nthan from this species of reasoning.\n\n\n[1] Dr Clarke.\n\n[2] R\u00e9publique des Lettres, Ao\u00fbt 1685.\n\n\n\n\nPART X.\n\n\nIt is my opinion, I own, replied Demea, that each man feels, in a\nmanner, the truth of religion within his own breast, and, from a\nconsciousness of his imbecility and misery, rather than from any\nreasoning, is led to seek protection from that Being, on whom he and\nall nature is dependent. So anxious or so tedious are even the best\nscenes of life, that futurity is still the object of all our hopes\nand fears. We incessantly look forward, and endeavour, by prayers,\nadoration, and sacrifice, to appease those unknown powers, whom we\nfind, by experience, so able to afflict and oppress us. Wretched\ncreatures that we are! what resource for us amidst the innumerable\nills of life, did not religion, suggest some methods of atonement,\nand appease those terrors with which we are incessantly agitated and\ntormented?\n\nI am indeed persuaded, said Philo, that the best, and indeed the only\nmethod of bringing every one to a due sense of religion, is by just\nrepresentations of the misery and wickedness of men. And for that\npurpose a talent of eloquence and strong imagery is more requisite than\nthat of reasoning and argument. For is it necessary to prove what every\none feels within himself? It is only necessary to make us feel it, if\npossible, more intimately and sensibly.\n\nThe people, indeed, replied Demea, are sufficiently convinced of this\ngreat and melancholy truth. The miseries of life; the unhappiness\nof man; the general corruptions of our nature; the unsatisfactory\nenjoyment of pleasures, riches, honours; these phrases have become\nalmost proverbial in all languages. And who can doubt of what all men\ndeclare from their own immediate feeling and experience?\n\nIn this point, said Philo, the learned are perfectly agreed with the\nvulgar; and in all letters, _sacred_ and _profane_, the topic of\nhuman misery has been insisted on with the most pathetic eloquence\nthat sorrow and melancholy could inspire. The poets, who speak from\nsentiment, without a system, and whose testimony has therefore the\nmore authority, abound in images of this nature. From Homer down to Dr\nYoung, the whole inspired tribe have ever been sensible, that no other\nrepresentation of things would suit the feeling and observation of each\nindividual.\n\nAs to authorities, replied Demea, you need not seek them. Look round\nthis library of Cleanthes. I shall venture to affirm, that, except\nauthors of particular sciences, such as chemistry or botany, who have\nno occasion to treat of human life, there is scarce one of those\ninnumerable writers, from whom the sense of human misery has not, in\nsome passage or other, extorted a complaint and confession of it. At\nleast, the chance is entirely on that side; and no one author has ever,\nso far as I can recollect, been so extravagant as to deny it.\n\nThere you must excuse me, said Philo: Leibnitz has denied it; and is\nperhaps the first[1] who ventured upon so bold and paradoxical an\nopinion; at least, the first who made it essential to his philosophical\nsystem.\n\nAnd by being the first, replied Demea, might he not have been sensible\nof his error? For is this a subject in which philosophers can propose\nto make discoveries especially in so late an age? And can any man hope\nby a simple denial (for the subject scarcely admits of reasoning),\nto bear down the united testimony of mankind, founded on sense and\nconsciousness?\n\nAnd why should man, added he, pretend to an exemption from the lot of\nall other animals? The whole earth, believe me, Philo, is cursed and\npolluted. A perpetual war is kindled amongst all living creatures.\nNecessity, hunger, want, stimulate the strong and courageous: Fear,\nanxiety, terror, agitate the weak and infirm. The first entrance into\nlife gives anguish to the new-born infant and to its wretched parent:\nWeakness, impotence, distress, attend each stage of that life: and it\nis at last finished in agony and horror.\n\nObserve too, says Philo, the curious artifices of Nature, in order\nto embitter the life of every living being. The stronger prey upon\nthe weaker, and keep them in perpetual terror and anxiety. The weaker\ntoo, in their turn, often prey upon the stronger, and vex and molest\nthem without relaxation. Consider that innumerable race of insects,\nwhich either are bred on the body of each animal, or, flying about,\ninfix their stings in him. These insects have others still less than\nthemselves, which torment them. And thus on each hand, before and\nbehind, above and below, every animal is surrounded with enemies, which\nincessantly seek his misery and destruction.\n\nMan alone, said Demea, seems to be, in part, an exception to this rule.\nFor by combination in society, he can easily master lions, tigers, and\nbears, whose greater strength and agility naturally enable them to prey\nupon him.\n\nOn the contrary, it is here chiefly, cried Philo, that the uniform\nand equal maxims of Nature are most apparent. Man, it is true, can,\nby combination, surmount all his _real_ enemies, and become master of\nthe whole animal creation: but does he not immediately raise up to\nhimself _imaginary_ enemies, the demons of his fancy, who haunt him\nwith superstitious terrors, and blast every enjoyment of life? His\npleasure, as he imagines, becomes, in their eyes, a crime: his food and\nrepose give them umbrage and offence: his very sleep and dreams furnish\nnew materials to anxious fear: and even death, his refuge from every\nother ill, presents only the dread of endless and innumerable woes. Nor\ndoes the wolf molest more the timid flock, than superstition does the\nanxious breast of wretched mortals.\n\nBesides, consider, Demea: This very society, by which we surmount those\nwild beasts, our natural enemies; what new enemies does it not raise to\nus? What wo and misery does it not occasion? Man is the greatest enemy\nof man. Oppression, injustice, contempt, contumely, violence, sedition,\nwar, calumny, treachery, fraud; by these they mutually torment each\nother; and they would soon dissolve that society which they had formed,\nwere it not for the dread of still greater ills, which must attend\ntheir separation.\n\nBut though these external insults, said Demea, from animals, from men,\nfrom all the elements, which assault us, form a frightful catalogue\nof woes, they are nothing in comparison of those which arise within\nourselves, from the distempered condition of our mind and body. How\nmany lie under the lingering torment of diseases? Hear the pathetic\nenumeration of the great poet.\n\n     Intestine stone and ulcer, colic-pangs,\n     Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy,\n     And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy,\n     Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence.\n     Dire was the tossing, deep the groans: *DESPAIR\n     Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch.\n     And over them triumphant *DEATH his dart\n     Shook: but delay'd to strike, though oft invok'd\n     With vows, as their chief good and final hope.\n\nThe disorders of the mind, continued Demea, though more secret, are\nnot perhaps less dismal and vexatious. Remorse, shame, anguish, rage,\ndisappointment, anxiety, fear, dejection, despair; who has ever passed\nthrough life without cruel inroads from these tormentors? How many\nhave scarcely ever felt any better sensations? Labour and poverty, so\nabhorred by every one, are the certain lot of the far greater number;\nand those few privileged persons, who enjoy ease and opulence, never\nreach contentment or true felicity. All the goods of life united would\nnot make a very happy man; but all the ills united would make a wretch\nindeed; and any one of them almost (and who can be free from every\none?) nay often the absence of one good (and who can possess all?) is\nsufficient to render life ineligible.\n\nWere a stranger to drop on a sudden into this world, I would show him,\nas a specimen of its ills, an hospital full of diseases, a prison\ncrowded with malefactors and debtors, a field of battle strewed with\ncarcases, a fleet foundering in the ocean, a nation languishing under\ntyranny, famine, or pestilence. To turn the gay side of life to him,\nand give him a notion of its pleasures; whether should I conduct him?\nto a ball, to an opera, to court? He might justly think, that I was\nonly showing him a diversity of distress and sorrow.\n\nThere is no evading such striking instances, said Philo, but by\napologies, which still farther aggravate the charge. Why have all men,\nI ask, in all ages, complained incessantly of the miseries of life?....\nThey have no just reason, says one: these complaints proceed only from\ntheir discontented, repining, anxious disposition.... And can there\npossibly, I reply, be a more certain foundation of misery, than such a\nwretched temper?\n\nBut if they were really as unhappy as they pretend, says my antagonist,\nwhy do they remain in life?....\n\n\n     Not satisfied with life, afraid of death.\n\n\nThis is the secret chain, say I, that holds us. We are terrified, not\nbribed to the continuance of our existence.\n\nIt is only a false delicacy, he may insist, which a few refined spirits\nindulge, and which has, spread these complaints among the whole, nice\nof mankinds.... And what is this delicacy, I ask, which you blame? Is\nit any thing but a greater sensibility to all the pleasures and pains\nof life? and if the man of a delicate, refined temper, by being so much\nmore alive than the rest of the world, is only so much more unhappy,\nwhat judgment must we form in general of human life?\n\nLet men remain at rest, says our adversary, and they will be easy. They\nare willing artificers of their own misery.... No! reply I: an anxious\nlanguor follows their repose; disappointment, vexation, trouble, their\nactivity and ambition.\n\nI can observe something like what you mention in some others, replied\nCleanthes: but I confess I feel little or nothing of it in myself, and\nhope that it is not so common as you represent it.\n\nIf you feel not human misery yourself, cried Demea, I congratulate\nyou on so happy a singularity. Others, seemingly the most prosperous,\nhave not been ashamed to vent their complaints in the most melancholy\nstrains. Let us attend to the great, the fortunate emperor, Charles\nV., when, tired with human grandeur, he resigned all his extensive\ndominions into the hands of his son. In the last harangue which\nhe made on that memorable occasion, he publicly avowed, _that the\ngreatest prosperities which he had ever enjoyed, had been mixed with\nso many adversities, that he might truly say he had never enjoyed\nany satisfaction or contentment_. But did the retired life, in which\nhe sought for shelter, afford him any greater happiness? If we may\ncredit his son's account, his repentance commenced the very day of his\nresignation.\n\nCicero's fortune, from small beginnings, rose to the greatest lustre\nand renown; yet what pathetic complaints of the ills of life do his\nfamiliar letters, as well as philosophical discourses, contain? And\nsuitably to his own experience, he introduces Cato, the great, the\nfortunate Cato, protesting in his old age, that had he a new life in\nhis offer, he would reject the present.\n\nAsk yourself, ask any of your acquaintance, whether they would live\nover again the last ten or twenty years of their life. No! but the next\ntwenty, they say, will be better:\n\n\n     And from the dregs of life, hope to receive\n     What the first sprightly running could not give.\n\n\nThus at last they find (such is the greatness of human misery, it\nreconciles even contradictions), that they complain at once of the\nshortness of life, and of its vanity and sorrow.\n\nAnd is it possible, Cleanthes, said Philo, that after all these\nreflections, and infinitely more, which might be suggested, you\ncan still persevere in your Anthropomorphism, and assert the moral\nattributes of the Deity, his justice, benevolence, mercy, and\nrectitude, to be of the same nature with these virtues in human\ncreatures? His power we allow is infinite: whatever he wills is\nexecuted: but neither man nor any other animal is happy: therefore he\ndoes not will their happiness. His wisdom is infinite: he is never\nmistaken in choosing the means to any end: but the course of Nature\ntends not to human or animal felicity: therefore it is not established\nfor that purpose. Through the whole compass of human knowledge, there\nare no inferences more certain and infallible than these. In what\nrespect, then, do his benevolence and mercy resemble the benevolence\nand mercy of men?\n\nEpicurus's old questions are yet unanswered.\n\nIs he willing to prevent evil, but not able? then is he impotent. Is\nhe able, but not willing? then is he malevolent Is he both able and\nwilling? whence then is evil?\n\nYou ascribe, Cleanthes (and I believe justly), a purpose and intention\nto Nature. But what, I beseech you, is the object of that curious\nartifice and machinery, which she has displayed in all animals? The\npreservation alone of individuals, and propagation of the species. It\nseems enough for her purpose, if such a rank be barely upheld in the\nuniverse, without any care or concern for the happiness of the members\nthat compose it. No resource for this purpose: no machinery, in order\nmerely to give pleasure or ease: no fund of pure joy and contentment:\nno indulgence, without some want or necessity accompanying it. At\nleast, the few phenomena of this nature are overbalanced by opposite\nphenomena of still greater importance.\n\nOur sense of music, harmony, and indeed beauty of all kinds, gives\nsatisfaction, without being absolutely necessary to the preservation\nand propagation of the species. But what racking pains, on the other\nhand, arise from gouts, gravels, megrims, toothaches, rheumatisms,\nwhere the injury to the animal machinery is either small or incurable?\nMirth, laughter, play, frolic, seem gratuitous satisfactions, which\nhave no farther tendency: spleen, melancholy, discontent, superstition,\nare pains of the same nature. How then does the Divine benevolence\ndisplay itself, in the sense of you Anthropomorphites? None but we\nMystics, as you were pleased to call us, can account for this strange\nmixture of phenomena, by deriving it from attributes, infinitely\nperfect, but incomprehensible.\n\nAnd have you at last, said Cleanthes smiling, betrayed your intentions,\nPhilo? Your long agreement with Demea did indeed a little surprise me;\nbut I find you were all the while erecting a concealed battery against\nme. And I must confess, that you have now fallen upon a subject worthy\nof your noble spirit of opposition and controversy. If you can make out\nthe present point, and prove mankind to be unhappy or corrupted, there\nis an end at once of all religion. For to what purpose establish the\nnatural attributes of the Deity, while the moral are still doubtful and\nuncertain?\n\nYou take umbrage very easily, replied Demea, at opinions the most\ninnocent, and the most generally received, even amongst the religious\nand devout themselves: and nothing can be more surprising than to\nfind a topic like this, concerning the wickedness and misery of man,\ncharged with no less than Atheism and profaneness. Have not all\npious divines and preachers, who have indulged their rhetoric on so\nfertile a subject; have they not easily, I say, given a solution of\nany difficulties which may attend it? This world is but a point in\ncomparison of the universe; this life but a moment in comparison of\neternity. The present evil phenomena, therefore, are rectified in\nother regions, and in some future period of existence. And the eyes\nof men, being then opened to larger views of things, see the whole\nconnection of general laws; and trace with adoration, the benevolence\nand rectitude of the Deity, through all the mazes and intricacies of\nhis providence.\n\nNo! replied Cleanthes, No! These arbitrary suppositions can never be\nadmitted, contrary to matter of fact, visible and uncontroverted.\nWhence can any cause be known but from its known effects? Whence can\nany hypothesis be proved but from the apparent phenomena? To establish\none hypothesis upon another, is building entirely in the air; and\nthe utmost we ever attain, by these conjectures and fictions, is to\nascertain the bare possibility of our opinion; but never can we, upon\nsuch terms, establish its reality.\n\nThe only method of supporting Divine benevolence, and it is what I\nwillingly embrace, is to deny absolutely the misery and wickedness of\nman. Your representations are exaggerated; your melancholy views mostly\nfictitious; your inferences contrary to fact and experience. Health is\nmore common than sickness; pleasure than pain; happiness than misery.\nAnd for one vexation which we meet with, we attain, upon computation, a\nhundred enjoyments.\n\nAdmitting your position, replied Philo, which yet is extremely\ndoubtful, you must at the same time allow, that if pain be less\nfrequent than pleasure, it is infinitely more violent and durable.\nOne hour of it is often able to outweigh a day, a week, a month of\nour common insipid enjoyments; and how many days, weeks, and months,\nare passed by several in the most acute torments? Pleasure, scarcely\nin one instance, is ever able to reach ecstasy and rapture; and in\nno one instance can it continue for any time at its highest pitch\nand altitude. The spirits evaporate, the nerves relax, the fabric is\ndisordered, and the enjoyment quickly degenerates into fatigue and\nuneasiness. But pain often, good God, how often! rises to torture and\nagony; and the longer it continues, it becomes still more genuine agony\nand torture. Patience is exhausted, courage languishes, melancholy\nseizes us, and nothing terminates our misery but the removal of its\ncause, or another event, which is the sole cure of all evil, but\nwhich, from our natural folly, we regard with still greater horror and\nconsternation.\n\nBut not to insist upon these topics, continued Philo, though most\nobvious, certain, and important; I must use the freedom to admonish\nyou, Cleanthes, that you have put the controversy upon a most dangerous\nissue, and are unawares introducing a total scepticism into the most\nessential articles of natural and revealed theology. What! no method of\nfixing a just foundation for religion, unless we allow the happiness\nof human life, and maintain a continued existence even in this world,\nwith all our present pains, infirmities, vexations, and follies, to be\neligible and desirable! But this is contrary to every one's feeling and\nexperience: It is contrary to an authority so established as nothing\ncan subvert.\n\nNo decisive proofs can ever be produced against this authority; nor is\nit possible for you to compute, estimate and compare, all the pains and\nall the pleasures in the lives of all men and of all animals: And thus,\nby your resting the whole system of religion on a point, which, from\nits very nature, must for ever be uncertain, you tacitly confess, that\nthat system is equally uncertain.\n\nBut allowing you what never will be believed, at least what you never\npossibly can prove, that animal, or at least human happiness, in this\nlife, exceeds its misery, you have yet done nothing: For this is not,\nby any means, what we expect from infinite power, infinite wisdom, and\ninfinite goodness. Why is there any misery at all in the world? Not by\nchance surely. From some cause then. Is it from the intention of the\nDeity? But he is perfectly benevolent. Is it contrary to his intention?\nBut he is almighty. Nothing can shake the solidity of this reasoning,\nso short, so clear, so decisive; except we assert, that these subjects\nexceed all human capacity, and that our common measures of truth and\nfalsehood are not applicable to them; a topic which I have all along\ninsisted on, but which you have, from the beginning, rejected with\nscorn and indignation.\n\nBut I will be contented to retire still from this intrenchment, for\nI deny that you can ever force me in it. I will allow, that pain or\nmisery in man is _compatible_ with infinite power and goodness in the\nDeity, even in your sense of these attributes: What are you advanced by\nall these concessions? A mere possible compatibility is not sufficient.\nYou must _prove_ these pure, unmixt, and uncontrollable attributes\nfrom the present mixt and confused phenomena, and from these alone. A\nhopeful undertaking! Were the phenomena ever so pure and unmixt, yet\nbeing finite, they would be insufficient for that purpose. How much\nmore, where they are also so jarring and discordant!\n\nHere, Cleanthes, I find myself at ease in my argument. Here I triumph.\nFormerly, when we argued concerning the natural attributes of\nintelligence and design, I needed all my sceptical and metaphysical\nsubtilty to elude your grasp. In many views of the universe, and of its\nparts, particularly the latter, the beauty and fitness of final causes\nstrike us with such irresistible force, that all objections appear\n(what I believe they really are) mere cavils and sophisms; nor can\nwe then imagine how it was ever possible for us to repose any weight\non them. But there is no view of human life, or of the condition of\nmankind, from which, without the greatest violence, we can infer the\nmoral attributes, or learn that infinite benevolence, conjoined with\ninfinite power and infinite wisdom, which we must discover by the eyes\nof faith alone. It is your turn now to tug the labouring oar, and to\nsupport your philosophical subtilties against the dictates of plain\nreason and experience.\n\n\n[1] That sentiment had been maintained by Dr King, and some few others,\nbefore Leibnitz, though by none of so great fame as that German\nphilosopher.\n\n\n\n\n\nPART XI.\n\n\nI scruple not to allow, said Cleanthes, that I have been apt to\nsuspect the frequent repetition of the word _infinite_, which we meet\nwith in all theological writers, to savour more of panegyric than of\nphilosophy; and that any purposes of reasoning, and even of religion,\nwould be better served, were we to rest contented with more accurate\nand more moderate expressions. The terms, _admirable, excellent,\nsuperlatively great, wise_, and _holy_; these sufficiently fill the\nimaginations of men; and any thing beyond, besides that it leads into\nabsurdities, has no influence on the affections or sentiments. Thus,\nin the present subject, if we abandon all human analogy, as seems your\nintention, Demea, I am afraid we abandon all religion, and retain no\nconception of the great object of our adoration. If we preserve human\nanalogy, we must for ever find it impossible to reconcile any mixture\nof evil in the universe with infinite attributes; much less can we ever\nprove the latter from the former. But supposing the Author of Nature\nto be finitely perfect, though far exceeding mankind, a satisfactory\naccount may then be given of natural and moral evil, and every untoward\nphenomenon be explained and adjusted. A less evil may then be chosen,\nin order to avoid a greater; inconveniences be submitted to, in order\nto reach a desirable end; and in a word, benevolence, regulated by\nwisdom, and limited by necessity, may produce just such a world as\nthe present. You, Philo, who are so prompt at starting views, and\nreflections, and analogies, I would gladly hear, at length, without\ninterruption, your opinion of this new theory; and if it deserve our\nattention, we may afterwards, at more leisure, reduce it into form.\n\nMy sentiments, replied Philo, are not worth being made a mystery of;\nand therefore, without any ceremony, I shall deliver what occurs to\nme with regard to the present subject. It must, I think, be allowed,\nthat if a very limited intelligence, whom we shall suppose utterly\nunacquainted with the universe, were assured, that it were the\nproduction of a very good, wise, and powerful Being, however finite, he\nwould, from his conjectures, form _beforehand_ a different notion of it\nfrom what we find it to be by experience; nor would he ever imagine,\nmerely from these attributes of the cause, of which he is informed,\nthat the effect could be so full of vice and misery and disorder, as\nit appears in this life. Supposing now, that this person were brought\ninto the world, still assured that it was the workmanship of such a\nsublime and benevolent Being; he might, perhaps, be surprised at the\ndisappointment; but would never retract his former belief, if founded\non any very solid argument; since such a limited intelligence must\nbe sensible of his own blindness and ignorance, and must allow, that\nthere may be many solutions of those phenomena, which will for ever\nescape his comprehension. But supposing, which is the real case with\nregard to man, that this creature is not antecedently convinced of a\nsupreme intelligence, benevolent, and powerful, but is left to gather\nsuch a belief from the appearances of things; this entirely alters\nthe case, nor will he ever find any reason for such a conclusion. He\nmay be fully convinced of the narrow limits of his understanding; but\nthis will not help him in forming an inference concerning the goodness\nof superior powers, since he must form that inference from what he\nknows, not from what he is ignorant of. The more you exaggerate his\nweakness and ignorance, the more diffident you render him, and give\nhim the greater suspicion that such subjects are beyond the reach of\nhis faculties. You are obliged, therefore, to reason with him merely\nfrom the known phenomena, and to drop every arbitrary supposition or\nconjecture.\n\nDid I show you a house or palace, where there was not one apartment\nconvenient or agreeable; where the windows, doors, fires passages,\nstairs, and the whole economy of the building, were the source of\nnoise, confusion, fatigue, darkness, and the extremes of heat and\ncold; you would certainly blame the contrivance, without any farther\nexamination. The architect would in vain display his subtilty, and\nprove to you, that if this door or that window were altered, greater\nills would ensue. What he says may be strictly true: The alteration\nof one particular, while the other parts of the building remain, may\nonly augment the inconveniences. But still you would assert in general,\nthat, if the architect had had skill and good intentions, he might\nhave formed such a plan of the whole, and might have adjusted the\nparts in such a manner, as would have remedied all or most of these\ninconveniences. His ignorance, or even your own ignorance of such a\nplan, will never convince you of the impossibility of it. If you find\nany inconveniences and deformities in the building, you will always,\nwithout entering into any detail, condemn the architect.\n\nIn short, I repeat the question: Is the world, considered in general,\nand as it appears to us in this life, different from what a man, or\nsuch a limited being, would, _beforehand_, expect from a very powerful,\nwise, and benevolent Deity? It must be strange prejudice to assert\nthe contrary. And from thence I conclude, that however consistent the\nworld may be, allowing certain suppositions and conjectures, with the\nidea of such a Deity, it can never afford us an inference concerning\nhis existence. The consistence is not absolutely denied, only the\ninference. Conjectures, especially where infinity is excluded from the\nDivine attributes, may perhaps be sufficient to prove a consistence,\nbut can never be foundations for any inference.\n\nThere seem to be _four_ circumstances, on which depend all, or the\ngreatest part of the ills, that molest sensible creatures; and it\nis not impossible but all these circumstances may be necessary\nand unavoidable. We know so little beyond common life, or even of\ncommon life, that, with regard to the economy of a universe, there\nis no conjecture, however wild, which may not be just; nor any one,\nhowever plausible, which may not be erroneous. All that belongs to\nhuman understanding, in this deep ignorance and obscurity, is to be\nsceptical, or at least cautious, and not to admit of any hypothesis\nwhatever, much less of any which is supported by no appearance of\nprobability. Now, this I assert to be the case with regard to all the\ncauses of evil, and the circumstances on which it depends. None of them\nappear to human reason in the least degree necessary or unavoidable;\nnor can we suppose them such, without the utmost license of imagination.\n\nThe _first_ circumstance which introduces evil, is that contrivance or\neconomy of the animal creation, by which pains, as well as pleasures,\nare employed to excite all creatures to action, and make them vigilant\nin the great work of self-preservation. Now pleasure alone, in its\nvarious degrees, seems to human understanding sufficient for this\npurpose. All animals might be constantly in a state of enjoyment:\nbut when urged by any of the necessities of nature, such as thirst,\nhunger, weariness; instead of pain, they might feel a diminution of\npleasure, by which they might be prompted to seek that object which\nis necessary to their subsistence. Men pursue pleasure as eagerly as\nthey avoid pain; at least, they might have been so constituted. It\nseems, therefore, plainly possible to carry on the business of life\nwithout any pain. Why then is any animal ever rendered susceptible of\nsuch a sensation? If animals can be free from it an hour, they might\nenjoy a perpetual exemption from it; and it required as particular a\ncontrivance of their organs to produce that feeling, as to endow them\nwith sight, hearing, or any of the senses. Shall we conjecture, that\nsuch a contrivance was necessary, without any appearance of reason? and\nshall we build on that conjecture as on the most certain truth?\n\nBut a capacity of pain would not alone produce pain, were it not for\nthe _second_ circumstance, viz. the conducting of the world by general\nlaws; and this seems nowise necessary to a very perfect Being. It is\ntrue, if every thing were conducted by particular volitions, the course\nof nature would be perpetually broken, and no man could employ his\nreason in the conduct of life. But might not other particular volitions\nremedy this inconvenience? In short, might not the Deity exterminate\nall ill, wherever it were to be found; and produce all good, without\nany preparation, or long progress of causes and effects?\n\nBesides, we must consider, that, according to the present economy of\nthe world, the course of nature, though supposed exactly regular,\nyet to us appears not so, and many events are uncertain, and many\ndisappoint our expectations. Health and sickness, calm and tempest,\nwith an infinite number of other accidents, whose causes are unknown\nand variable, have a great influence both on the fortunes of particular\npersons and on the prosperity of public societies; and indeed all human\nlife, in a manner, depends on such accidents. A being, therefore, who\nknows the secret springs of the universe, might easily, by particular\nvolitions, turn all these accidents to the good of mankind, and render\nthe whole world happy, without discovering himself in any operation.\nA fleet, whose purposes were salutary to society, might always meet\nwith a fair wind. Good princes enjoy sound health and long life.\nPersons born to power and authority, be framed with good tempers and\nvirtuous dispositions. A few such events as these, regularly and\nwisely conducted, would change the face of the world; and yet would no\nmore seem to disturb the course of nature, or confound human conduct,\nthan the present economy of things, where the causes are secret, and\nvariable, and compounded. Some small touches given to Caligula's brain\nin his infancy, might have converted him into a Trajan. One wave, a\nlittle higher than the rest, by burying C\u00e6sar and his fortune in the\nbottom of the ocean, might have restored liberty to a considerable\npart of mankind. There may, for aught we know, be good reasons why\nProvidence interposes not in this manner; but they are unknown to\nus; and though the mere supposition, that such reasons exist, may be\nsufficient to _save_ the conclusion concerning the Divine attributes,\nyet surely it can never be sufficient to _establish_ that conclusion.\n\nIf every thing in the universe be conducted by general laws, and if\nanimals be rendered susceptible of pain, it scarcely seems possible\nbut some ill must arise in the various shocks of matter, and the\nvarious concurrence and opposition of general laws; but this ill\nwould be very rare, were it not for the _third_ circumstance, which I\nproposed to mention, viz. the great frugality with which all powers\nand faculties are distributed to every particular being. So well\nadjusted are the organs and capacities of all animals, and so well\nfitted to their preservation, that, as far as history or tradition\nreaches, there appears not to be any single species which has yet\nbeen extinguished in the universe. Every animal has the requisite\nendowments; but these endowments are bestowed with so scrupulous an\neconomy, that any considerable diminution must entirely destroy the\ncreature. Wherever one power is increased, there is a proportional\nabatement in the others. Animals which excel in swiftness are commonly\ndefective in force. Those which possess both are either imperfect in\nsome of their senses, or are oppressed with the most craving wants.\nThe human species, whose chief excellency is reason and sagacity, is\nof all others the most necessitous, and the most deficient in bodily\nadvantages; without clothes, without arms, without food, without\nlodging, without any convenience of life, except what they owe to\ntheir own skill and industry. In short, nature seems to have formed\nan exact calculation of the necessities of her creatures; and, like\na _rigid master_, has afforded them little more powers or endowments\nthan what are strictly sufficient to supply those necessities. An\n_indulgent parent_ would have bestowed a large stock, in order to\nguard against accidents, and secure the happiness and welfare of the\ncreature in the most unfortunate concurrence of circumstances. Every\ncourse of life would not have been so surrounded with precipices, that\nthe least departure from the true path, by mistake or necessity, must\ninvolve us in misery and ruin. Some reserve, some fund, would have been\nprovided to ensure happiness; nor would the powers and the necessities\nhave been adjusted with so rigid an economy. The Author of Nature is\ninconceivably powerful: his force is supposed great, if not altogether\ninexhaustible: nor is there any reason, as far as we can judge, to make\nhim observe this strict frugality in his dealings with his creatures.\nIt would have been better, were his power extremely limited, to have\ncreated fewer animals, and to have endowed these with more faculties\nfor their happiness and preservation. A builder is never esteemed\nprudent, who undertakes a plan beyond what his stock will enable him to\nfinish.\n\nIn order to cure most of the ills of human life, I require not that\nman should have the wings of the eagle, the swiftness of the stag, the\nforce of the ox, the arms of the lion, the scales of the crocodile\nor rhinoceros; much less do I demand the sagacity of an angel or\ncherubim. I am contented to take an increase in one single power or\nfaculty of his soul. Let him be endowed with a greater propensity to\nindustry and labour; a more vigorous spring and activity of mind; a\nmore constant bent to business and application. Let the whole species\npossess naturally an equal diligence with that which many individuals\nare able to attain by habit and reflection; and the most beneficial\nconsequences, without any allay of ill, is the immediate and necessary\nresult of this endowment. Almost all the moral, as well as natural\nevils of human life, arise from idleness; and were our species, by\nthe original constitution of their frame, exempt from this vice or\ninfirmity, the perfect cultivation of land, the improvement of arts and\nmanufactures, the exact execution of every office and duty, immediately\nfollow; and men at once may fully reach that state of society, which\nis so imperfectly attained by the best regulated government. But\nas industry is a power, and the most valuable of any, Nature seems\ndetermined, suitably to her usual maxims, to bestow it on men with a\nvery sparing hand; and rather to punish him severely for his deficiency\nin it, than to reward him for his attainments. She has so contrived\nhis frame, that nothing but the most violent necessity can oblige him\nto labour; and she employs all his other wants to overcome, at least\nin part, the want of diligence, and to endow him with some share of a\nfaculty of which she has thought fit naturally to bereave him. Here our\ndemands may be allowed very humble, and therefore the more reasonable.\nIf we required the endowments of superior penetration and judgment, of\na more delicate taste of beauty, of a nicer sensibility to benevolence\nand friendship; we might be told, that we impiously pretend to break\nthe order of Nature; that we want to exalt ourselves into a higher rank\nof being; that the presents which we require, not being suitable to our\nstate and condition, would only be pernicious to us. But it is hard; I\ndare to repeat it, it is hard, that being placed in a world so full of\nwants and necessities, where almost every being and element is either\nour foe or refuses its assistance ... we should also have our own\ntemper to struggle with, and should be deprived of that faculty which\ncan alone fence against these multiplied evils.\n\nThe _fourth_ circumstance, whence arises the misery and ill of\nthe universe, is the inaccurate workmanship of all the springs and\nprinciples of the great machine of nature. It must be acknowledged,\nthat there are few parts of the universe, which seem not to serve\nsome purpose, and whose removal would not produce a visible defect\nand disorder in the whole. The parts hang all together; nor can one\nbe touched without affecting the rest, in a greater or less degree.\nBut at the same time, it must be observed, that none of these parts\nor principles, however useful, are so accurately adjusted, as to keep\nprecisely within those bounds in which their utility consists; but\nthey are, all of them, apt, on every occasion, to run into the one\nextreme or the other. One would imagine, that this grand production\nhad not received the last hand of the maker; so little finished is\nevery part, and so coarse are the strokes with which it is executed.\nThus, the winds are requisite to convey the vapours along the surface\nof the globe, and to assist men in navigation: but how oft, rising\nup to tempests and hurricanes, do they become pernicious? Rains are\nnecessary to nourish all the plants and animals of the earth: but how\noften are they defective? how often excessive? Heat is requisite to all\nlife and vegetation; but is not always found in the due proportion.\nOn the mixture and secretion of the humours and juices of the body\ndepend the health and prosperity of the animal: but the parts perform\nnot regularly their proper function. What more useful than all the\npassions of the mind, ambition, vanity love, anger? But how oft do they\nbreak their bounds, and cause the greatest convulsions in society?\nThere is nothing so advantageous in the universe, but what frequently\nbecomes pernicious, by its excess or defect; nor has Nature guarded,\nwith the requisite accuracy, against all disorder or confusion. The\nirregularity is never perhaps so great as to destroy any species; but\nis often sufficient to involve the individuals in ruin and misery.\n\nOn the concurrence, then, of these _four_ circumstances, does all or\nthe greatest part of natural evil depend. Were all living creatures\nincapable of pain, or were the world administered by particular\nvolitions, evil never could have found access into the universe: and\nwere animals endowed with a large stock of powers and faculties,\nbeyond what strict necessity requires; or were the several springs\nand principles of the universe so accurately framed as to preserve\nalways the just temperament and medium; there must have been very\nlittle ill in comparison of what we feel at present. What then shall\nwe pronounce on this occasion? Shall we say that these circumstances\nare not necessary, and that they might easily have been altered in\nthe contrivance of the universe? This decision seems too presumptuous\nfor creatures so blind and ignorant. Let us be more modest in our\nconclusions. Let us allow, that, if the goodness of the Diety (I mean\na goodness like the human) could be established on any tolerable\nreasons _a priori_, these phenomena, however untoward, would not be\nsufficient to subvert that principle; but might easily, in some unknown\nmanner, be reconcileable to it. But let us still assert, that as this\ngoodness is not antecedently established, but must be inferred from the\nphenomena, there can be no grounds for such an inference, while there\nare so many ills in the universe, and while these ills might so easily\nhave been remedied, as far as human understanding can be allowed to\njudge on such a subject. I am Sceptic enough to allow, that the bad\nappearances, notwithstanding all my reasonings, may be compatible with\nsuch attributes as you suppose; but surely they can never prove these\nattributes. Such a conclusion cannot result from Scepticism, but must\narise from the phenomena, and from our confidence in the reasonings\nwhich we deduce from these phenomena.\n\nLook round this universe. What an immense profusion of beings, animated\nand organized, sensible and active! You admire this prodigious\nvariety and fecundity. But inspect a little more narrowly these\nliving existences, the only beings worth regarding. How hostile and\ndestructive to each other! How insufficient all of them for their own\nhappiness! How contemptible or odious to the spectator! The whole\npresents nothing but the idea of a blind Nature, impregnated by a\ngreat vivifying principle, and pouring forth from her lap, without\ndiscernment or parental care, her maimed and abortive children!\n\nHere the Manich\u00e6an system occurs as a proper hypothesis to solve the\ndifficulty: and no doubt, in some respects, it is very specious, and\nhas more probability than the common hypothesis, by giving a plausible\naccount of the strange mixture of good and ill which appears in life.\nBut if we consider, on the other hand, the perfect uniformity and\nagreement of the parts of the universe, we shall not discover in it any\nmarks of the combat of a malevolent with a benevolent being. There is\nindeed an opposition of pains and pleasures in the feelings of sensible\ncreatures: but are not all the operations of Nature carried on by an\nopposition of principles, of hot and cold, moist and dry, light and\nheavy? The true conclusion is, that the original Source of all things\nis entirely indifferent to all these principles; and has no more regard\nto good above ill, than to heat above cold, or to drought above\nmoisture, or to light above heavy.\n\nThere may _four_ hypotheses be framed concerning the first causes of\nthe universe: _that_ they are endowed with perfect goodness; _that_\nthey have perfect malice; _that_ they are opposite, and have both\ngoodness and malice; _that_ they have neither goodness nor malice. Mixt\nphenomena can never prove the two former unmixt principles; and the\nuniformity and steadiness of general laws seem to oppose the third. The\nfourth, therefore, seems by far the most probable.\n\nWhat I have said concerning natural evil will apply to moral, with\nlittle or no variation; and we have no more reason to infer, that the\nrectitude of the Supreme Being resembles human rectitude, than that\nhis benevolence resembles the human. Nay, it will be thought, that we\nhave still greater cause to exclude from him moral sentiments, such as\nwe feel them; since moral evil, in the opinion of many, is much more\npredominant above moral good than natural evil above natural good.\n\nBut even though this should not be allowed, and though the virtue which\nis in mankind should be acknowledged much superior to the vice, yet so\nlong as there is any vice at all in the universe, it will very much\npuzzle you Anthropomorphites, how to account for it. You must assign a\ncause for it, without having recourse to the first cause. But as every\neffect must have a cause, and that cause another, you must either carry\non the progression _in infinitum_, or rest on that original principle,\nwho is the ultimate cause of all things....\n\nHold! hold! cried Demea: Whither does your imagination hurry you? I\njoined in alliance with you, in order to prove the incomprehensible\nnature of the Divine Being, and refute the principles of Cleanthes,\nwho would measure every thing by human rule and standard. But I now\nfind you running into all the topics of the greatest libertines and\ninfidels, and betraying that holy cause which you seemingly espoused.\nAre you secretly, then, a more dangerous enemy than Cleanthes himself?\n\nAnd are you so late in perceiving it? replied Cleanthes. Believe me,\nDemea, your friend Philo, from the beginning, has been amusing himself\nat both our expense; and it must be confessed, that the injudicious\nreasoning of our vulgar theology has given him but too just a handle\nof ridicule. The total infirmity of human reason, the absolute\nincomprehensibility of the Divine Nature, the great and universal\nmisery, and still greater wickedness of men; these are strange topics,\nsurely, to be so fondly cherished by orthodox divines and doctors.\nIn ages of stupidity and ignorance, indeed, these principles may\nsafely be espoused; and perhaps no views of things are more proper to\npromote superstition, than such as encourage the blind amazement, the\ndiffidence, and melancholy of mankind. But at present....\n\nBlame not so much, interposed Philo, the ignorance of these reverend\ngentlemen. They know how to change their style with the times. Formerly\nit was a most popular theological topic to maintain, that human life\nwas vanity and misery, and to exaggerate all the ills and pains which\nare incident to men. But of late years, divines, we find, begin to\nretract this position; and maintain, though still with some hesitation,\nthat there are more goods than evils, more pleasures than pains, even\nin this life. When religion stood entirely upon temper and education,\nit was thought proper to encourage melancholy; as indeed mankind never\nhave recourse to superior powers so readily as in that disposition. But\nas men have now learned to form principles, and to draw consequences,\nit is necessary to change the batteries, and to make use of such\narguments as will endure at least some scrutiny and examination. This\nvariation is the same (and from the same causes) with that which I\nformerly remarked with regard to Scepticism.\n\nThus Philo continued to the last his spirit of opposition, and his\ncensure of established opinions. But I could observe that Demea did not\nat all relish the latter part of the discourse; and he took occasion\nsoon after, on some pretence or other, to leave the company.\n\n\n\n\nPART XII.\n\n\nAfter Demea's departure, Cleanthes and Philo continued the conversation\nin the following manner. Our friend, I am afraid, said Cleanthes,\nwill have little inclination to revive this topic of discourse,\nwhile you are in company; and to tell truth, Philo, I should rather\nwish to reason with either of you apart on a subject so sublime and\ninteresting. Your spirit of controversy, joined to your abhorence of\nvulgar superstition, carries you strange lengths, when engaged in an\nargument; and there is nothing so sacred and venerable, even in your\nown eyes, which you spare on that occasion.\n\nI must confess, replied Philo, that I am less cautious on the subject\nof Natural Religion than on any other; both because I know that I can\nnever, on that head, corrupt the principles of any man of common sense;\nand because no one, I am confident, in whose eyes I appear a man of\ncommon sense, will ever mistake my intentions. You, in particular,\nCleanthes, with whom I live in unreserved intimacy; you are sensible,\nthat notwithstanding the freedom of my conversation, and my love of\nsingular arguments, no one has a deeper sense of religion impressed\non his mind, or pays more profound adoration to the Divine Being,\nas he discovers himself to reason, in the inexplicable contrivance\nand artifice of nature. A purpose, an intention, a design, strikes\nevery where the most careless, the most stupid thinker; and no man\ncan be so hardened in absurd systems, as at all times to reject it.\n_That Nature does nothing in vain_, is a maxim established in all\nthe schools, merely from the contemplation of the works of Nature,\nwithout any religious purpose; and, from a firm conviction of its\ntruth, an anatomist, who had observed a new organ or canal, would never\nbe satisfied till he had also discovered its use and intention. One\ngreat foundation of the Copernican system is the maxim, _That Nature\nacts by the simplest methods, and chooses the most proper means to\nany end_; and astronomers often, without thinking of it, lay this\nstrong foundation of piety and religion. The same thing is observable\nin other parts of philosophy: And thus all the sciences almost lead\nus insensibly to acknowledge a first intelligent Author; and their\nauthority is often so much the greater, as they do not directly profess\nthat intention.\n\nIt is with pleasure I hear Galen reason concerning the structure of\nthe human body. The anatomy of a man, says he,[1] discovers above 600\ndifferent muscles; and whoever duly considers these, will find, that,\nin each of them, Nature must have adjusted at least ten different\ncircumstances, in order to attain the end which she proposed; proper\nfigure, just magnitude, right disposition of the several ends, upper\nand lower position of the whole, the due insertion of the several\nnerves, veins, and arteries: So that, in the muscles alone, above 6000\nseveral views and intentions must have been formed and executed. The\nbones he calculates to be 284: The distinct purposes aimed at in the\nstructure of each, above forty. What a prodigious display of artifice,\neven in these simple and homogeneous parts! But if we consider the\nskin, ligaments, vessels, glandules, humours, the several limbs and\nmembers of the body; how must our astonishment rise upon us, in\nproportion to the number and intricacy of the parts so artificially\nadjusted! The farther we advance in these researches, we discover new\nscenes of art and wisdom: But descry still, at a distance, farther\nscenes beyond our reach; in the fine internal structure of the parts,\nin the economy of the brain, in the fabric of the seminal vessels. All\nthese artifices are repeated in every different species of animal, with\nwonderful variety, and with exact propriety, suited to the different\nintentions of Nature in framing each species. And if the infidelity of\nGalen, even when these natural sciences were still imperfect, could\nnot withstand such striking appearances, to what pitch of pertinacious\nobstinacy must a philosopher in this age have attained, who can now\ndoubt of a Supreme Intelligence!\n\nCould I meet with one of this species (who, I thank God, are very\nrare), I would ask him: Supposing there were a God, who did not\ndiscover himself immediately to our senses, were it possible for him\nto give stronger proofs of his existence, than what appear on the\nwhole face of Nature? What indeed could such a Divine Being do, but\ncopy the present economy of things; render many of his artifices so\nplain, that no stupidity could mistake them; afford glimpses of still\ngreater artifices, which demonstrate his prodigious superiority above\nour narrow apprehensions; and conceal altogether a great many from such\nimperfect creatures? Now, according to all rules of just reasoning,\nevery fact must pass for undisputed, when it is supported by all the\narguments which its nature admits of; even though these arguments be\nnot, in themselves, very numerous or forcible: How much more, in the\npresent case, where no human imagination can compute their number, and\nno understanding estimate their cogency!\n\nI shall farther add, said Cleanthes, to what you have so well urged,\nthat one great advantage of the principle of Theism, is, that it is\nthe only system of cosmogony which can be rendered intelligible and\ncomplete, and yet can throughout preserve a strong analogy to what\nwe every day see and experience in the world. The comparison of the\nuniverse to a machine of human contrivance, is so obvious and natural,\nand is justified by so many instances of order and design in Nature,\nthat it must immediately strike all unprejudiced apprehensions,\nand procure universal approbation. Whoever attempts to weaken this\ntheory, cannot pretend to succeed by establishing in its place any\nother that is precise and determinate: It is sufficient for him if\nhe start doubts and difficulties; and by remote and abstract views\nof things, reach that suspense of judgment, which is here the utmost\nboundary of his wishes. But, besides that this state of mind is in\nitself unsatisfactory, it can never be steadily maintained against\nsuch striking appearances as continually engage us into the religious\nhypothesis. A false, absurd system, human nature, from the force of\nprejudice, is capable of adhering to with obstinacy and perseverance:\nBut no system at all, in opposition to a theory supported by strong and\nobvious reason, by natural propensity, and by early education, I think\nit absolutely impossible to maintain or defend.\n\nSo little, replied Philo, do I esteem this suspense of judgment in the\npresent case to be possible, that I am apt to suspect there enters\nsomewhat of a dispute of words into this controversy; more than is\nusually imagined. That the works of Nature bear a great analogy to\nthe productions of art, is evident; and according to all the rules of\ngood reasoning, we ought to infer, if we argue at all concerning them,\nthat their causes have a proportional analogy. But as there are also\nconsiderable differences, we have reason to suppose a proportional\ndifference in the causes; and in particular, ought to attribute a much\nhigher degree of power and energy to the supreme cause, than any we\nhave ever observed in mankind. Here then the existence of a *DEITY is\nplainly ascertained by reason: and if we make it a question, whether,\non account of these analogies, we can properly call him a _mind_\nor _intelligence_, notwithstanding the vast difference which may\nreasonably be supposed between him and human minds; what is this but\na mere verbal controversy? No man can deny the analogies between the\neffects: To restrain ourselves from inquiring concerning the causes is\nscarcely possible. From this inquiry, the legitimate conclusion is,\nthat the causes have also an analogy: And if we are not contented with\ncalling the first and supreme cause a *GOD or *DEITY, but desire to\nvary the expression; what can we call him but *MIND or $THOUGHT, to\nwhich he is justly supposed to bear a considerable resemblance?\n\nAll men of sound reason are disgusted with verbal disputes, which\nabound so much in philosophical and theological inquiries; and it\nis found, that the only remedy for this abuse must arise from clear\ndefinitions, from the precision of those ideas which enter into any\nargument, and from the strict and uniform use of those terms which\nare employed. But there is a species of controversy, which, from the\nvery nature of language and of human ideas, is involved in perpetual\nambiguity, and can never, by any precaution or any definitions, be\nable to reach a reasonable certainty or precision. These are the\ncontroversies concerning the degrees of any quality or circumstance.\nMen may argue to all eternity, whether Hannibal be a great, or a very\ngreat, or a superlatively great man, what degree of beauty Cleopatra\npossessed, what epithet of praise Livy or Thucydides is entitled to,\nwithout bringing the controversy to any determination. The disputants\nmay here agree in their sense, and differ in the terms, or _vice\nversa_; yet never be able to define their terms, so as to enter into\neach other's meaning: Because the degrees of these qualities are not,\nlike quantity or number, susceptible of any exact mensuration, which\nmay be the standard in the controversy. That the dispute concerning\nTheism is of this nature, and consequently is merely verbal, or\nperhaps, if possible, still more incurably ambiguous, will appear upon\nthe slightest inquiry. I ask the Theist, if he does not allow, that\nthere is a great and immeasurable, because incomprehensible difference\nbetween the _human_ and the _divine_ mind: The more pious he is, the\nmore readily will he assent to the affirmative, and the more will he\nbe disposed to magnify the difference: He will even assert, that the\ndifference is of a nature which cannot be too much magnified. I next\nturn to the Atheist, who, I assert, is only nominally so, and can never\npossibly be in earnest; and I ask him, whether, from the coherence\nand apparent sympathy in all the parts of this world, there be not\na certain degree of analogy among all the operations of Nature, in\nevery situation and in every age; whether the rotting of a turnip, the\ngeneration of an animal, and the structure of human thought, be not\nenergies that probably bear some remote analogy to each other: It\nis impossible he can deny it: He will readily acknowledge it. Having\nobtained this concession, I push him still farther in his retreat;\nand I ask him, if it be not probable, that the principle which first\narranged, and still maintains order in this universe, bears not also\nsome remote inconceivable analogy to the other operations of Nature,\nand, among the rest, to the economy of human mind and thought. However\nreluctant, he must give his assent. Where then, cry I to both these\nantagonists, is the subject of your dispute? The Theist allows, that\nthe original intelligence is very different from human reason: The\nAtheist allows, that the original principle of order bears some remote\nanalogy to it. Will you quarrel, Gentlemen, about the degrees, and\nenter into a controversy, which admits not of any precise meaning,\nnor consequently of any determination? If you should be so obstinate,\nI should not be surprised to find you insensibly change sides; while\nthe Theist, on the one hand, exaggerates the dissimilarity between the\nSupreme Being, and frail, imperfect, variable, fleeting, and mortal\ncreatures; and the Atheist, on the other, magnifies the analogy among\nall the operations of Nature, in every period, every situation, and\nevery position. Consider then, where the real point of controversy\nlies; and if you cannot lay aside your disputes, endeavour, at least,\nto cure yourselves of your animosity.\n\nAnd here I must also acknowledge, Cleanthes, that as the works of\nNature have a much greater analogy to the effects of _our_ art and\ncontrivance, than to those of _our_ benevolence and justice, we have\nreason to infer, that the natural attributes of the Deity have a\ngreater resemblance to those of men, than his moral have to human\nvirtues. But what is the consequence? Nothing but this, that the moral\nqualities of man are more defective in their kind than his natural\nabilities. For, as the Supreme Being is allowed to be absolutely and\nentirely perfect, whatever differs most from him, departs the farthest\nfrom the supreme standard of rectitude and perfection.[2]\n\nThese, Cleanthes, are my unfeigned sentiments on this subject; and\nthese sentiments, you know, I have ever cherished and maintained. But\nin proportion to my veneration for true religion, is my abhorrence of\nvulgar superstitions; and I indulge a peculiar pleasure, I confess,\nin pushing such principles, sometimes into absurdity, sometimes into\nimpiety. And you are sensible, that all bigots, notwithstanding their\ngreat aversion to the latter above the former, are commonly equally\nguilty of both.\n\nMy inclination, replied Cleanthes, lies, I own, a contrary way.\nReligion, however corrupted, is still better than no religion at all.\nThe doctrine of a future state is so strong and necessary a security\nto morals, that we never ought to abandon or neglect it. For if and\ntemporary rewards and punishments have so great an effect, as we daily\nfind; how much greater must be expected from such as are infinite and\neternal?\n\nHow happens it then, said Philo, if vulgar superstition be so salutary\nto society, that all history abounds so much with accounts of its\npernicious consequences on public affairs? Factions, civil wars,\npersecutions, subversions of government, oppression, slavery; these\nare the dismal consequences which always attend its prevalency over\nthe minds of men. If the religious spirit be ever mentioned in any\nhistorical narration, we are sure to meet afterwards with a detail of\nthe miseries which attend it. And no period of time can be happier or\nmore prosperous, than those in which it is never regarded or heard of.\n\nThe reason of this observation, replied Cleanthes, is obvious. The\nproper office of religion is to regulate the heart of men, humanize\ntheir conduct, infuse the spirit of temperance, order, and obedience;\nand as its operation is silent, and only enforces the motives of\nmorality and justice, it is in danger of being overlooked, and\nconfounded with these other motives. When it distinguishes itself, and\nacts as a separate principle over men, it has departed from its proper\nsphere, and has become only a cover to faction and ambition.\n\nAnd so will all religion, said Philo, except the philosophical and\nrational kind. Your reasonings are more easily eluded than my facts.\nThe inference is not just, because finite and temporary rewards and\npunishments have so great influence, that therefore such as are\ninfinite and eternal must have so much greater. Consider, I beseech\nyou, the attachment which we have to present things, and the little\nconcern which we discover for objects so remote and uncertain. When\ndivines are declaiming against the common behaviour and conduct of\nthe world, they always represent this principle as the strongest\nimaginable (which indeed it is); and describe almost all human kind as\nlying under the influence of it, and sunk into the deepest lethargy\nand unconcern about their religious interests. Yet these same divines,\nwhen they refute their speculative antagonists, suppose the motives\nof religion to be so powerful, that, without them, it were impossible\nfor civil society to subsist; nor are they ashamed of so palpable a\ncontradiction. It is certain, from experience, that the smallest grain\nof natural honesty and benevolence has more effect on men's conduct,\nthan the most pompous views suggested by theological theories and\nsystems. A man's natural inclination works incessantly upon him; it\nis for ever present to the mind, and mingles itself with every view\nand consideration: whereas religious motives, where they act at all,\noperate only by starts and bounds; and it is scarcely possible for them\nto become altogether habitual to the mind. The force of the greatest\ngravity, say the philosophers, is infinitely small, in comparison of\nthat of the least impulse: yet it is certain, that the smallest gravity\nwill, in the end, prevail above a great impulse; because no strokes or\nblows can be repeated with such constancy as attraction and gravitation.\n\nAnother advantage of inclination: It engages on its side all the wit\nand ingenuity of the mind; and when set in opposition to religious\nprinciples, seeks every method and art of eluding them: In which it\nis almost always successful. Who can explain the heart of man, or\naccount for those strange salvos and excuses, with which people satisfy\nthemselves, when they follow their inclinations in opposition to their\nreligious duty? This is well understood in the world; and none but\nfools ever repose less trust in a man, because they hear, that from\nstudy and philosophy, he has entertained some speculative doubts with\nregard to theological subjects. And when we have to do with a man, who\nmakes a great profession of religion and devotion, has this any other\neffect upon several, who pass for prudent, than to put them on their\nguard, lest they be cheated and deceived by him?\n\nWe must farther consider, that philosophers, who cultivate reason and\nreflection, stand less in need of such motives to keep them under\nthe restraint of morals; and that the vulgar, who alone may need\nthem, are utterly incapable of so pure a religion as represents the\nDeity to be pleased with nothing but virtue in human behaviour. The\nrecommendations to the Divinity are generally supposed to be either\nfrivolous observances, or rapturous ecstasies, or a bigotted credulity.\nWe need not run back into antiquity, or wander into remote regions,\nto find instances of this degeneracy. Amongst ourselves, some have\nbeen guilty of that atrociousness, unknown to the Egyptian and Grecian\nsuperstitions, of declaiming in express terms, against morality; and\nrepresenting it as a sure forfeiture of the Divine favour, if the least\ntrust or reliance be laid upon it.\n\nBut even though superstition or enthusiasm should not put itself in\ndirect opposition to morality; the very diverting of the attention,\nthe raising up a new and frivolous species of merit, the preposterous\ndistribution which it makes of praise and blame, must have the most\npernicious consequences, and weaken extremely men's attachment to the\nnatural motives of justice and humanity.\n\nSuch a principle of action likewise, not being any of the familiar\nmotives of human conduct, acts only by intervals on the temper;\nand must be roused by continual efforts, in order to render the\npious zealot satisfied with his own conduct, and make him fulfil\nhis devotional task. Many religious exercises are entered into with\nseeming fervour, where the heart, at the time, feels cold and languid:\nA habit of dissimulation is by degrees contracted; and fraud and\nfalsehood become the predominant principle. Hence the reason of that\nvulgar observation, that the highest zeal in religion and the deepest\nhypocrisy, so far from being inconsistent, are often or commonly united\nin the same individual character.\n\nThe bad effects of such habits, even in common life, are easily\nimagined; but where the interests of religion are concerned, no\nmorality can be forcible enough to bind the enthusiastic zealot. The\nsacredness of the cause sanctifies every measure which can be made use\nof to promote it.\n\nThe steady attention alone to so important an interest as that of\neternal salvation, is apt to extinguish the benevolent affections,\nand beget a narrow, contracted selfishness. And when such a temper is\nencouraged, it easily eludes all the general precepts of charity and\nbenevolence.\n\nThus, the motives of vulgar superstition have no great influence on\ngeneral conduct; nor is their operation favourable to morality, in the\ninstances where they predominate.\n\nIs there any maxim in politics more certain and infallible, than that\nboth the number and authority of priests should be confined within very\nnarrow limits; and that the civil magistrate ought, for ever, to keep\nhis _fasces_ and _axes_ from such dangerous hands? But if the spirit of\npopular religion were so salutary to society, a contrary maxim ought\nto prevail. The greater number of priests, and their greater authority\nand riches, will always augment the religious spirit. And though the\npriests have the guidance of this spirit, why may we not expect a\nsuperior sanctity of life, and greater benevolence and moderation, from\npersons who are set apart for religion, who are continually inculcating\nit upon others, and who must themselves imbibe a greater share of it?\nWhence comes it then, that, in fact, the utmost a wise magistrate can\npropose with regard to popular religions, is, as far as possible, to\nmake a saving game of it, and to prevent their pernicious consequences\nwith regard to society? Every expedient which he tries for so humble\na purpose is surrounded with inconveniences. If he admits only one\nreligion among his subjects, he must sacrifice, to an uncertain\nprospect of tranquillity, every consideration of public liberty,\nscience, reason, industry, and even his own independency. If he gives\nindulgence to several sects, which is the wiser maxim, he must preserve\na very philosophical indifference to all of them, and carefully\nrestrain the pretensions of the prevailing sect; otherwise he can\nexpect nothing but endless disputes, quarrels, factions, persecutions,\nand civil commotions.\n\nTrue religion, I allow, has no such pernicious consequences: but we\nmust treat of religion, as it has commonly been found in the world;\nnor have I any thing to do with that speculative tenet of Theism,\nwhich, as it is a species of philosophy, must partake of the beneficial\ninfluence of that principle, and at the same time must lie under a like\ninconvenience, of being always confined to very few persons.\n\nOaths are requisite in all courts of judicature; but it is a question\nwhether their authority arises from any popular religion. It is the\nsolemnity and importance of the occasion, the regard to reputation,\nand the reflecting on the general interests of society, which are the\nchief restraints upon mankind. Customhouse oaths and political oaths\nare but little regarded even by some who pretend to principles of\nhonesty and religion; and a Quaker's asseveration is with us justly put\nupon the same footing with the oath of any other person. I know, that\nPolybius[3] ascribes the infamy of Greek faith to the prevalency of the\nEpicurean philosophy: but I know also, that Punic faith had as bad a\nreputation in ancient times as Irish evidence has in modern; though we\ncannot account for these vulgar observations by the same reason. Not to\nmention that Greek faith was infamous before the rise of the Epicurean\nphilosophy; and Euripides,[4] in a passage which I shall point out to\nyou, has glanced a remarkable stroke of satire against his nation, with\nregard to this circumstance.\n\nTake care, Philo, replied Cleanthes, take care: push not matters too\nfar: allow not your zeal against false religion to undermine your\nveneration for the true. Forfeit not this principle, the chief, the\nonly great comfort in life; and our principal support amidst all the\nattacks of adverse fortune. The most agreeable reflection, which it is\npossible for human imagination to suggest, is that of genuine Theism,\nwhich represents us as the workmanship of a Being perfectly good, wise,\nand powerful; who created us for happiness; and who, having implanted\nin us immeasurable desires of good, will prolong our existence to all\neternity, and will transfer us into an infinite variety of scenes, in\norder to satisfy those desires, and render our felicity complete and\ndurable. Next to such a Being himself (if the comparison be allowed),\nthe happiest lot which we can imagine, is that of being under his\nguardianship and protection.\n\nThese appearances, said Philo, are most engaging and alluring; and with\nregard to the true philosopher, they are more than appearances. But it\nhappens here, as in the former case, that, with regard to the greater\npart of mankind, the appearances are deceitful, and that the terrors of\nreligion commonly prevail above its comforts.\n\nIt is allowed, that men never have recourse to devotion so readily as\nwhen dejected with grief or depressed with sickness. Is not this a\nproof, that the religious spirit is not so nearly allied to joy as to\nsorrow?\n\nBut men, when afflicted, find consolation in religion, replied\nCleanthes. Sometimes, said Philo: but it is natural to imagine,\nthat they will form a notion of those unknown beings, suitably to\nthe present gloom and melancholy of their temper, when they betake\nthemselves to the contemplation of them. Accordingly, we find the\ntremendous images to predominate in all religions; and we ourselves,\nafter having employed the most exalted expression in our descriptions\nof the Deity, fall into the flattest contradiction in affirming that\nthe damned are infinitely superior in number to the elect.\n\nI shall venture to affirm, that there never was a popular religion,\nwhich represented the state of departed souls in such a light, as would\nrender it eligible for human kind that there should be such a state.\nThese fine models of religion are the mere product of philosophy. For\nas death lies between the eye and the prospect of futurity, that event\nis so shocking to Nature, that it must throw a gloom on all the regions\nwhich lie beyond it; and suggest to the generality of mankind the idea\nof Cerberus and Furies; devils, and torrents of fire and brimstone.\n\nIt is true, both fear and hope enter into religion; because both these\npassions, at different times, agitate the human mind, and each of\nthem forms a species of divinity suitable to itself. But when a man\nis in a cheerful disposition, he is fit for business, or company, or\nentertainment of any kind; and he naturally applies himself to these,\nand thinks not of religion. When melancholy and dejected, he has\nnothing to do but brood upon the terrors of the invisible world, and\nto plunge himself still deeper in affliction. It may indeed happen,\nthat after he has, in this manner, engraved the religious opinions deep\ninto his thought and imagination, there may arrive a change of health\nor circumstances, which may restore his good humour, and, raising\ncheerful prospects of futurity, make him run into the other extreme of\njoy and triumph. But still it must be acknowledged, that, as terror\nis the primary principle of religion, it is the passion which always\npredominates in it, and admits but of short intervals of pleasure.\n\nNot to mention, that these fits of excessive, enthusiastic joy, by\nexhausting the spirits, always prepare the way for equal fits of\nsuperstitious terror and dejection; nor is there any state of mind\nso happy as the calm and equable. But this state it is impossible to\nsupport, where a man thinks that he lies in such profound darkness\nand uncertainty, between an eternity of happiness and an eternity of\nmisery. No wonder that such an opinion disjoints the ordinary frame\nof the mind, and throws it into the utmost confusion. And though that\nopinion is seldom so steady in its operation as to influence all the\nactions; yet it is apt to make a considerable breach in the temper, and\nto produce that gloom and melancholy so remarkable in all devout people.\n\nIt is contrary to common sense to entertain apprehensions or terrors\nupon account of any opinion whatsoever, or to imagine that we run any\nrisk hereafter, by the freest use of our reason. Such a sentiment\nimplies both an _absurdity_ and an _inconsistency_. It is an absurdity\nto believe that the Deity has human passions, and one of the lowest\nof human passions, a restless appetite for applause. It is an\ninconsistency to believe, that, since the Deity has this human passion,\nhe has not others also; and, in particular, a disregard to the opinions\nof creatures so much inferior.\n\n_To know God_, says Seneca, _is to worship him_. All other worship\nis indeed absurd, superstitious, and even impious. It degrades him\nto the low condition of mankind, who are delighted with entreaty,\nsolicitation, presents, and flattery. Yet is this impiety the smallest\nof which superstition is guilty. Commonly, it depresses the Deity far\nbelow the condition of mankind; and represents him as a capricious\ndemon, who exercises his power without reason and without humanity! And\nwere that Divine Being disposed to be offended at the vices and follies\nof silly mortals, who are his own workmanship, ill would it surely fare\nwith the votaries of most popular superstitions. Nor would any of human\nrace merit his _favour_, but a very few, the philosophical Theists,\nwho entertain, or rather indeed endeavour to entertain, suitable\nnotions of his Divine perfections: As the only persons entitled to his\n_compassion_ and _indulgence_ would be the philosophical Sceptics, a\nsect almost equally rare, who, from a natural diffidence of their own\ncapacity, suspend, or endeavour to suspend, all judgment with regard to\nsuch sublime and such extraordinary subjects.\n\nIf the whole of Natural Theology, as some people seem to maintain,\nresolves itself into one simple, though somewhat ambiguous, at least\nundefined proposition, _That the cause or causes of order in the\nuniverse probably bear some remote analogy to human intelligence_:\nIf this proposition be not capable of extension, variation, or more\nparticular explication: If it affords no inference that affects human\nlife, or can be the source of any action or forbearance: And if the\nanalogy, imperfect as it is, can be carried no farther than to the\nhuman intelligence, and cannot be transferred, with any appearance of\nprobability, to the other qualities of the mind; if this really be the\ncase, what can the most inquisitive, contemplative, and religious man\ndo more than give a plain, philosophical assent to the proposition,\nas often as it occurs, and believe that the arguments on which it\nis established exceed the objections which lie against it? Some\nastonishment, indeed, will naturally arise from the greatness of the\nobject; some melancholy from its obscurity; some contempt of human\nreason, that it can give no solution more satisfactory with regard to\nso extraordinary and magnificent a question. But believe me, Cleanthes,\nthe most natural sentiment which a well-disposed mind will feel on\nthis occasion, is a longing desire and expectation that Heaven would\nbe pleased to dissipate, at least alleviate, this profound ignorance,\nby affording some more particular revelation to mankind, and making\ndiscoveries of the nature, attributes, and operations of the Divine\nobject of our faith. A person, seasoned with a just sense of the\nimperfections of natural reason, will fly to revealed truth with the\ngreatest avidity: While the haughty Dogmatist, persuaded that he can\nerect a complete system of Theology by the mere help of philosophy,\ndisdains any further aid, and rejects this adventitious instructor.\nTo be a philosophical Sceptic is, in a man of letters, the first and\nmost essential step towards being a sound, believing Christian; a\nproposition which I would willingly recommend to the attention of\nPamphilus: And I hope Cleanthes will forgive me for interposing so far\nin the education and instruction of his pupil.\n\nCleanthes and Philo pursued not this conversation much farther: and as\nnothing ever made greater impression on me, than all the reasonings\nof that day, so I confess, that, upon a serious review of the whole,\nI cannot but think, that Philo's principles are more probable than\nDemea's; but that those of Cleanthes approach still nearer to the truth.\n\n\n[1] De Formatione Foetus.\n\n[2] It seems evident that the dispute between the Sceptics and\nDogmatists is entirely verbal, or at least regards only the degrees\nof doubt and assurance which we ought to indulge with regard to all\nreasoning; and such disputes are commonly, at the bottom, verbal, and\nadmit not of any precise determination. No philosophical Dogmatist\ndenies that there are difficulties both with regard to the senses and\nto all science, and that these difficulties are in a regular, logical\nmethod, absolutely insolvable. No Sceptic denies that we lie under an\nabsolute necessity, notwithstanding these difficulties, of thinking,\nand believing, and reasoning, with regard to all kinds of subjects, and\neven of frequently assenting with confidence and security. The only\ndifference, then, between these sects, if they merit that name, is,\nthat the Sceptic, from habit, caprice, or inclination, insists most on\nthe difficulties; the Dogmatist, for like reasons, on the necessity.\n\n[3] Lib. vi. cap. 54.\n\n[4] Iphigenia in Tauride.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX\n\nTO THE\n\nTREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE.\n\n\nThere is nothing I would more willingly lay hold of, than an\nopportunity of confessing my errors; and should esteem such a return to\ntruth and reason to be more honourable than the most unerring judgment.\nA man who is free from mistakes can pretend to no praises, except from\nthe justness of his understanding; but a man who corrects his mistakes\nshows at once the justness of his understanding, and the candour\nand ingenuity of his temper. I have not yet been so fortunate as to\ndiscover any very considerable mistakes in the reasonings delivered\nin the preceding volumes, except on one article; but I have found by\nexperience, that some of my expressions have not been so well chosen\nas to guard against all mistakes in the readers; and 'tis chiefly to\nremedy this defect I have subjoined the following Appendix.\n\nWe can never be induced to believe any matter of fact except where\nits cause or its effect is present to us; but what the nature is of\nthat belief which arises from the relation of cause and effect, few\nhave had the curiosity to ask themselves. In my opinion this dilemma\nis inevitable. Either the belief is some new idea, such as that of\n_reality_ or _existence_, which we join to the simple conception\nof an object, or it is merely a peculiar _feeling_ or _sentiment_.\nThat it is not a new idea, annexed to the simple conception, may be\nevinced from these two arguments. _First_, We have no abstract idea of\nexistence, distinguishable and separable from the idea of particular\nobjects. 'Tis impossible, therefore, that this idea of existence can\nbe annexed to the idea of any object, or form the difference betwixt\na simple conception and belief. _Secondly_, The mind has the command\nover all its ideas, and can separate, unite, mix, and vary them, as\nit pleases; so that, if belief consisted merely in a new idea annexed\nto the conception, it would be in a man's power to believe what he\npleased. We may therefore conclude, that belief consists merely in a\ncertain feeling or sentiment; in something that depends not on the\nwill, but must arise from certain determinate causes and principles\nof which we are not masters. When we are convinced of any matter of\nfact, we do nothing but conceive it, along with a certain feeling,\ndifferent from what attends the mere _reveries_ of the imagination.\nAnd when we express our incredulity concerning any fact, we mean,\nthat the arguments for the fact produce not that feeling. Did not the\nbelief consist in a sentiment different from our mere conception,\nwhatever objects were presented by the wildest imagination would be on\nan equal footing with the most established truths founded on history\nand experience. There is nothing but the feeling or sentiment to\ndistinguish the one from the other.\n\nThis, therefore, being regarded as an undoubted truth, that _belief is\nnothing but a peculiar feeling, different from the simple conception_,\nthe next question that naturally occurs is, _what is the nature of\nthis feeling or sentiment, and whether it be analogous to any other\nsentiment of the human mind_? This question is important. For if it be\nnot analogous to any other sentiment, we must despair of explaining\nits causes, and must consider it as an original principle of the human\nmind. If it be analogous, we may hope to explain its causes from\nanalogy, and trace it up to more general principles. Now, that there\nis a greater firmness and solidity in the conceptions, which are the\nobjects of conviction and assurance, than in the loose and indolent\nreveries of a castle-builder, every one will readily own. They strike\nupon us with more force; they are more present to us; the mind has\na firmer hold of them, and is more actuated and moved by them. It\nacquiesces in them; and, in a manner, fixes and reposes itself on\nthem. In short, they approach nearer to the impressions, which are\nimmediately present to us; and are therefore analogous to many other\noperations of the mind.\n\nThere is not, in my opinion, any possibility of evading this\nconclusion, but by asserting that belief, beside the simple conception,\nconsists in some impression or feeling, distinguishable from the\nconception. It does not modify the conception, and render it more\npresent and intense: it is only annexed to it, after the same manner\nthat _will_ and _desire_ are annexed to particular conceptions of\ngood and pleasure. But the following considerations will, I hope,\nbe sufficient to remove this hypothesis. _First_, It is directly\ncontrary to experience, and our immediate consciousness? All men have\never allowed reasoning to be merely an operation of our thoughts or\nideas; and however those ideas may be varied to the feeling, there is\nnothing ever enters into our _conclusions_ but ideas, or our fainter\nconceptions. For instance, I hear at present a person's voice with\nwhom I am acquainted, and this sound comes from the next room. This\nimpression of my senses immediately conveys my thoughts to the person,\nalong with all the surrounding objects. I paint them out to myself\nas existent at present, with the same qualities and relations that I\nformerly knew them possessed of. These ideas take faster hold of my\nmind, than the ideas of an enchanted castle. They are different to the\nfeeling; but there is no distinct or separate impression attending\nthem. 'Tis the same case when I recollect the several incidents of a\njourney, or the events of any history. Every particular fact is there\nthe object of belief. Its idea is modified differently from the loose\nreveries of a castle-builder: but no distinct impression attends\nevery distinct idea, or conception of matter of fact. This is the\nsubject of plain experience. If ever this experience can be disputed\non any occasion, 'tis when the mind has been agitated with doubts and\ndifficulties; and afterwards, upon taking the object in a new point of\nview, or being presented with a new argument, fixes and reposes itself\nin one settled conclusion and belief. In this case there is a feeling\ndistinct and separate from the conception. The passage from doubt\nand agitation to tranquillity and repose, conveys a satisfaction and\npleasure to the mind. But take any other case. Suppose I see the legs\nand thighs of a person in motion, while some interposed object conceals\nthe rest of his body. Here 'tis certain, the imagination spreads out\nthe whole figure. I give him a head and shoulders, and breast and neck.\nThese members I conceive and believe him to be possessed of. Nothing\ncan be more evident, than that this whole operation is performed\nby the thought or imagination alone. The transition is immediate.\nThe ideas presently strike us. Their customary connexion with the\npresent impression varies them and modifies them in a certain manner,\nbut produces no act of the mind, distinct from this peculiarity of\nconception. Let any one examine his own mind, and he will evidently\nfind this to be the truth.\n\n_Secondly_, Whatever may be the case, with regard to this distinct\nimpression, it must be allowed that the mind has a firmer hold, or\nmore steady conception of what it takes to be matter of fact than of\nfictions. Why then look any farther, or multiply suppositions without\nnecessity?\n\n_Thirdly_, We can explain the _causes_ of the firm conception, but not\nthose of any separate impression. And not only so, but the causes of\nthe firm conception exhaust the whole subject, and nothing is left to\nproduce any other effect. An inference concerning a matter of fact is\nnothing but the idea of an object that is frequently conjoined, or is\nassociated with a present impression. This is the whole of it. Every\npart is requisite to explain, from analogy, the more steady conception;\nand nothing remains capable of producing any distinct impression.\n\n_Fourthly_, The _effects_ of belief, in influencing the passions\nand imagination, can all be explained from the firm conception; and\nthere is no occasion to have recourse to any other principle. These\narguments, with many others, enumerated in the foregoing volumes,\nsufficiently prove, that belief only modifies the idea or conception;\nand renders it different to the feeling, without producing any distinct\nimpression.\n\nThus, upon a general view of the subject, there appear to be two\nquestions of importance, which we may venture to recommend to\nthe consideration of philosophers, _Whether there be any thing to\ndistinguish belief from the simple conception, beside the feeling\nor sentiment_? And, _Whether this feeling be any thing but a firmer\nconception, or a faster hold, that we take of the object_?\n\nIf, upon impartial inquiry, the same conclusion that I have formed\nbe assented to by philosophers, the next business is to examine the\nanalogy which there is betwixt belief and other acts of the mind,\nand find the cause of the firmness and strength of conception; and\nthis I do not esteem a difficult task. The transition from a present\nimpression, always enlivens and strengthens any idea. When any object\nis presented, the idea of its usual attendant immediately strikes us,\nas something real and solid. 'Tis _felt_ rather than conceived, and\napproaches the impression, from which it is derived, in its force\nand influence. This I have proved at large, and cannot add any new\narguments.\n\nI had entertained some hopes, that however deficient our theory of the\nintellectual world might be, it would be free from those contradictions\nand absurdities, which seem to attend every explication, that human\nreason can give of the material world. But upon a more strict review of\nthe section concerning _personal identity_, I find myself involved in\nsuch a labyrinth, that, I must confess, I neither know how to correct\nmy former opinions, nor how to render them consistent. If this be not\na good _general_ reason for scepticism, 'tis at least a sufficient\none (if I were not already abundantly supplied) for me to entertain\na diffidence and modesty in all my decisions. I shall propose the\narguments on both sides, beginning with those that induced me to deny\nthe strict and proper identity and simplicity of a self or thinking\nbeing.\n\nWhen we talk of _self_ or _subsistence_, we must have an idea annexed\nto these terms, otherwise they are altogether unintelligible. Every\nidea is derived from preceding impressions; and we have no impression\nof self or substance, as something simple and individual. We have,\ntherefore, no idea of them in that sense.\n\nWhatever is distinct, is distinguishable, and whatever is\ndistinguishable, is separable by the thought or imagination. All\nperceptions are distinct. They are, therefore, distinguishable, and\nseparable, and may be conceived, as separately existent, and may exist\nseparately, without any contradiction or absurdity.\n\nWhen I view this table and that chimney, nothing is present to me but\nparticular perceptions, which are of a like nature with all the other\nperceptions. This is the doctrine of philosophers. But this table,\nwhich is present to me, and that chimney, may, and do exist separately.\nThis is the doctrine of the vulgar, and implies no contradiction.\nThere, is no contradiction, therefore, in extending the same doctrine\nto all the perceptions.\n\nIn general, the following reasoning seems satisfactory. All ideas are\nborrowed from preceding perceptions. Our ideas of objects, therefore,\nare derived from that source. Consequently no proposition can be\nintelligible or consistent with regard to objects, which is not so\nwith regard to perceptions. But 'tis intelligible and consistent to\nsay, that objects exist distinct and independent, without any common\n_simple_ substance or subject of inhesion. This proposition, therefore,\ncan never be absurd with regard to perceptions.\n\nWhen I turn my reflection on _myself_, I never can perceive this _self_\nwithout some one or more perceptions; nor can I ever perceive any thing\nbut the perceptions. 'Tis the composition of these, therefore, which\nforms the self.\n\nWe can conceive a thinking being to have either many or few\nperceptions. Suppose the mind to be reduced even below the life of an\noyster. Suppose it to have only one perception, as of thirst or hunger.\nConsider it in that situation. Do you conceive any thing but merely\nthat perception? Have you any notion of _self_ or _substance_? If not,\nthe addition of other perceptions can never give you that notion.\n\nThe annihilation which some people suppose to follow upon death, and\nwhich entirely destroys this self, is nothing but an extinction of all\nparticular perceptions; love and hatred, pain and pleasure, thought and\nsensation. These, therefore, must be the same with self, since the one\ncannot survive the other.\n\nIs _self_ the same with _substance_? If it be, how can that question\nhave place, concerning the subsistence of self, under a change of\nsubstance? If they be distinct, what is the difference betwixt them?\nFor my part, I have a notion of neither, when conceived distinct from\nparticular perceptions.\n\nPhilosophers begin to be reconciled to the principle, _that we have\nno idea of external substance, distinct from the ideas of particular\nqualities_. This must pave the way for a like principle with regard to\nthe mind, _that we have no notion of it, distinct from the particular\nperception_.\n\nSo far I seem to be attended with sufficient evidence. But having thus\nloosened all our particular perceptions, when I proceed to explain\nthe principle of connexion, which binds them together, and makes us\nattribute to them a real simplicity and identity, I am sensible that my\naccount is very defective, and that nothing but the seeming evidence\nof the precedent reasonings could have induced me to receive it. If\nperceptions are distinct existences, they form a whole only by being\nconnected together. But no connexions among distinct existences are\never discoverable by human understanding. We only _feel_ a connexion\nor determination of the thought to pass from one object to another. It\nfollows, therefore, that the thought alone feels personal identity,\nwhen reflecting on the train of past perceptions that compose a mind,\nthe ideas of them are felt to be connected together, and naturally\nintroduce each other. However extraordinary this conclusion may seem,\nit need not surprise us. Most philosophers seem inclined to think, that\npersonal identity _arises_ from consciousness, and consciousness is\nnothing but a reflected thought or perception. The present philosophy,\ntherefore, has so far a promising aspect. But all my hopes vanish, when\nI come to explain the principles that unite our successive perceptions\nin our thought or consciousness. I cannot discover any theory, which\ngives me satisfaction on this head.\n\nIn short, there are two principles which I cannot render consistent,\nnor is it in my power to renounce either of them, viz. _that all\nour distinct perceptions are distinct existences, and that the mind\nnever perceives any real connexion among distinct existences_. Did\nour perceptions either inhere in something simple and individual, or\ndid the mind perceive some real connexion among them, there would be\nno difficulty in the case. For my part, I must plead the privilege\nof a sceptic, and confess, that this difficulty is too hard for my\nunderstanding. I pretend not, however, to pronounce it absolutely\ninsuperable. Others, perhaps, or myself, upon more mature reflections,\nmay discover some hypothesis that will reconcile those contradictions.\n\nI shall also take this opportunity of confessing two other errors of\nless importance, which more mature reflection has discovered to me in\nmy reasoning. The first may be found in Vol. I. page 85, where I say,\nthat the distance betwixt two bodies is known, among other things, by\nthe angles which the rays of light flowing from the bodies make with\neach other. 'Tis certain, that these angles are not known to the mind,\nand consequently can never discover the distance. The second error may\nbe found in Vol. I. p. 132, where I say, that two ideas of the same\nobject can only be different by their different degrees of force and\nvivacity. I believe there are other differences among ideas, which\ncannot properly be comprehended under these terms. Had I said, that\ntwo ideas of the same object can only be different by their different\n_feeling_, I should have been nearer the truth.\n\n\n\nEND OF VOLUME SECOND.","title":"Philosophical Works, v. 2 (of 4): Including All the Essays, and Exhibiting the More Important Alterations and Corrections in the Successive Editions Published by the Author","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":160336}