A Treatise of HumanNature

by David Hume

Styled by LimpidSoft

Contents

ADVERTISEMENT 1

INTRODUCTION 3

BOOK I 18PART I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

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PART II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84PART III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195PART IV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 489

BOOK II 725PART I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 726PART II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 863PART III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1040

BOOK III 1181PART I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1182PART II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1238PART III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1493

APPENDIX 1612

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The present document was de-rived from text provided by ProjectGutenberg (document 4705) whichwas made available free of charge.This document is also free ofcharge.

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ADVERTISEMENT

My design in the present work issufficiently explained in the Intro-duction. The reader must only ob-serve, that all the subjects I havethere planned out to myself, arenot treated of in these two vol-umes. The subjects of the Un-

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derstanding and Passions make acompleat chain of reasoning bythemselves; and I was willing totake advantage of this natural divi-sion, in order to try the taste of thepublic. If I have the good fortune tomeet with success, I shall proceedto the examination of Morals, Poli-tics, and Criticism; which will com-pleat this Treatise of Human Na-ture. The approbation of the pub-lic I consider as the greatest rewardof my labours; but am determinedto regard its judgment, whatever itbe, as my best instruction.

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INTRODUCTION

NOTHING is more usual and more naturalfor those, who pretend to discover any-

thing new to the world in philosophy and thesciences, than to insinuate the praises of theirown systems, by decrying all those, which havebeen advanced before them. And indeed werethey content with lamenting that ignorance,

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which we still lie under in the most impor-tant questions, that can come before the tri-bunal of human reason, there are few, whohave an acquaintance with the sciences, thatwould not readily agree with them. It is easyfor one of judgment and learning, to perceivethe weak foundation even of those systems,which have obtained the greatest credit, andhave carried their pretensions highest to accu-rate and profound reasoning. Principles takenupon trust, consequences lamely deduced fromthem, want of coherence in the parts, and ofevidence in the whole, these are every whereto be met with in the systems of the most em-inent philosophers, and seem to have drawndisgrace upon philosophy itself.

Nor is there required such profound knowl-edge to discover the present imperfect condi-

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tion of the sciences, but even the rabble withoutdoors may, judge from the noise and clamour,which they hear, that all goes not well within.There is nothing which is not the subject of de-bate, and in which men of learning are not ofcontrary opinions. The most trivial questionescapes not our controversy, and in the mostmomentous we are not able to give any cer-tain decision. Disputes are multiplied, as if ev-ery thing was uncertain; and these disputes aremanaged with the greatest warmth, as if everything was certain. Amidst all this bustle it is notreason, which carries the prize, but eloquence;and no man needs ever despair of gaining pros-elytes to the most extravagant hypothesis, whohas art enough to represent it in any favourablecolours. The victory is not gained by the men atarms, who manage the pike and the sword; butby the trumpeters, drummers, and musicians

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of the army.

From hence in my opinion arises that com-mon prejudice against metaphysical reason-ings of all kinds, even amongst those, who pro-fess themselves scholars, and have a just valuefor every other part of literature. By metaphys-ical reasonings, they do not understand thoseon any particular branch of science, but ev-ery kind of argument, which is any way ab-struse, and requires some attention to be com-prehended. We have so often lost our labour insuch researches, that we commonly reject themwithout hesitation, and resolve, if we must forever be a prey to errors and delusions, that theyshall at least be natural and entertaining. Andindeed nothing but the most determined scep-ticism, along with a great degree of indolence,can justify this aversion to metaphysics. For if

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truth be at all within the reach of human ca-pacity, it is certain it must lie very deep and ab-struse: and to hope we shall arrive at it withoutpains, while the greatest geniuses have failedwith the utmost pains, must certainly be es-teemed sufficiently vain and presumptuous. Ipretend to no such advantage in the philoso-phy I am going to unfold, and would esteem ita strong presumption against it, were it so veryeasy and obvious.

It is evident, that all the sciences have a rela-tion, greater or less, to human nature: and thathowever wide any of them may seem to runfrom it, they still return back by one passage oranother. Even. Mathematics, Natural Philoso-phy, and Natural Religion, are in some measuredependent on the science of man; since the lieunder the cognizance of men, and are judged

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of by their powers and faculties. It is impos-sible to tell what changes and improvementswe might make in these sciences were we thor-oughly acquainted with the extent and force ofhuman understanding, and could explain thenature of the ideas we employ, and of the op-erations we perform in our reasonings. Andthese improvements are the more to be hopedfor in natural religion, as it is not content withinstructing us in the nature of superior powers,but carries its views farther, to their dispositiontowards us, and our duties towards them; andconsequently we ourselves are not only the be-ings, that reason, but also one of the objects,concerning which we reason.

If therefore the sciences of Mathematics, Nat-ural Philosophy, and Natural Religion, havesuch a dependence on the knowledge of man,

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what may be expected in the other sciences,whose connexion with human nature is moreclose and intimate? The sole end of logic isto explain the principles and operations of ourreasoning faculty, and the nature of our ideas:morals and criticism regard our tastes and sen-timents: and politics consider men as unitedin society, and dependent on each other. Inthese four sciences of Logic, Morals, Criticism,and Politics, is comprehended almost every-thing, which it can any way import us to be ac-quainted with, or which can tend either to theimprovement or ornament of the human mind.

Here then is the only expedient, from whichwe can hope for success in our philosophi-cal researches, to leave the tedious lingeringmethod, which we have hitherto followed, andinstead of taking now and then a castle or vil-

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lage on the frontier, to march up directly to thecapital or center of these sciences, to humannature itself; which being once masters of, wemay every where else hope for an easy victory.From this station we may extend our conquestsover all those sciences, which more intimatelyconcern human life, and may afterwards pro-ceed at leisure to discover more fully those,which are the objects of pore curiosity. Thereis no question of importance, whose decision isnot comprised in the science of man; and thereis none, which can be decided with any cer-tainty, before we become acquainted with thatscience. In pretending, therefore, to explain theprinciples of human nature, we in effect pro-pose a compleat system of the sciences, builton a foundation almost entirely new, and theonly one upon which they can stand with anysecurity.

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And as the science of man is the-only solidfoundation for the other sciences, so the onlysolid foundation we can give to this scienceitself must be laid on experience and obser-vation. It is no astonishing reflection to con-sider, that the application of experimental phi-losophy to moral subjects should come afterthat to natural at the distance of above a wholecentury; since we find in fact, that there wasabout the same interval betwixt the origins ofthese sciences; and that reckoning from Thalesto Socrates, the space of time is nearly equalto that betwixt, my Lord Bacon and some latephilosophers (Mr. Locke, my Lord Shaftesbury,Dr. Mandeville, Mr. Hutchinson, Dr. Butler,etc.) in England, who have begun to put thescience of man on a new footing, and have en-gaged the attention, and excited the curiosityof the public. So true it is, that however other

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nations may rival us in poetry, and excel us insome other agreeable arts, the improvements inreason and philosophy can only be owing to aland of toleration and of liberty.

Nor ought we to think, that this latter im-provement in the science of man will do lesshonour to our native country than the formerin natural philosophy, but ought rather to es-teem it a greater glory, upon account of thegreater importance of that science, as well asthe necessity it lay under of such a reformation.For to me it seems evident, that the essence ofthe mind being equally unknown to us withthat of external bodies, it must be equally im-possible to form any notion of its powers andqualities otherwise than from careful and ex-act experiments, and the observation of thoseparticular effects, which result from its differ-

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ent circumstances and situations. And thoughwe must endeavour to render all our principlesas universal as possible, by tracing up our ex-periments to the utmost, and explaining all ef-fects from the simplest and fewest causes, it isstill certain we cannot go beyond experience;and any hypothesis, that pretends to discoverthe ultimate original qualities of human nature,ought at first to be rejected as presumptuousand chimerical.

I do not think a philosopher, who would ap-ply himself so earnestly to the explaining theultimate principles of the soul, would showhimself a great master in that very science ofhuman nature, which he pretends to explain,or very knowing in what is naturally satisfac-tory to the mind of man. For nothing is morecertain, than that despair has almost the same

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effect upon us with enjoyment, and that we areno sooner acquainted with the impossibility ofsatisfying any desire, than the desire itself van-ishes. When we see, that we have arrived at theutmost extent of human reason, we sit downcontented, though we be perfectly satisfied inthe main of our ignorance, and perceive thatwe can give no reason for our most general andmost refined principles, beside our experienceof their reality; which is the reason of the merevulgar, and what it required no study at firstto have discovered for the most particular andmost extraordinary phaenomenon. And as thisimpossibility of making any farther progressis enough to satisfy the reader, so the writermay derive a more delicate satisfaction fromthe free confession of his ignorance, and fromhis prudence in avoiding that error, into whichso many have fallen, of imposing their conjec-

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tures and hypotheses on the world for the mostcertain principles. When this mutual content-ment and satisfaction can be obtained betwixtthe master and scholar, I know not what morewe can require of our philosophy.

But if this impossibility of explaining ulti-mate principles should be esteemed a defectin the science of man, I will venture to affirm,that it is a defect common to it with all the sci-ences, and all the arts, in which we can em-ploy ourselves, whether they be such as arecultivated in the schools of the philosophers,or practised in the shops of the meanest ar-tizans. None of them can go beyond experi-ence, or establish any principles which are notfounded on that authority. Moral philosophyhas, indeed, this peculiar disadvantage, whichis not found in natural, that in collecting its

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experiments, it cannot make them purposely,with premeditation, and after such a manneras to satisfy itself concerning every particu-lar difficulty which may be. When I am at aloss to know the effects of one body upon an-other in any situation, I need only put them inthat situation, and observe what results fromit. But should I endeavour to clear up after thesame manner any doubt in moral philosophy,by placing myself in the same case with thatwhich I consider, it is evident this reflection andpremeditation would so disturb the operationof my natural principles, as must render it im-possible to form any just conclusion from thephenomenon. We must therefore glean up ourexperiments in this science from a cautious ob-servation of human life, and take them as theyappear in the common course of the world, bymen’s behaviour in company, in affairs, and

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INTRODUCTION

in their pleasures. Where experiments of thiskind are judiciously collected and compared,we may hope to establish on them a sciencewhich will not be inferior in certainty, and willbe much superior in utility to any other of hu-man comprehension.

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BOOK I

OF THE UNDERSTANDING

PART I

OF IDEAS, THEIR ORIGIN, COMPOSITION,CONNEXION, ABSTRACTION, ETC.

SECTION I. OF THE ORIGIN OF OUR IDEAS

All the perceptions of the human mind re-solve themselves into two distinct kinds, whichI shall call impressions and ideas. The differencebetwixt these consists in the degrees of forceand liveliness, with which they strike upon themind, and make their way into our thoughtor consciousness. Those perceptions, whichenter with most force and violence, we mayname impressions: and under this name I com-prehend all our sensations, passions and emo-tions, as they make their first appearance in

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the soul. By ideas I mean the faint images ofthese in thinking and reasoning; such as, forinstance, are all the perceptions excited by thepresent discourse, excepting only those whicharise from the sight and touch, and exceptingthe immediate pleasure or uneasiness it mayoccasion. I believe it will not be very necessaryto employ many words in explaining this dis-tinction. Every one of himself will readily per-ceive the difference betwixt feeling and think-ing. The common degrees of these are easilydistinguished; though it is not impossible butin particular instances they may very nearlyapproach to each other. Thus in sleep, in afever, in madness, or in any very violent emo-tions of soul, our ideas may approach to ourimpressions, As on the other hand it sometimeshappens, that our impressions are so faint andlow, that we cannot distinguish them from our

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ideas. But notwithstanding this near resem-blance in a few instances, they are in general sovery different, that no-one can make a scrupleto rank them under distinct heads, and assignto each a peculiar name to mark the difference.1

There is another division of our perceptions,which it will be convenient to observe, andwhich extends itself both to our impressions

1I here make use of these terms, impression andidea, in a sense different from what is usual, and I hopethis liberty will be allowed me. Perhaps I rather restorethe word, idea, to its original sense, from which Mr Lockehad perverted it, in making it stand for all our percep-tions. By the terms of impression I would not be under-stood to express the manner, in which our lively percep-tions are produced in the soul, but merely the percep-tions themselves; for which there is no particular nameeither in the English or any other language, that I knowof.

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and ideas. This division is into simple and com-plex. Simple perceptions or impressions andideas are such as admit of no distinction norseparation. The complex are the contrary tothese, and may be distinguished into parts.Though a particular colour, taste, and smell,are qualities all united together in this apple,it is easy to perceive they are not the same, butare at least distinguishable from each other.

Having by these divisions given an orderand arrangement to our objects, we may nowapply ourselves to consider with the more ac-curacy their qualities and relations. The firstcircumstance, that strikes my eye, is the greatresemblance betwixt our impressions and ideasin every other particular, except their degreeof force and vivacity. The one seem to be ina manner the reflexion of the other; so that all

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the perceptions of the mind are double, andappear both as impressions and ideas. WhenI shut my eyes and think of my chamber, theideas I form are exact representations of the im-pressions I felt; nor is there any circumstance ofthe one, which is not to be found in the other.In running over my other perceptions, I findstill the same resemblance and representation.Ideas and impressions appear always to corre-spond to each other. This circumstance seemsto me remarkable, and engages my attentionfor a moment.

Upon a more accurate survey I find I havebeen carried away too far by the first appear-ance, and that I must make use of the distinc-tion of perceptions into simple and complex,to limit this general decision, that all our ideasand impressions are resembling. I observe,

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that many of our complex ideas never had im-pressions, that corresponded to them, and thatmany of our complex impressions never are ex-actly copied in ideas. I can imagine to my-self such a city as the New Jerusalem, whosepavement is gold and walls are rubies, thoughI never saw any such. I have seen Paris; butshall I affirm I can form such an idea of thatcity, as will perfectly represent all its streets andhouses in their real and just proportions?

I perceive, therefore, that though there is ingeneral a great, resemblance betwixt our com-plex impressions and ideas, yet the rule is notuniversally true, that they are exact copies ofeach other. We may next consider how the casestands with our simple, perceptions. After themost accurate examination, of which I am ca-pable, I venture to affirm, that the rule here

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holds without any exception, and that everysimple idea has a simple impression, which re-sembles it, and every simple impression a cor-respondent idea. That idea of red, which weform in the dark, and that impression whichstrikes our eyes in sun-shine, differ only in de-gree, not in nature. That the case is the samewith all our simple impressions and ideas, it isimpossible to prove by a particular enumera-tion of them. Every one may satisfy himselfin this point by running over as many as hepleases. But if any one should deny this uni-versal resemblance, I know no way of convinc-ing him, but by desiring him to shew a simpleimpression, that has not a correspondent idea,or a simple idea, that has not a correspondentimpression. If he does not answer this chal-lenge, as it is certain he cannot, we may fromhis silence and our own observation establish

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our conclusion.

Thus we find, that all simple ideas and im-pressions resemble each other; and as the com-plex are formed from them, we may affirm ingeneral, that these two species of perceptionare exactly correspondent. Having discoveredthis relation, which requires no farther exami-nation, I am curious to find some other of theirqualities. Let us consider how they stand withregard to their existence, and which of the im-pressions and ideas are causes, and which ef-fects.

The full examination of this question is thesubject of the present treatise; and therefore weshall here content ourselves with establishingone general proposition, that all our simple ideasin their first appearance are derived from simpleimpressions, which are correspondent to them, and

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which they accurately represent.

In seeking for phenomena to prove thisproposition, I find only those of two kinds; butin each kind the phenomena are obvious, nu-merous, and conclusive. I first make myselfcertain, by a new, review, of what I have al-ready asserted, that every simple impression isattended with a correspondent idea, and everysimple idea with a correspondent impression.From this constant conjunction of resemblingperceptions I immediately conclude, that thereis a great connexion betwixt our correspondentimpressions and ideas, and that the existence ofthe one has a considerable influence upon thatof the other. Such a constant conjunction, insuch an infinite number of instances, can neverarise from chance; but clearly proves a depen-dence of the impressions on the ideas, or of the

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ideas on the impressions. That I may know onwhich side this dependence lies, I consider theorder of their first appearance; and find by con-stant experience, that the simple impressionsalways take the precedence of their correspon-dent ideas, but never appear in the contraryorder. To give a child an idea of scarlet or or-ange, of sweet or bitter, I present the objects,or in other words, convey to him these impres-sions; but proceed not so absurdly, as to en-deavour to produce the impressions by excit-ing the ideas. Our ideas upon their appearanceproduce not their correspondent impressions,nor do we perceive any colour, or feel any sen-sation merely upon thinking of them. On theother hand we find, that any impression eitherof the mind or body is constantly followed byan idea, which resembles it, and is only differ-ent in the degrees of force and liveliness, The

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constant conjunction of our resembling percep-tions, is a convincing proof, that the one arethe causes of the other; and this priority of theimpressions is an equal proof, that our impres-sions are the causes of our ideas, not our ideasof our impressions.

To confirm this I consider Another plainand convincing phaenomenon; which is, that,where-ever by any accident the faculties, whichgive rise to any impressions, are obstructed intheir operations, as when one is born blind ordeaf; not only the impressions are lost, but alsotheir correspondent ideas; so that there neverappear in the mind the least traces of either ofthem. Nor is this only true, where the organs ofsensation are entirely destroyed, but likewisewhere they have never been put in action toproduce a particular impression. We cannot

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form to ourselves a just idea of the taste of apine apple, without having actually tasted it.

There is however one contradictoryphaenomenon, which may prove, that it isnot absolutely impossible for ideas to go beforetheir correspondent impressions. I believe itwill readily be allowed that the several distinctideas of colours, which enter by the eyes, orthose of sounds, which are conveyed by thehearing, are really different from each other,though at the same time resembling. Nowif this be true of different colours, it mustbe no less so of the different shades of thesame colour, that each of them produces adistinct idea, independent of the rest. For ifthis should be denied, it is possible, by thecontinual gradation of shades, to run a colourinsensibly into what is most remote from it;

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and if you will not allow any of the meansto be different, you cannot without absurditydeny the extremes to be the same. Supposetherefore a person to have enjoyed his sightfor thirty years, and to have become perfectlywell acquainted with colours of all kinds,excepting one particular shade of blue, forinstance, which it never has been his fortune tomeet with. Let all the different shades of thatcolour, except that single one, be placed beforehim, descending gradually from the deepest tothe lightest; it is plain, that he will perceive ablank, where that shade is wanting, said willbe sensible, that there is a greater distance inthat place betwixt the contiguous colours, thanin any other. Now I ask, whether it is possiblefor him, from his own imagination, to supplythis deficiency, and raise up to himself theidea of that particular shade, though it had

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never been conveyed to him by his senses? Ibelieve there are few but will be of opinionthat he can; and this may serve as a proof, thatthe simple ideas are not always derived fromthe correspondent impressions; though theinstance is so particular and singular, that it isscarce worth our observing, and does not meritthat for it alone we should alter our generalmaxim.

But besides this exception, it may not beamiss to remark on this head, that the principleof the priority of impressions to ideas must beunderstood with another limitation, viz., thatas our ideas are images of our impressions, sowe can form secondary ideas, which are im-ages of the primary; as appears from this veryreasoning concerning them. This is not, prop-erly speaking, an exception to the rule so much

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as an explanation of it. Ideas produce the im-ages of themselves in new ideas; but as the firstideas are supposed to be derived from impres-sions, it still remains true, that all our simpleideas proceed either mediately or immediately,from their correspondent impressions.

This then is the first principle I establish inthe science of human nature; nor ought we todespise it because of the simplicity of its ap-pearance. For it is remarkable, that the presentquestion concerning the precedency of our im-pressions or ideas, is the same with what hasmade so much noise in other terms, when ithas been disputed whether there be any innateideas, or whether all ideas be derived from sen-sation and reflexion. We may observe, thatin order to prove the ideas of extension andcolour not to be innate, philosophers do noth-

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ing but shew that they are conveyed by oursenses. To prove the ideas of passion and desirenot to be innate, they observe that we have apreceding experience of these emotions in our-selves. Now if we carefully examine these ar-guments, we shall find that they prove noth-ing but that ideas are preceded by other morelively perceptions, from which the are derived,and which they represent. I hope this clearstating of the question will remove all disputesconcerning it, and win render this principle ofmore use in our reasonings, than it seems hith-erto to have been.

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SECTION II. DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT

Since it appears, that our simple impres-sions are prior to their correspondent ideas,and that the exceptions are very rare, methodseems to require we should examine our im-pressions, before we consider our ideas. Im-pressions way be divided into two kinds, thoseOf sensation and those of reflexion. The first kindarises in the soul originally, from unknowncauses. The second is derived in a great mea-sure from our ideas, and that in the follow-ing order. An impression first strikes upon thesenses, and makes us perceive heat or cold,thirst or hunger, pleasure or pain of some kindor other. Of this impression there is a copytaken by the mind, which remains after the im-pression ceases; and this we call an idea. Thisidea of pleasure or pain, when it returns upon

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the soul, produces the new impressions of de-sire and aversion, hope and fear, which mayproperly be called impressions of reflexion, be-cause derived from it. These again are copiedby the memory and imagination, and becomeideas; which perhaps in their turn give riseto other impressions and ideas. So that theimpressions of reflexion are only antecedentto their correspondent ideas; but posterior tothose of sensation, and derived from them. Theexamination of our sensations belongs more toanatomists and natural philosophers than tomoral; and therefore shall not at present beentered upon. And as the impressions of re-flexion, viz. passions, desires, and emotions,which principally deserve our attention, arisemostly from ideas, it will be necessary to re-verse that method, which at first sight seemsmost natural; and in order to explain the nature

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and principles of the human mind, give a par-ticular account of ideas, before we proceed toimpressions. For this reason I have here chosento begin with ideas.

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SECTION III. OF THE IDEAS OF THEMEMORY AND IMAGINATION

We find by experience, that when any im-pression has been present with the mind, itagain makes its appearance there as an idea;and this it may do after two different ways:either when in its new appearance it retains aconsiderable degree of its first vivacity, and issomewhat intermediate betwixt an impressionand an idea: or when it entirely loses that vi-vacity, and is a perfect idea. The faculty, bywhich we repeat our impressions in the firstmanner, is called the memory, and the other theimagination. It is evident at first sight, that theideas of the memory are much more lively andstrong than those of the imagination, and thatthe former faculty paints its objects in moredistinct colours, than any which are employed

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by the latter. When we remember any pastevent, the idea of it flows in upon the mind ina forcible manner; whereas in the imaginationthe perception is faint and languid, and can-not without difficulty be preserved by the mindsteddy and uniform for any considerable time.Here then is a sensible difference betwixt onespecies of ideas and another. But of this morefully hereafter.(Part II, Sect. 5.)

There is another difference betwixt these twokinds of ideas, which is no less evident, namelythat though neither the ideas, of the memorynor imagination, neither the lively nor faintideas can make their appearance in the mind,unless their correspondent impressions havegone before to prepare the way for them, yetthe imagination is not restrained to the sameorder and form with the original impressions;

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while the memory is in a manner tied down inthat respect, without any power of variation.

It is evident, that the memory preserves theoriginal form, in which its objects were pre-sented, and that where-ever we depart from itin recollecting any thing, it proceeds from somedefect or imperfection in that faculty. An his-torian may, perhaps, for the more convenientCarrying on of his narration, relate an event be-fore another, to which it was in fact posterior;but then he takes notice of this disorder, if hebe exact; and by that means replaces the idea inits due position. It is the same case in our recol-lection of those places and persons, with whichwe were formerly acquainted. The chief exer-cise of the memory is not to preserve the sim-ple ideas, but their order and position. In short,this principle is supported by such a number

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of common and vulgar phaenomena, that wemay spare ourselves the trouble of insisting onit any farther.

The same evidence follows us in our sec-ond principle, of the liberty of the imaginationto transpose and change its ideas. The fables wemeet with in poems and romances put this en-tirely out of the question. Nature there is to-tally confounded, and nothing mentioned butwinged horses, fiery dragons, and monstrousgiants. Nor will this liberty of the fancy ap-pear strange, when we consider, that all ourideas are copyed from our impressions, andthat there are not any two impressions whichare perfectly inseparable. Not to mention, thatthis is an evident consequence of the divisionof ideas into simple and complex. Where-everthe imagination perceives a difference among

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ideas, it can easily produce a separation.

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SECTION IV. OF THE CONNEXION ORASSOCIATION OF IDEAS

As all simple ideas may be separated by theimagination, and may be united again in whatform it pleases, nothing would be more unac-countable than the operations of that faculty,were it not guided by some universal princi-ples, which render it, in some measure, uni-form with itself in all times and places. Wereideas entirely loose and unconnected, chancealone would join them; and it is impossiblethe same simple ideas should fall regularly intocomplex ones (as they Commonly do) withoutsome bond of union among them, some asso-ciating quality, by which one idea naturally in-troduces another. This uniting principle amongideas is not to be considered as an insepara-ble connexion; for that has been already ex-

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cluded from the imagination: Nor yet are weto conclude, that without it the mind cannotjoin two ideas; for nothing is more free thanthat faculty: but we are only to regard it as agentle force, which commonly prevails, and isthe cause why, among other things, languagesso nearly correspond to each other; nature ina manner pointing out to every one those sim-ple ideas, which are most proper to be unitedin a complex one. The qualities, from whichthis association arises, and by which the mindis after this manner conveyed from one idea toanother, are three, viz. resemblance, contiguity intime or place, and cause and effect.

I believe it will not be very necessary toprove, that these qualities produce an associ-ation among ideas, and upon the appearanceof one idea naturally introduce another. It is

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plain, that in the course of our thinking, and inthe constant revolution of our ideas, our imag-ination runs easily from one idea to any otherthat resembles it, and that this quality alone isto the fancy a sufficient bond and association. Itis likewise evident that as the senses, in chang-ing their objects, are necessitated to changethem regularly, and take them as they lie con-tiguous to each other, the imagination must bylong custom acquire the same method of think-ing, and run along the parts of space and timein conceiving its objects. As to the connexion,that is made by the relation of cause and ef-fect, we shall have occasion afterwards to ex-amine it to the bottom, and therefore shall notat present insist upon it. It is sufficient to ob-serve, that there is no relation, which producesa stronger connexion in the fancy, and makesone idea more readily recall another, than the

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relation of cause and effect betwixt their ob-jects.

That we may understand the full extent ofthese relations, we must consider, that two ob-jects are connected together in the imagination,not only when the one is immediately resem-bling, contiguous to, or the cause of the other,but also when there is interposed betwixt thema third object, which bears to both of them anyof these relations. This may be carried on to agreat length; though at the same time we mayobserve, that each remove considerably weak-ens the relation. Cousins in the fourth degreeare connected by causation, if I may be allowedto use that term; but not so closely as brothers,much less as child and parent. In general wemay observe, that all the relations of blood de-pend upon cause and effect, and are esteemed

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near or remote, according to the number of con-necting causes interposed betwixt the persons.

Of the three relations above-mentioned thisof causation is the most extensive. Two objectsmay be considered as placed in this relation, aswell when one is the cause of any of the actionsor motions of the other, as when the former isthe cause of the existence of the latter. For asthat action or motion is nothing but the objectitself, considered in a certain light, and as theobject continues the same in all its different sit-uations, it is easy to imagine how such an influ-ence of objects upon one another may connectthem in the imagination.

We may carry this farther, and remark, notonly that two objects are connected by the re-lation of cause and effect, when the one pro-duces a motion or any action in the other, but

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also when it has a power of producing it. Andthis we may observe to be the source of all therelation, of interest and duty, by which men in-fluence each other in society, and are placed inthe ties of government and subordination. Amaster is such-a-one as by his situation, aris-ing either from force or agreement, has a powerof directing in certain particulars the actions ofanother, whom we call servant. A judge is one,who in all disputed cases can fix by his opinionthe possession or property of any thing betwixtany members of the society. When a person ispossessed of any power, there is no more re-quired to convert it into action, but the exertionof the will; and that in every case is consideredas possible, and in many as probable; especiallyin the case of authority, where the obedience ofthe subject is a pleasure and advantage to thesuperior.

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These are therefore the principles of union orcohesion among our simple ideas, and in theimagination supply the place of that insepara-ble connexion, by which they are united in ourmemory. Here is a kind of attraction, whichin the mental world will be found to have asextraordinary effects as in the natural, and toshew itself in as many and as various forms. Itseffects are every where conspicuous; but as toits causes, they are mostly unknown, and mustbe resolved into original qualities of human na-ture, which I pretend not to explain. Nothingis more requisite for a true philosopher, thanto restrain the intemperate desire of searchinginto causes, and having established any doc-trine upon a sufficient number of experiments,rest contented with that, when he sees a fartherexamination would lead him into obscure anduncertain speculations. In that case his enquiry

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would be much better employed in examiningthe effects than the causes of his principle.

Amongst the effects of this union or asso-ciation of ideas, there are none more remark-able, than those complex ideas, which are thecommon subjects of our thoughts and reason-ing, and generally arise from some principle ofunion among our simple ideas. These complexideas may be divided into Relations, Modes,and Substances. We shall briefly examine eachof these in order, and shall subjoin some con-siderations concerning our general and partic-ular ideas, before we leave the present subject,which may be considered as the elements ofthis philosophy.

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SECTION V. OF RELATIONS

The word relation is commonly used in twosenses considerably different from each other.Either for that quality, by which two ideas areconnected together in the imagination, and theone naturally introduces the other, after themanner above-explained: or for that particu-lar circumstance, in which, even upon the ar-bitrary union of two ideas in the fancy, we maythink proper to compare them. In common lan-guage the former is always the sense, in whichwe use the word, relation; and it is only in phi-losophy, that we extend it to mean any partic-ular subject of comparison, without a connect-ing principle. Thus distance will be allowed byphilosophers to be a true relation, because weacquire an idea of it by the comparing of ob-jects: But in a common way we say, tht nothing

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can be more distant than such or such things fromeach other, nothing can have less relation: as if dis-tance and relation were incompatible.

It may perhaps be esteemed an endless taskto enumerate all those qualities, which makeobjects admit of comparison, and by which theideas of philosophical relation are produced.But if we diligently consider them, we shallfind that without difficulty they may be com-prised under seven general heads, which maybe considered as the sources of all philosophi-cal relation.

(1) The first is resemblance: And this is a re-lation, without which no philosophical relationcan exist; since no objects will admit of com-parison, but what have some degree of resem-blance. But though resemblance be necessaryto all philosophical relation, it does not follow,

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that it always produces a connexion or associ-ation of ideas. When a quality becomes verygeneral, and is common to a great many indi-viduals, it leads not the mind directly to anyone of them; but by presenting at once too greata choice, does thereby prevent the imaginationfrom fixing on any single object.

(2) Identity may be esteemed a second speciesof relation. This relation I here consider as ap-plied in its strictest sense to constant and un-changeable objects; without examining the na-ture and foundation of personal identity, whichshall find its place afterwards. Of all relationsthe most universal is that of identity, beingcommon to every being whose existence hasany duration.

(3) After identity the most universal andcomprehensive relations are those of space and

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time, which are the sources of an infinite num-ber of comparisons, such as distant, contigu-ous, above, below, before, after, etc.

(4) All those objects, which admit of quantity,or number, may be compared in that particular;which is another very fertile source of relation.

(5) When any two objects possess the samequality in common, the degrees, in which theypossess it, form a fifth species of relation. Thusof two objects, which are both heavy, the onemay be either of greater, or less weight than theother. Two colours, that are of the same kind,may yet be of different shades, and in that re-spect admit of comparison.

(6) The relation of contrariety may at firstsight be regarded as an exception to the rule,that no relation of any kind can subsist withoutsome degree of resemblance. But let us consider,

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that no two ideas are in themselves contrary,except those of existence and non-existence,which are plainly resembling, as implying bothof them an idea of the object; though the latterexcludes the object from all times and places, inwhich it is supposed not to exist.

(7) All other objects, such as fire and water,heat and cold, are only found to be contraryfrom experience, and from the contrariety oftheir causes or effects; which relation of causeand effect is a seventh philosophical relation, aswell as a natural one. The resemblance impliedin this relation, shall be explained afterwards.

It might naturally be expected, that I shouldjoin difference to the other relations. But that Iconsider rather as a negation of relation, thanas anything real or positive. Difference is oftwo kinds as opposed either to identity or re-

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semblance. The first is called a difference ofnumber; the other of kind.

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SECTION VI. OF MODES AND SUBSTANCES

I would fain ask those philosophers, whofound so much of their reasonings on the dis-tinction of substance and accident, and imag-ine we have clear ideas of each, whether theidea of substance be derived from the impres-sions of sensation or of reflection? If it be con-veyed to us by our senses, I ask, which of them;and after what manner? If it be perceived bythe eyes, it must be a colour; if by the ears, asound; if by the palate, a taste; and so of theother senses. But I believe none will assert,that substance is either a colour, or sound, ora taste. The idea, of substance must thereforebe derived from an impression of reflection, ifit really exist. But the impressions of reflectionresolve themselves into our passions and emo-tions: none of which can possibly represent a

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substance. We have therefore no idea of sub-stance, distinct from that of a collection of par-ticular qualities, nor have we any other mean-ing when we either talk or reason concerningit.

The idea of a substance as well as that ofa mode, is nothing but a collection of Sim-ple ideas, that are united by the imagination,and have a particular name assigned them, bywhich we are able to recall, either to ourselvesor others, that collection. But the differencebetwixt these ideas consists in this, that theparticular qualities, which form a substance,are commonly referred to an unknown some-thing, in which they are supposed to inhere;or granting this fiction should not take place,are at least supposed to be closely and insep-arably connected by the relations of contiguity

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and causation. The effect of this is, that what-ever new simple quality we discover to havethe same connexion with the rest, we immedi-ately comprehend it among them, even thoughit did not enter into the first conception of thesubstance. Thus our idea of gold may at first bea yellow colour, weight, malleableness, fusibil-ity; but upon the discovery of its dissolubilityin aqua regia, we join that to the other quali-ties, and suppose it to belong to the substanceas much as if its idea had from the beginningmade a part of the compound one. The princi-pal of union being regarded as the chief part ofthe complex idea, gives entrance to whateverquality afterwards occurs, and is equally com-prehended by it, as are the others, which firstpresented themselves.

That this cannot take place in modes, is evi-

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dent from considering their mature. The sim-ple ideas of which modes are formed, eitherrepresent qualities, which are not united bycontiguity and causation, but are dispersed indifferent subjects; or if they be all united to-gether, the uniting principle is not regarded asthe foundation of the complex idea. The ideaof a dance is an instance of the first kind ofmodes; that of beauty of the second. The rea-son is obvious, why such complex ideas can-not receive any new idea, without changing thename, which distinguishes the mode.

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SECTION VII. OF ABSTRACT IDEAS

A very material question has been startedconcerning abstract or general ideas, whether theybe general or particular in the mind’s conception ofthem. A great philosopher (Dr. Berkeley.) hasdisputed the received opinion in this particu-lar, and has asserted, that all general ideas arenothing but particular ones, annexed to a cer-tain term, which gives them a more extensivesignification, and makes them recall upon oc-casion other individuals, which are similar tothem. As I look upon this to be one of the great-est and most valuable discoveries that has beenmade of late years in the republic of letters, Ishall here endeavour to confirm it by some ar-guments, which I hope will put it beyond alldoubt and controversy.

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It is evident, that in forming most of our gen-eral ideas, if not all of them, we abstract fromevery particular degree of quantity and quality,and that an object ceases not to be of any par-ticular species on account of every small alter-ation in its extension, duration and other prop-erties. It may therefore be thought, that hereis a plain dilemma, that decides concerning thenature of those abstract ideas, which have af-forded so much speculation to philosophers.The abstract idea of a man represents men ofall sizes and all qualities; which it is concludedit cannot do, but either by representing at onceall possible sizes and all possible qualities, orby, representing no particular one at all. Nowit having been esteemed absurd to defend theformer proposition, as implying an infinite ca-pacity in the mind, it has been commonly in-ferred in favour of the latter: and our abstract

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ideas have been supposed to represent no par-ticular degree either of quantity or quality. Butthat this inference is erroneous, I shall endeav-our to make appear, first, by proving, that itis utterly impossible to conceive any quantityor quality, without forming a precise notionof its degrees: And secondly by showing, thatthough the capacity of the mind be not infinite,yet we can at once form a notion of all possibledegrees of quantity and quality, in such a man-ner at least, as, however imperfect, may serveall the purposes of reflection and conversation.

To begin with the first proposition, that themind cannot form any notion of quantity or qual-ity without forming a precise notion of degrees ofeach; we may prove this by the three follow-ing arguments. First, We have observed, thatwhatever objects are different are distinguish-

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able, and that whatever objects are distinguish-able are separable by the thought and imagina-tion. And we may here add, that these propo-sitions are equally true in the inverse, and thatwhatever objects are separable are also distin-guishable, and that whatever objects are distin-guishable, are also different. For how is it pos-sible we can separate what is not distinguish-able, or distinguish what is not different? In or-der therefore to know, whether abstraction im-plies a separation, we need only consider it inthis view, and examine, whether all the circum-stances, which we abstract from in our generalideas, be such as are distinguishable and dif-ferent from those, which we retain as essentialparts of them. But it is evident at first sight,that the precise length of a line is not differ-ent nor distinguishable from the line itself northe precise degree of any quality from the qual-

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ity. These ideas, therefore, admit no more ofseparation than they do of distinction and dif-ference. They are consequently conjoined witheach other in the conception; and the generalidea of a line, notwithstanding all our abstrac-tions and refinements, has in its appearance inthe mind a precise degree of quantity and qual-ity; however it may be made to represent oth-ers, which have different degrees of both.

Secondly, it is contest, that no object can ap-pear to the senses; or in other words, that noimpression can become present to the mind,without being determined in its degrees both ofquantity and quality. The confusion, in whichimpressions are sometimes involved, proceedsonly from their faintness and unsteadiness, notfrom any capacity in the mind to receive anyimpression, which in its real existence has no

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particular degree nor proportion. That is a con-tradiction in terms; and even implies the flat-test of all contradictions, viz. that it is possiblefor the same thing both to be and not to be.

Now since all ideas are derived from im-pressions, and are nothing but copies and rep-resentations of them, whatever is true of theone must be acknowledged concerning theother. Impressions and ideas differ only in theirstrength and vivacity. The foregoing conclu-sion is not founded on any particular degreeof vivacity. It cannot therefore be affected byany variation in that particular. An idea is aweaker impression; and as a strong impressionmust necessarily have a determinate quantityand quality, the case must be the same with itscopy or representative.

Thirdly, it is a principle generally received

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in philosophy that everything in nature is indi-vidual, and that it is utterly absurd to supposea triangle really existent, which has no preciseproportion of sides and angles. If this there-fore be absurd in fact and reality, it must alsobe absurd in idea; since nothing of which wecan form a clear and distinct idea is absurd andimpossible. But to form the idea of an object,and to form an idea simply, is the same thing;the reference of the idea to an object being anextraneous denomination, of which in itself itbears no mark or character. Now as it is impos-sible to form an idea of an object, that is poss-est of quantity and quality, and yet is possestof no precise degree of either; it follows thatthere is an equal impossibility of forming anidea, that is not limited and confined in boththese particulars. Abstract ideas are thereforein themselves individual, however they may

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become general in their representation. The im-age in the mind is only that of a particular ob-ject, though the application of it in our reason-ing be the same, as if it were universal.

This application of ideas beyond their na-ture proceeds from our collecting all their pos-sible degrees of quantity and quality in such animperfect manner as may serve the purposesof life, which is the second proposition I pro-posed to explain. When we have found a re-semblance2 among several objects, that often

2It is evident, that even different simple ideas mayhave a similarity or resemblance to each other; nor is itnecessary, that the point or circumstance of resemblanceshoud be distinct or separable from that in which theydiffer. Blue and green are different simple ideas, but aremore resembling than blue and scarlet; tho their perfectsimplicity excludes all possibility of separation or dis-tinction. It is the same case with particular sounds, and

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occur to us, we apply the same name to all ofthem, whatever differences we may observe inthe degrees of their quantity and quality, andwhatever other differences may appear amongthem. After we have acquired a custom of thiskind, the hearing of that name revives the ideaof one of these objects, and makes the imagina-tion conceive it with all its particular circum-

tastes and smells. These admit of infinite resemblancesupon the general appearance and comparison, withouthaving any common circumstance the same. And of thiswe may be certain, even from the very abstract termssimple idea. They comprehend all simple ideas underthem. These resemble each other in their simplicity.And yet from their very nature, which excludes all com-position, this circumstance, In which they resemble, Isnot distinguishable nor separable from the rest. It is thesame case with all the degrees In any quality. They areall resembling and yet the quality, In any individual, Isnot distinct from the degree.

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stances and proportions. But as the same wordis supposed to have been frequently appliedto other individuals, that are different in manyrespects from that idea, which is immediatelypresent to the mind; the word not being ableto revive the idea of all these individuals, butonly touches the soul, if I may be allowed so tospeak, and revives that custom, which we haveacquired by surveying them. They are not re-ally and in fact present to the mind, but onlyin power; nor do we draw them all out dis-tinctly in the imagination, but keep ourselvesin a readiness to survey any of them, as wemay be prompted by a present design or ne-cessity. The word raises up an individual idea,along with a certain custom; and that customproduces any other individual one, for whichwe may have occasion. But as the productionof all the ideas, to which the name may be ap-

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plied, is in most eases impossible, we abridgethat work by a more partial consideration, andfind but few inconveniences to arise in our rea-soning from that abridgment.

For this is one of the most extraordinary cir-cumstances in the present affair, that after themind has produced an individual idea, uponwhich we reason, the attendant custom, re-vived by the general or abstract term, read-ily suggests any other individual, if by chancewe form any reasoning, that agrees not withit. Thus should we mention the word trian-gle, and form the idea of a particular equilat-eral one to correspond to it, and should we af-terwards assert, that the three angles of a tri-angle are equal to each other, the other indi-viduals of a scalenum and isosceles, which weoverlooked at first, immediately crowd in upon

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us, and make us perceive the falshood of thisproposition, though it be true with relation tothat idea, which we had formed. If the mindsuggests not always these ideas upon occasion,it proceeds from some imperfection in its fac-ulties; and such a one as is often the source offalse reasoning and sophistry. But this is prin-cipally the case with those ideas which are ab-struse and compounded. On other occasionsthe custom is more entire, and it is seldom werun into such errors.

Nay so entire is the custom, that the verysame idea may be annext to several differentwords, and may be employed in different rea-sonings, without any danger of mistake. Thusthe idea of an equilateral triangle of an inchperpendicular may serve us in talking of a fig-ure, of a rectilinear figure, of a regular figure,

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of a triangle, and of an equilateral triangle. Allthese terms, therefore, are in this case attendedwith the same idea; but as they are wont tobe applied in a greater or lesser compass, theyexcite their particular habits, and thereby keepthe mind in a readiness to observe, that no con-clusion be formed contrary to any ideas, whichare usually comprized under them.

Before those habits have become entirelyperfect, perhaps the mind may not be contentwith forming the idea of only one individual,but may run over several, in order to makeitself comprehend its own meaning, and thecompass of that collection, which it intends toexpress by the general term. That we may fixthe meaning of the word, figure, we may re-volve in our mind the ideas of circles, squares,parallelograms, triangles of different sizes and

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proportions, and may not rest on one image oridea. However this may be, it is certain thatwe form the idea of individuals, whenever weuse any general term; that we seldom or nevercan exhaust these individuals; and that those,which remain, are only represented by meansof that habit, by which we recall them, when-ever any present occasion requires it. This thenis the nature of our abstract ideas and generalterms; and it is after this manner we account forthe foregoing paradox, that some ideas are partic-ular in their nature, but general in their representa-tion. A particular idea becomes general by be-ing annexed to a general term; that is, to a term,which from a customary conjunction has a rela-tion to many other particular ideas, and readilyrecalls them in the imagination.

The only difficulty, that can remain on this

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subject, must be with regard to that custom,which so readily recalls every particular idea,for which we may have occasion, and is ex-cited by any word or sound, to which we com-monly annex it. The most proper method, inmy opinion, of giving a satisfactory explicationof this act of the mind, is by producing otherinstances, which are analogous to it, and otherprinciples, which facilitate its operation. To ex-plain the ultimate causes of our mental actionsis impossible. It is sufficient, if we can give anysatisfactory account of them from experienceand analogy.

First then I observe, that when we mentionany great number, such as a thousand, themind has generally no adequate idea of it, butonly a power of producing such an idea, by itsadequate idea of the decimals, under which the

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number is comprehended. This imperfection,however, in our ideas, is never felt in our rea-sonings; which seems to be an instance parallelto the present one of universal ideas.

Secondly, we have several instances ofhabits, which may be revived by one singleword; as when a person, who has by roteany periods of a discourse, or any numberof verses, will be put in remembrance of thewhole, which he is at a loss to recollect, by thatsingle word or expression, with which they be-gin.

Thirdly, I believe every one, who examinesthe situation of his mind in reasoning will agreewith me, that we do not annex distinct andcompleat ideas to every term we make useof, and that in talking of government, church,negotiation, conquest, we seldom spread out

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in our minds all the simple ideas, of whichthese complex ones are composed. It is how-ever observable, that notwithstanding this im-perfection we may avoid talking nonsense onthese subjects, and may perceive any repug-nance among the ideas, as well as if we had afall comprehension of them. Thus if instead ofsaying, that in war the weaker have always re-course to negotiation, we should say, that theyhave always recourse to conquest, the custom,which we have acquired of attributing certainrelations to ideas, still follows the words, andmakes us immediately perceive the absurdityof that proposition; in the same manner as oneparticular idea may serve us in reasoning con-cerning other ideas, however different from itin several circumstances.

Fourthly, As the individuals are collected to-

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gether, said placed under a general term witha view to that resemblance, which they bear toeach other, this relation must facilitate their en-trance in the imagination, and make them besuggested more readily upon occasion. Andindeed if we consider the common progress ofthe thought, either in reflection or conversa-tion, we shall find great reason to be satisfyedin this particular. Nothing is more admirable,than the readiness, with which the imagina-tion suggests its ideas, and presents them atthe very instant, in which they become neces-sary or useful. The fancy runs from one endof the universe to the other in collecting thoseideas, which belong to any subject. One wouldthink the whole intellectual world of ideas wasat once subjected to our view, and that we didnothing but pick out such as were most properfor our purpose. There may not, however, be

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any present, beside those very ideas, that arethus collected by a kind of magical faculty inthe soul, which, though it be always most per-fect in the greatest geniuses, and is properlywhat we call a genius, is however inexplicableby the utmost efforts of human understanding.

Perhaps these four reflections may help to re-move an difficulties to the hypothesis I haveproposed concerning abstract ideas, so con-trary to that, which has hitherto prevailed inphilosophy, But, to tell the truth I place mychief confidence in what I have already provedconcerning the impossibility of general ideas,according to the common method of explain-ing them. We must certainly seek some newsystem on this head, and there plainly is nonebeside what I have proposed. If ideas be par-ticular in their nature, and at the same time fi-

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nite in their number, it is only by custom theycan become general in their representation, andcontain an infinite number of other ideas underthem.

Before I leave this subject I shall employ thesame principles to explain that distinction ofreason, which is so much talked of, and is solittle understood, in the schools. Of this kindis the distinction betwixt figure and the bodyfigured; motion and the body moved. The dif-ficulty of explaining this distinction arises fromthe principle above explained, that all ideas,which are different, are separable. For it fol-lows from thence, that if the figure be differentfrom the body, their ideas must be separable aswell as distinguishable: if they be not different,their ideas can neither be separable nor distin-guishable. What then is meant by a distinction

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of reason, since it implies neither a differencenor separation.

To remove this difficulty we must have re-course to the foregoing explication of abstractideas. It is certain that the mind would neverhave dreamed of distinguishing a figure fromthe body figured, as being in reality neitherdistinguishable, nor different, nor separable;did it not observe, that even in this simplic-ity there might be contained many different re-semblances and relations. Thus when a globeof white marble is presented, we receive onlythe impression of a white colour disposed ina certain form, nor are we able to separateand distinguish the colour from the form. Butobserving afterwards a globe of black marbleand a cube of white, and comparing them withour former object, we find two separate resem-

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blances, in what formerly seemed, and really is,perfectly inseparable. After a little more prac-tice of this kind, we begin to distinguish thefigure from the colour by a distinction of rea-son; that is, we consider the figure and colourtogether, since they are in effect the same andundistinguishable; but still view them in dif-ferent aspects, according to the resemblances,of which they are susceptible. When we wouldconsider only the figure of the globe of whitemarble, we form in reality an idea both of thefigure and colour, but tacitly carry our eye toits resemblance with the globe of black mar-ble: And in the same manner, when we wouldconsider its colour only, we turn our view toits resemblance with the cube of white mar-ble. By this means we accompany our ideaswith a kind of reflection, of which custom ren-ders us, in a great measure, insensible. A per-

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son, who desires us to consider the figure of aglobe of white marble without thinking on itscolour, desires an impossibility but his mean-ing is, that we should consider the figure andcolour together, but still keep in our eye the re-semblance to the globe of black marble, or thatto any other globe of whatever colour or sub-stance.

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PART II

OF THE IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME

SECTION I. OF THE INFINITE DIVISABILITYOF OUR IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME

Whatever has the air of a paradox, and iscontrary to the first and most unprejudiced no-tions of mankind, is often greedily embracedby philosophers, as shewing the superiority oftheir science, which coued discover opinions soremote from vulgar conception. On the otherhand, anything proposed to us, which causessurprize and admiration, gives such a satis-faction to the mind, that it indulges itself inthose agreeable emotions, and will never be

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persuaded that its pleasure is entirely with-out foundation. From these dispositions inphilosophers and their disciples arises that mu-tual complaisance betwixt them; while the for-mer furnish such plenty of strange and unac-countable opinions, and the latter so readilybelieve them. Of this mutual complaisance Icannot give a more evident instance than in thedoctrine of infinite divisibility, with the exami-nation of which I shall begin this subject of theideas of space and time.

It is universally allowed, that the capacityof the mind is limited, and can never attain afull and adequate conception of infinity: Andthough it were not allowed, it would be suf-ficiently evident from the plainest observationand experience. It is also obvious, that what-ever is capable of being divided in infinitum,

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must consist of an infinite number of parts, andthat it is impossible to set any bounds to thenumber of parts, without setting bounds at thesame time to the division. It requires scarceany, induction to conclude from hence, that theidea, which we form of any finite quality, is notinfinitely divisible, but that by proper distinc-tions and separations we may run up this ideato inferior ones, which will be perfectly simpleand indivisible. In rejecting the infinite capac-ity of the mind, we suppose it may arrive at anend in the division of its ideas; nor are thereany possible means of evading the evidence ofthis conclusion.

It is therefore certain, that the imaginationreaches a minimum, and may raise up to it-self an idea, of which it cannot conceive anysub-division, and which cannot be diminished

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without a total annihilation. When you tell meof the thousandth and ten thousandth part ofa grain of sand, I have a distinct idea of thesenumbers and of their different proportions; butthe images, which I form in my mind to repre-sent the things themselves, are nothing differ-ent from each other, nor inferior to that image,by which I represent the grain of sand itself,which is supposed so vastly to exceed them.What consists of parts is distinguishable intothem, and what is distinguishable is separa-ble. But whatever we may imagine of the thing,the idea of a grain of sand is not distinguish-able, nor separable into twenty, much less intoa thousand, ten thousand, or an infinite num-ber of different ideas.

It is the same case with the impressions ofthe senses as with the ideas of the imagination.

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Put a spot of ink upon paper, fix your eye uponthat spot, and retire to such a distance, that,at last you lose sight of it; it is plain, that themoment before it vanished the image or im-pression was perfectly indivisible. It is not forwant of rays of light striking on our eyes, thatthe minute parts of distant bodies convey notany sensible impression; but because they areremoved beyond that distance, at which theirimpressions were reduced to a minimum, andwere incapable of any farther diminution. Amicroscope or telescope, which renders themvisible, produces not any new rays of light, butonly spreads those, which always flowed fromthem; and by that means both gives parts toimpressions, which to the naked eye appearsimple and uncompounded, and advances toa minimum, what was formerly imperceptible.

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We may hence discover the error of the com-mon opinion, that the capacity of the mind islimited on both sides, and that it is impossi-ble for the imagination to form an adequateidea, of what goes beyond a certain degree ofminuteness as well as of greatness. Nothingcan be more minute, than some ideas, whichwe form in the fancy; and images, which ap-pear to the senses; since there are ideas and im-ages perfectly simple and indivisible. The onlydefect of our senses is, that they give us dis-proportioned images of things, and representas minute and uncompounded what is reallygreat and composed of a vast number of parts.This mistake we are not sensible of: but takingthe impressions of those minute objects, whichappear to the senses, to be equal or nearly equalto the objects, and finding by reason, that thereare other objects vastly more minute, we too

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hastily conclude, that these are inferior to anyidea of our imagination or impression of oursenses. This however is certain, that we canform ideas, which shall be no greater than thesmallest atom of the animal spirits of an insect athousand times less than a mite: And we oughtrather to conclude, that the difficulty lies in en-larging our conceptions so much as to form ajust notion of a mite, or even of an insect a thou-sand times less than a mite. For in order to forma just notion of these animals, we must have adistinct idea representing every part of them,which, according to the system of infinite divis-ibility, is utterly impossible, and, recording tothat of indivisible parts or atoms, is extremelydifficult, by reason of the vast number and mul-tiplicity of these parts.

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SECTION II. OF THE INFINITE DIVISIBILITYOF SPACE AND TIME

Wherever ideas are adequate representa-tions of objects, the relations, contradictionsand agreements of the ideas are all applicableto the objects; and this we may in general ob-serve to be the foundation of all human knowl-edge. But our ideas are adequate representa-tions of the most minute parts of extension; andthrough whatever divisions and subdivisionswe may suppose these parts to be arrived at,they can never become inferior to some ideas,which we form. The plain consequence is, thatwhatever appears impossible and contradic-tory upon the comparison of these ideas, mustbe really impossible and contradictory, withoutany farther excuse or evasion.

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Every thing capable of being infinitely di-vided contains an infinite number of parts; oth-erwise the division would be stopt short bythe indivisible parts, which we should immedi-ately arrive at. If therefore any finite extensionbe infinitely divisible, it can be no contradic-tion to suppose, that a finite extension containsan infinite number of parts: And vice versa,if it be a contradiction to suppose, that a fi-nite extension contains an infinite number ofparts, no finite extension can be infinitely divis-ible. But that this latter supposition is absurd,I easily convince myself by the considerationof my clear ideas. I first take the least idea Ican form of a part of extension, and being cer-tain that there is nothing more minute than thisidea, I conclude, that whatever I discover byits means must be a real quality of extension.I then repeat this idea once, twice, thrice, &c.,

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and find the compound idea of extension, aris-ing from its repetition, always to augment, andbecome double, triple, quadruple, &c., till atlast it swells up to a considerable bulk, greateror smaller, in proportion as I repeat more orless the same idea. When I stop in the addi-tion of parts, the idea of extension ceases toaugment; and were I to carry on the additionin infinitum, I clearly perceive, that the ideaof extension must also become infinite. Uponthe whole, I conclude, that the idea of all infi-nite number of parts is individually the sameidea with that of an infinite extension; that nofinite extension is capable of containing an infi-nite number of parts; and consequently that nofinite extension is infinitely divisible3

3It has been objected to me, that infinite divisibil-ity supposes only an infinite number of proportional not

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I may subjoin another argument proposedby a noted author (Mons. Malezieu), whichseems to me very strong and beautiful. It isevident, that existence in itself belongs only tounity, and is never applicable to number, buton account of the unites, of which the num-ber is composed. Twenty men may be said toexist; but it is only because one, two, three,four, &c. are existent, and if you deny the ex-istence of the latter, that of the former falls ofcourse. It is therefore utterly absurd to sup-pose any number to exist, and yet deny the ex-istence of unites; and as extension is always a

of aliquot parts, and that an infinite number of propor-tional parts does not form an infinite extension. But thisdistinction is entirely frivolous. Whether these parts becalled aliquot or proportional, they cannot be inferior tothose minute parts we conceive; and therefore cannotform a less extension by their conjunction.

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number, according to the common sentiment ofmetaphysicians, and never resolves itself intoany unite or indivisible quantity, it follows, thatextension can never at all exist. It is in vainto reply, that any determinate quantity of ex-tension is an unite; but such-a-one as admitsof an infinite number of fractions, and is inex-haustible in its sub-divisions. For by the samerule these twenty men may be considered asa unit. The whole globe of the earth, nay thewhole universe, may be considered as a unit.That term of unity is merely a fictitious de-nomination, which the mind may apply to anyquantity of objects it collects together; nor cansuch an unity any more exist alone than num-ber can, as being in reality a true number. Butthe unity, which can exist alone, and whose ex-istence is necessary to that of all number, is ofanother kind, and must be perfectly indivisible,

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and incapable of being resolved into any lesserunity.

All this reasoning takes place with regardto time; along with an additional argument,which it may be proper to take notice of. It is aproperty inseparable from time, and which in amanner constitutes its essence, that each of itsparts succeeds another, and that none of them,however contiguous, can ever be co-existent.For the same reason, that the year 1737 cannotconcur with the present year 1738 every mo-ment must be distinct from, and posterior orantecedent to another. It is certain then, thattime, as it exists, must be composed of indivis-ible moments. For if in time we could neverarrive at an end of division, and if each mo-ment, as it succeeds another, were not perfectlysingle and indivisible, there would be an infi-

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nite number of co-existent moments, or partsof time; which I believe will be allowed to bean arrant contradiction.

The infinite divisibility of space implies thatof time, as is evident from the nature of motion.If the latter, therefore, be impossible, the formermust be equally so.

I doubt not but, it will readily be allowedby the most obstinate defender of the doctrineof infinite divisibility, that these arguments aredifficulties, and that it is impossible to give anyanswer to them which will be perfectly clearand satisfactory. But here we may observe,that nothing can be more absurd, than this cus-tom of calling a difficulty what pretends tobe a demonstration, and endeavouring by thatmeans to elude its force and evidence. It isnot in demonstrations as in probabilities, that

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difficulties can take place, and one argumentcounter-ballance another, and diminish its au-thority. A demonstration, if just, admits of noopposite difficulty; and if not just, it is a meresophism, and consequently can never be a dif-ficulty. It is either irresistible, or has no man-ner of force. To talk therefore of objections andreplies, and ballancing of arguments in such aquestion as this, is to confess, either that humanreason is nothing but a play of words, or thatthe person himself, who talks so, has not a Ca-pacity equal to such subjects. Demonstrationsmay be difficult to be comprehended, becauseof abstractedness of the subject; but can neverhave such difficulties as will weaken their au-thority, when once they are comprehended.

It is true, mathematicians are wont to say,that there are here equally strong arguments on

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the other side of the question, and that the doc-trine of indivisible points is also liable to unan-swerable objections. Before I examine these ar-guments and objections in detail, I will heretake them in a body, and endeavour by a shortand decisive reason to prove at once, that it isutterly impossible they can have any just foun-dation.

It is an established maxim in metaphysics,That whatever the mind clearly conceives, in-cludes the idea of possible existence, or in otherwords, that nothing we imagine is absolutelyimpossible. We can form the idea of a goldenmountain, and from thence conclude that sucha mountain may actually exist. We can form noidea of a mountain without a valley, and there-fore regard it as impossible.

Now it is certain we have an idea of exten-

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sion; for otherwise why do we talk and reasonconcerning it? It is likewise certain that thisidea, as conceived by the imagination, thoughdivisible into parts or inferior ideas, is notinfinitely divisible, nor consists of an infinitenumber of parts: For that exceeds the compre-hension of our limited capacities. Here then isan idea of extension, which consists of partsor inferior ideas, that are perfectly, indivisi-ble: consequently this idea implies no contra-diction: consequently it is possible for exten-sion really to exist conformable to it: and con-sequently all the arguments employed againstthe possibility of mathematical points are merescholastick quibbles, and unworthy of our at-tention.

These consequences we may carry one stepfarther, and conclude that all the pretended

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demonstrations for the infinite divisibility ofextension are equally sophistical; since it is cer-tain these demonstrations cannot be just with-out proving the impossibility of mathematicalpoints; which it is an evident absurdity to pre-tend to.

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SECTION III. OF THE OTHER QUALITIES OFOUR IDEA OF SPACE AND TIME

No discovery coued have been made morehappily for deciding all controversies concern-ing ideas, than that abovementioned, that im-pressions always take the precedency of them,and that every idea, with which the imagina-tion is furnished, first makes its appearance ina correspondent impression. These latter per-ceptions are all so clear and evident, that theyadmit of no controversy; though many of ourideas are so obscure, that it is almost impossi-ble even for the mind, which forms them, totell exactly their nature and composition. Letus apply this principle, in order to discover far-ther the nature of our ideas of space and time.

Upon opening my eyes, and turning them tothe surrounding objects, I perceive many visi-

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ble bodies; and upon shutting them again, andconsidering the distance betwixt these bodies,I acquire the idea of extension. As every ideais derived from some impression, which is ex-actly similar to it, the impressions similar tothis idea of extension, must either be some sen-sations derived from the sight, or some internalimpressions arising from these sensations.

Our internal impressions are our passions,emotions, desires and aversions; none ofwhich, I believe, will ever be asserted to be themodel, from which the idea of space is derived.There remains therefore nothing but the senses,which can convey to us this original impres-sion. Now what impression do oar senses hereconvey to us? This is the principal question,and decides without appeal concerning the na-ture of the idea.

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The table before me is alone sufficient by itsview to give me the idea of extension. Thisidea, then, is borrowed from, and representssome impression, which this moment appearsto the senses. But my senses convey to me onlythe impressions of coloured points, disposed ina certain manner. If the eye is sensible of anything farther, I desire it may be pointed out tome. But if it be impossible to shew any thingfarther, we may conclude with certainty, thatthe idea of extension is nothing but a copy ofthese coloured points, and of the manner oftheir appearance.

Suppose that in the extended object, or com-position of coloured points, from which wefirst received the idea of extension, the pointswere of a purple colour; it follows, that in ev-ery repetition of that idea we would not only

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place the points in the same order with re-spect to each other, but also bestow on themthat precise colour, with which alone we are ac-quainted. But afterwards having experience ofthe other colours of violet, green, red, white,black, and of all the different compositions ofthese, and finding a resemblance in the disposi-tion of coloured points, of which they are com-posed, we omit the peculiarities of colour, as faras possible, and found an abstract idea merelyon that disposition of points, or manner of ap-pearance, in which they agree. Nay even whenthe resemblance is carryed beyond the objectsof one sense, and the impressions of touch arefound to be Similar to those of sight in the dis-position of their parts; this does not hinder theabstract idea from representing both, upon ac-count of their resemblance. All abstract ideasare really nothing but particular ones, consid-

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ered in a certain light; but being annexed togeneral terms, they are able to represent a vastvariety, and to comprehend objects, which, asthey are alike in some particulars, are in othersvastly wide of each other.

The idea of time, being derived from the suc-cession of our perceptions of every kind, ideasas well as impressions, and impressions of re-flection as well as of sensations will afford usan instance of an abstract idea, which compre-hends a still greater variety than that of space,and yet is represented in the fancy by some par-ticular individual idea of a determinate quan-tity and quality.

As it is from the disposition of visible andtangible objects we receive the idea of space, sofrom the succession of ideas and impressionswe form the idea of time, nor is it possible for

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time alone ever to make its appearance, or betaken notice of by the mind. A man in a soundsleep, or strongly occupyed with one thought,is insensible of time; and according as his per-ceptions succeed each other with greater orless rapidity, the same duration appears longeror shorter to his imagination. It has been re-marked by a great philosopher, that our per-ceptions have certain bounds in this particu-lar, which are fixed by the original nature andconstitution of the mind, and beyond whichno influence of external objects on the sensesis ever able to hasten or retard our thought. Ifyou wheel about a burning coal with rapidity,it will present to the senses an image of a cir-cle of fire; nor will there seem to be any in-terval of time betwixt its revolutions; meerlybecause it is impossible for our perceptions tosucceed each other with the same rapidity, that

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motion may be communicated to external ob-jects. Wherever we have no successive percep-tions, we have no notion of time, even thoughthere be a real succession in the objects. Fromthese phenomena, as well as from many others,we may conclude, that time cannot make its ap-pearance to the mind, either alone, or attendedwith a steady unchangeable object, but is al-ways discovered some perceivable succession ofchangeable objects.

To confirm this we may add the following ar-gument, which to me seems perfectly decisiveand convincing. It is evident, that time or du-ration consists of different parts: For otherwisewe coued not conceive a longer or shorter du-ration. It is also evident, that these parts are notco-existent: For that quality of the co-existenceof parts belongs to extension, and is what dis-

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tinguishes it from duration. Now as time iscomposed of parts, that are not coexistent: anunchangeable object, since it produces nonebut coexistent impressions, produces none thatcan give us the idea of time; and consequentlythat idea must be derived from a succession ofchangeable objects, and time in its first appear-ance can never be severed from such a succes-sion.

Having therefore found, that time in its firstappearance to the mind is always conjoinedwith a succession of changeable objects, andthat otherwise it can never fall under our no-tice, we must now examine whether it can beconceived without our conceiving any succes-sion of objects, and whether it can alone form adistinct idea in the imagination.

In order to know whether any objects, which

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are joined in impression, be inseparable in idea,we need only consider, if they be different fromeach other; in which case, it is plain they maybe conceived apart. Every thing, that is dif-ferent is distinguishable: and everything, thatis distinguishable, may be separated, accord-ing to the maxims above-explained. If on thecontrary they be not different, they are not dis-tinguishable: and if they be not distinguish-able, they cannot be separated. But this is pre-cisely the case with respect to time, comparedwith our successive perceptions. The idea oftime is not derived from a particular impres-sion mixed up with others, and plainly dis-tinguishable from them; but arises altogetherfrom the manner, in which impressions appearto the mind, without making one of the num-ber. Five notes played on a flute give us the im-pression and idea of time; though time be not

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a sixth impression, which presents itself to thehearing or any other of the senses. Nor is ita sixth impression, which the mind by reflec-tion finds in itself. These five sounds makingtheir appearance in this particular manner, ex-cite no emotion in the mind, nor produce anaffection of any kind, which being observedby it can give rise to a new idea. For that isnecessary to produce a new idea of reflection,nor can the mind, by revolving over a thou-sand times all its ideas of sensation, ever ex-tract from them any new original idea, unlessnature has so framed its faculties, that it feelssome new original impression arise from sucha contemplation. But here it only takes noticeof the manner, in which the different soundsmake their appearance; and that it may after-wards consider without considering these par-ticular sounds, but may conjoin it with any

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other objects. The ideas of some objects it cer-tainly must have, nor is it possible for it with-out these ideas ever to arrive at any conceptionof time; which since it, appears not as any pri-mary distinct impression, can plainly be noth-ing but different ideas, or impressions, or ob-jects disposed in a certain manner, that is, suc-ceeding each other.

I know there are some who pretend, that theidea of duration is applicable in a proper senseto objects, which are perfectly unchangeable;and this I take to be the common opinion ofphilosophers as well as of the vulgar. But tobe convinced of its falsehood we need but re-flect on the foregoing conclusion, that the ideaof duration is always derived from a successionof changeable objects, and can never be con-veyed to the mind by any thing stedfast and

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unchangeable. For it inevitably follows fromthence, that since the idea of duration cannot bederived from such an object, it can never-in anypropriety or exactness be applied to it, nor canany thing unchangeable be ever said to haveduration. Ideas always represent the Objects orimpressions, from which they are derived, andcan never without a fiction represent or be ap-plied to any other. By what fiction we applythe idea of time, even to what is unchangeable,and suppose, as is common, that duration is ameasure of rest as well as of motion, we shallconsider (Sect 5.) afterwards.

There is another very decisive argument,which establishes the present doctrine concern-ing our ideas of space and time, and is foundedonly on that simple principle, that our ideas ofthem are compounded of parts, which are in-

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divisible. This argument may be worth the ex-amining.

Every idea, that is distinguishable, beingalso separable, let us take one of those simpleindivisible ideas, of which the compound oneof extension is formed, and separating it fromall others, and considering it apart, let us forma judgment of its nature and qualities.

It is plain it is not the idea of extension. Forthe idea of extension consists of parts; and thisidea, according to t-he supposition, is perfectlysimple and indivisible. Is it therefore nothing?That is absolutely impossible. For as the com-pound idea of extension, which is real, is com-posed of such ideas; were these so many non-entities, there would be a real existence com-posed of non-entities; which is absurd. Heretherefore I must ask, What is our idea of a sim-

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ple and indivisible point? No wonder if myanswer appear somewhat new, since the ques-tion itself has scarce ever yet been thought of.We are wont to dispute concerning the natureof mathematical points, but seldom concerningthe nature of their ideas.

The idea of space is conveyed to the mindby two senses, the sight and touch; nor doesanything ever appear extended, that is not ei-ther visible or tangible. That compound im-pression, which represents extension, consistsof several lesser impressions, that are indivis-ible to the eye or feeling, and may be calledimpressions of atoms or corpuscles endowedwith colour and solidity. But this is not all. Itis not only requisite, that these atoms shouldbe coloured or tangible, in order to discoverthemselves to our senses; it is also necessary

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we should preserve the idea of their colour ortangibility in order to comprehend them by ourimagination. There is nothing but the idea oftheir colour or tangibility, which can renderthem conceivable by the mind. Upon the re-moval of the ideas of these sensible qualities,they are utterly annihilated to the thought orimagination.

Now such as the parts are, such is the whole.If a point be not considered as coloured or tan-gible, it can convey to us no idea; and conse-quently the idea of extension, which is com-posed of the ideas of these points, can neverpossibly exist. But if the idea of extension re-ally can exist, as we are conscious it does, itsparts must also exist; and in order to that, mustbe considered as coloured or tangible. We havetherefore no idea of space or extension, but

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when we regard it as an object either of oursight or feeling.

The same reasoning will prove, that the in-divisible moments of time must be filled withsome real object or existence, whose successionforms the duration, and makes it be conceiv-able by the mind.

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SECTION IV. OBJECTIONS ANSWERED

Our system concerning space and time con-sists of two parts, which are intimately con-nected together. The first depends on this chainof reasoning. The capacity of the mind is not in-finite; consequently no idea of extension or du-ration consists of an infinite number of parts orinferior ideas, but of a finite number, and thesesimple and indivisible: It is therefore possiblefor space and time to exist conformable to thisidea: And if it be possible, it is certain they ac-tually do exist conformable to it; since their in-finite divisibility is utterly impossible and con-tradictory.

The other part of our system is a conse-quence of this. The parts, into which the ideasof space and time resolve themselves, become

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at last indivisible; and these indivisible parts,being nothing in themselves, are inconceivablewhen not filled with something real and exis-tent. The ideas of space and time are thereforeno separate or distinct ideas, but merely thoseof the manner or order, in which objects exist:Or in other words, it is impossible to conceiveeither a vacuum and extension without mat-ter, or a time, when there was no succession orchange in any real existence. The intimate con-nexion betwixt these parts of our system is thereason why we shall examine together the ob-jections, which have been urged against bothof them, beginning with those against the finitedivisibility of extension.

I. The first of these objections, which I shalltake notice of, is more proper to prove this con-nexion and dependence of the one part upon

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the other, than to destroy either of them. It hasoften been maintained in the schools, that ex-tension must be divisible, in infinitum, becausethe system of mathematical points is absurd;and that system is absurd, because a mathe-matical point is a non-entity, and consequentlycan never by its conjunction with others forma real existence. This would be perfectly de-cisive, were there no medium betwixt the in-finite divisibility of matter, and the non-entityof mathematical points. But there is evidently amedium, viz. the bestowing a colour or solidityon these points; and the absurdity of both theextremes is a demonstration of the truth and re-ality of this medium. The system of physicalpoints, which is another medium, is too absurdto need a refutation. A real extension, such as aphysical point is supposed to be, can never ex-ist without parts, different from each other; and

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wherever objects are different, they are distin-guishable and separable by the imagination.

II. The second objection is derived from thenecessity there would be of penetration, if exten-sion consisted of mathematical points. A sim-ple and indivisible atom, that touches another,must necessarily penetrate it; for it is impossi-ble it can touch it by its external parts, from thevery supposition of its perfect simplicity, whichexcludes all parts. It must therefore touch itintimately, and in its whole essence, secundumse, tota, et totaliter; which is the very defini-tion of penetration. But penetration is impos-sible: Mathematical points are of consequenceequally impossible.

I answer this objection by substituting ajuster idea of penetration. Suppose two bodiescontaining no void within their circumference,

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to approach each other, and to unite in such amanner that the body, which results from theirunion, is no more extended than either of them;it is this we must mean when we talk of pen-etration. But it is evident this penetration isnothing but the annihilation of one of thesebodies, and the preservation of the other, with-out our being able to distinguish particularlywhich is preserved and which annihilated. Be-fore the approach we have the idea of two bod-ies. After it we have the idea only of one. It isimpossible for the mind to preserve any notionof difference betwixt two bodies of the samenature existing in the same place at the sametime.

Taking then penetration in this sense, for theannihilation of one body upon its approachto another, I ask any one, if he sees a neces-

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sity, that a coloured or tangible point shouldbe annihilated upon the approach of anothercoloured or tangible point? On the contrary,does he not evidently perceive, that from theunion of these points there results an object,which is compounded and divisible, and maybe distinguished into two parts, of which eachpreserves its existence distinct and separate,notwithstanding its contiguity to the other? Lethim aid his fancy by conceiving these pointsto be of different colours, the better to preventtheir coalition and confusion. A blue and a redpoint may surely lie contiguous without anypenetration or annihilation. For if they cannot,what possibly can become of them? Whethershall the red or the blue be annihilated? Or ifthese colours unite into one, what new colourwill they produce by their union?

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What chiefly gives rise to these objections,and at the same time renders it so difficult togive a satisfactory answer to them, is the nat-ural infirmity and unsteadiness both of ourimagination and senses, when employed onsuch minute objects. Put a spot of ink upon pa-per, and retire to such a distance, that the spotbecomes altogether invisible; you will find,that upon your return and nearer approachthe spot first becomes visible by short inter-vals; and afterwards becomes always visible;and afterwards acquires only a new force in itscolouring without augmenting its bulk; and af-terwards, when it has encreased to such a de-gree as to be really extended, it is still difficultfor the imagination to break it into its compo-nent parts, because of the uneasiness it findsin the conception of such a minute object as asingle point. This infirmity affects most of our

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reasonings on the present subject, and makesit almost impossible to answer in an intelligi-ble manner, and in proper expressions, manyquestions which may arise concerning it.

III. There have been many objections drawnfrom the mathematics against the indivisibil-ity of the parts of extension: though at firstsight that science seems rather favourable tothe present doctrine; and if it be contrary inits demonstrations, it is perfectly conformablein its definitions. My present business thenmust be to defend the definitions, and refutethe demonstrations.

A surface is defined to be length and breadthwithout depth: A line to be length withoutbreadth or depth: A point to be what has nei-ther length, breadth nor depth. It is evidentthat all this is perfectly unintelligible upon any

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other supposition than that of the composi-tion of extension by indivisible points or atoms.How else coued any thing exist without length,without breadth, or without depth?

Two different answers, I find, have beenmade to this argument; neither of which is inmy opinion satisfactory. The first is, that theobjects of geometry, those surfaces, lines andpoints, whose proportions and positions it ex-amines, are mere ideas in the mind; I and notonly never did, but never can exist in nature.They never did exist; for no one will pretendto draw a line or make a surface entirely con-formable to the definition: They never can ex-ist; for we may produce demonstrations fromthese very ideas to prove, that they are impos-sible.

But can anything be imagined more absurd

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and contradictory than this reasoning? What-ever can be conceived by a clear and distinctidea necessarily implies the possibility of exis-tence; and he who pretends to prove the im-possibility of its existence by any argument de-rived from the clear idea, in reality asserts, thatwe have no clear idea of it, because we have aclear idea. It is in vain to search for a contradic-tion in any thing that is distinctly conceived bythe mind. Did it imply any contradiction, it isimpossible it coued ever be conceived.

There is therefore no medium betwixt allow-ing at least the possibility of indivisible points,and denying their idea; and it is on this latterprinciple, that the second answer to the fore-going argument is founded. It has been pre-tended (L’Art de penser.), that though it beimpossible to conceive a length without any

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breadth, yet by an abstraction without a sep-aration, we can consider the one without re-garding the other; in the same manner as wemay think of the length of the way betwixt twotowns, and overlook its breadth. The lengthis inseparable from the breadth both in natureand in our minds; but this excludes not a par-tial consideration, and a distinction of reason,after the manner above explained.

In refuting this answer I shall not insist onthe argument, which I have already sufficientlyexplained, that if it be impossible for the mindto arrive at a minimum in its ideas, its capacitymust be infinite, in order to comprehend the in-finite number of parts, of which its idea of anyextension would be composed. I shall here en-deavour to find some new absurdities in thisreasoning.

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A surface terminates a solid; a line termi-nates a surface; a point terminates a line; but Iassert, that if the ideas of a point, line or surfacewere not indivisible, it is impossible we shouldever conceive these terminations: For let theseideas be supposed infinitely divisible; and thenlet the fancy endeavour to fix itself on the ideaof the last surface, line or point; it immediatelyfinds this idea to break into parts; and upon itsseizing the last of these parts, it loses its hold bya new division, and so on in infinitum, withoutany possibility of its arriving at a concludingidea. The number of fractions bring it no nearerthe last division, than the first idea it formed.Every particle eludes the grasp by a new frac-tion; like quicksilver, when we endeavour toseize it. But as in fact there must be something,which terminates the idea of every finite quan-tity; and as this terminating idea cannot itself

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consist of parts or inferior ideas; otherwise itwould be the last of its parts, which finishedthe idea, and so on; this is a clear proof, that theideas of surfaces, lines and points admit not ofany division; those of surfaces in depth; of linesin breadth and depth; and of points in any di-mension.

The school were so sensible of the force ofthis argument, that some of them maintained,that nature has mixed among those particles ofmatter, which are divisible in infinitum, a num-ber of mathematical points, in order to give atermination to bodies; and others eluded theforce of this reasoning by a heap of unintelli-gible cavils and distinctions. Both these adver-saries equally yield the victory. A man whohides himself, confesses as evidently the supe-riority of his enemy, as another, who fairly de-

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livers his arms.

Thus it appears, that the definitions of math-ematics destroy the pretended demonstrations;and that if we have the idea of indivisiblepoints, lines and surfaces conformable to thedefinition, their existence is certainly possible:but if we have no such idea, it is impossible wecan ever conceive the termination of any figure;without which conception there can be no geo-metrical demonstration.

But I go farther, and maintain, that noneof these demonstrations can have sufficientweight to establish such a principle, as thisof infinite divisibility; and that because withregard to such minute objects, they are notproperly demonstrations, being built on ideas,which are not exact, and maxims, which are notprecisely true. When geometry decides any-

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thing concerning the proportions of quantity,we ought not to look for the utmost precisionand exactness. None of its proofs extend so far.It takes the dimensions and proportions of fig-ures justly; but roughly, and with some liberty.Its errors are never considerable; nor would iterr at all, did it not aspire to such an absoluteperfection.

I first ask mathematicians, what they meanwhen they say one line or surface is EQUAL to,or GREATER or LESS than another? Let anyof them give an answer, to whatever sect hebelongs, and whether he maintains the compo-sition of extension by indivisible points, or byquantities divisible in infinitum. This questionwill embarrass both of them.

There are few or no mathematicians, who de-fend the hypothesis of indivisible points; and

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yet these have the readiest and justest answerto the present question. They need only reply,that lines or surfaces are equal, when the num-bers of points in each are equal; and that as theproportion of the numbers varies, the propor-tion of the lines and surfaces is also varyed. Butthough this answer be just, as well as obvious;yet I may affirm, that this standard of equal-ity is entirely useless, and that it never is fromsuch a comparison we determine objects to beequal or unequal with respect to each other. Foras the points, which enter into the compositionof any line or surface, whether perceived bythe sight or touch, are so minute and so con-founded with each other, that it is utterly im-possible for the mind to compute their num-ber, such a computation will Never afford usa standard by which we may judge of propor-tions. No one will ever be able to determine

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by an exact numeration, that an inch has fewerpoints than a foot, or a foot fewer than an ell orany greater measure: for which reason we sel-dom or never consider this as the standard ofequality or inequality.

As to those, who imagine, that extension isdivisible in infinitum, it is impossible they canmake use of this answer, or fix the equality ofany line or surface by a numeration of its com-ponent parts. For since, according to their hy-pothesis, the least as well as greatest figurescontain an infinite number of parts; and sinceinfinite numbers, properly speaking, can nei-ther be equal nor unequal with respect to eachother; the equality or inequality of any portionsof space can never depend on any proportionin the number of their parts. It is true, it maybe said, that the inequality of an ell and a yard

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consists in the different numbers of the feet, ofwhich they are composed; and that of a footand a yard in the number of the inches. Butas that quantity we call an inch in the one issupposed equal to what we call an inch in theother, and as it is impossible for the mind tofind this equality by proceeding in infinitumwith these references to inferior quantities: itis evident, that at last we must fix some stan-dard of equality different from an enumerationof the parts.

There are some (See Dr. Barrow’s mathe-matical lectures.), who pretend, that equalityis best defined by congruity, and that any twofigures are equal, when upon the placing ofone upon the other, all their parts correspondto and touch each other. In order to judge ofthis definition let us consider, that since equal-

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ity is a relation, it is not, strictly speaking, aproperty in the figures themselves, but arisesmerely from the comparison, which the mindmakes betwixt them. If it consists, therefore,in this imaginary application and mutual con-tact of parts, we must at least have a distinctnotion of these parts, and must conceive theircontact. Now it is plain, that in this conceptionwe would run up these parts to the greatestminuteness, which can possibly be conceived;since the contact of large parts would neverrender the figures equal. But the minutest partswe can conceive are mathematical points; andconsequently this standard of equality is thesame with that derived from the equality of thenumber of points; which we have already de-termined to be a just but an useless standard.We must therefore look to some other quarterfor a solution of the present difficulty.

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There are many philosophers, who refuse toassign any standard of equality, but assert, thatit is sufficient to present two objects, that areequal, in order to give us a just notion of thisproportion. All definitions, say they, are fruit-less, without the perception of such objects;and where we perceive such objects, we nolonger stand in need of any definition. To thisreasoning, I entirely agree; and assert, that theonly useful notion of equality, or inequality, isderived from the whole united appearance andthe comparison of particular objects.

It is evident, that the eye, or rather the mindis often able at one view to determine the pro-portions of bodies, and pronounce them equalto, or greater or less than each other, withoutexamining or comparing the number of theirminute parts. Such judgments are not only

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common, but in many cases certain and infal-lible. When the measure of a yard and that of afoot are presented, the mind can no more ques-tion, that the first is longer than the second,than it can doubt of those principles, which arethe most clear and self-evident.

There are therefore three proportions, whichthe mind distinguishes in the general appear-ance of its objects, and calls by the names ofgreater, less and equal. But though its deci-sions concerning these proportions be some-times infallible, they are not always so; nor areour judgments of this kind more exempt fromdoubt and error than those on any other sub-ject. We frequently correct our first opinion bya review and reflection; and pronounce thoseobjects to be equal, which at first we esteemedunequal; and regard an object as less, though

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before it appeared greater than another. Noris this the only correction, which these judg-ments of our senses undergo; but we often dis-cover our error by a juxtaposition of the objects;or where that is impracticable, by the use ofsome common and invariable measure, whichbeing successively applied to each, informs usof their different proportions. And even thiscorrection is susceptible of a new correction,and of different degrees of exactness, accord-ing to the nature of the instrument, by whichwe measure the bodies, and the care which weemploy in the comparison.

When therefore the mind is accustomed tothese judgments and their corrections, andfinds that the same proportion which makestwo figures have in the eye that appearance,which we call equality, makes them also corre-

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spond to each other, and to any common mea-sure, with which they are compared, we forma mixed notion of equality derived both fromthe looser and stricter methods of comparison.But we are not content with this. For as soundreason convinces us that there are bodies vastlymore minute than those, which appear to thesenses; and as a false reason would perswadeus, that there are bodies infinitely more minute;we clearly perceive, that we are not possessedof any instrument or art of measuring, whichcan secure us from ill error and uncertainty.We are sensible, that the addition or removalof one of these minute parts, is not discernibleeither in the appearance or measuring; and aswe imagine, that two figures, which were equalbefore, cannot be equal after this removal oraddition, we therefore suppose some imagi-nary standard of equality, by which the ap-

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pearances and measuring are exactly corrected,and the figures reduced entirely to that propor-tion. This standard is plainly imaginary. Foras the very idea of equality is that of such aparticular appearance corrected by juxtaposi-tion or a common measure. The notion of anycorrection beyond what we have instrumentsand art to make, is a mere fiction of the mind,and useless as well as incomprehensible. Butthough this standard be only imaginary, the fic-tion however is very natural; nor is anythingmore usual, than for the mind to proceed af-ter this manner with any action, even after thereason has ceased, which first determined it tobegin. This appears very conspicuously withregard to time; where though it is evident wehave no exact method of determining the pro-portions of parts, not even so exact as in ex-tension, yet the various corrections of our mea-

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sures, and their different degrees of exactness,have given as an obscure and implicit notionof a perfect and entire equality. The case is thesame in many other subjects. A musician find-ing his ear becoming every day more delicate,and correcting himself by reflection and atten-tion, proceeds with the same act of the mind,even when the subject fails him, and entertainsa notion of a compleat tierce or octave, withoutbeing able to tell whence he derives his stan-dard. A painter forms the same fiction with re-gard to colours. A mechanic with regard to mo-tion. To the one light and shade; to the otherswift and slow are imagined to be capable ofan exact comparison and equality beyond thejudgments of the senses.

We may apply the same reasoning to curveand right lines. Nothing is more apparent to the

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senses, than the distinction betwixt a curve anda right line; nor are there any ideas we moreeasily form than the ideas of these objects. Buthowever easily we may form these ideas, it isimpossible to produce any definition of them,which will fix the precise boundaries betwixtthem. When we draw lines upon paper, or anycontinued surface, there is a certain order, bywhich the lines run along from one point toanother, that they may produce the entire im-pression of a curve or right line; but this orderis perfectly unknown, and nothing is observedbut the united appearance. Thus even upon thesystem of indivisible points, we can only forma distant notion of some unknown standard tothese objects. Upon that of infinite divisibilitywe cannot go even this length; but are reducedmeerly to the general appearance, as the ruleby which we determine lines to be either curve

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or right ones. But though we can give no per-fect definition of these lines, nor produce anyvery exact method of distinguishing the onefrom the other; yet this hinders us not from cor-recting the first appearance by a more accurateconsideration, and by a comparison with somerule, of whose rectitude from repeated trials wehave a greater assurance. And it is from thesecorrections, and by carrying on the same actionof the mind, even when its reason fails us, thatwe form the loose idea of a perfect standard tothese figures, without being able to explain orcomprehend it.

It is true, mathematicians pretend they givean exact definition of a right line, when theysay, it is the shortest way betwixt two points.But in the first place I observe, that this is moreproperly the discovery of one of the proper-

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ties of a right line, than a just deflation of it.For I ask any one, if upon mention of a rightline he thinks not immediately on such a par-ticular appearance, and if it is not by accidentonly that he considers this property? A rightline can be comprehended alone; but this def-inition is unintelligible without a comparisonwith other lines, which we conceive to be moreextended. In common life it is established as amaxim, that the straightest way is always theshortest; which would be as absurd as to say,the shortest way is always the shortest, if ouridea of a right line was not different from thatof the shortest way betwixt two points.

Secondly, I repeat what I have already estab-lished, that we have no precise idea of equalityand inequality, shorter and longer, more thanof a right line or a curve; and consequently that

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the one can never afford us a perfect standardfor the other. An exact idea can never be builton such as are loose and undetermined.

The idea of a plain surface is as little suscep-tible of a precise standard as that of a right line;nor have we any other means of distinguish-ing such a surface, than its general appearance.It is in vain, that mathematicians represent aplain surface as produced by the flowing of aright line. It will immediately be objected, thatour idea of a surface is as independent of thismethod of forming a surface, as our idea of anellipse is of that of a cone; that the idea of aright line is no more precise than that of a plainsurface; that a right line may flow irregularly,and by that means form a figure quite differentfrom a plane; and that therefore we must sup-pose it to flow along two right lines, parallel to

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each other, and on the same plane; which is adescription, that explains a thing by itself, andreturns in a circle.

It appears, then, that the ideas which aremost essential to geometry, viz. those of equal-ity and inequality, of a right line and a plainsurface, are far from being exact and determi-nate, according to our common method of con-ceiving them. Not only we are incapable oftelling, if the case be in any degree doubtful,when such particular figures are equal; whensuch a line is a right one, and such a surface aplain one; but we can form no idea of that pro-portion, or of these figures, which is firm andinvariable. Our appeal is still to the weak andfallible judgment, which we make from the ap-pearance of the objects, and correct by a com-pass or common measure; and if we join the

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supposition of any farther correction, it is ofsuch-a-one as is either useless or imaginary. Invain should we have recourse to the commontopic, and employ the supposition of a deity,whose omnipotence may enable him to form aperfect geometrical figure, and describe a rightline without any curve or inflexion. As the ulti-mate standard of these figures is derived fromnothing but the senses and imagination, it isabsurd to talk of any perfection beyond whatthese faculties can judge of; since the true per-fection of any thing consists in its conformity toits standard.

Now since these ideas are so loose and un-certain, I would fain ask any mathematicianwhat infallible assurance he has, not only ofthe more intricate, and obscure propositionsof his science, but of the most vulgar and ob-

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vious principles? How can he prove to me,for instance, that two right lines cannot haveone common segment? Or that it is impossi-ble to draw more than one right line betwixtany two points? should he tell me, that theseopinions are obviously absurd, and repugnantto our clear ideas; I would answer, that I do notdeny, where two right lines incline upon eachother with a sensible angle, but it is absurd toimagine them to have a common segment. Butsupposing these two lines to approach at therate of an inch in twenty leagues, I perceive noabsurdity in asserting, that upon their contactthey become one. For, I beseech you, by whatrule or standard do you judge, when you as-sert, that the line, in which I have supposedthem to concur, cannot make the same rightline with those two, that form so small an an-gle betwixt them? You must surely have some

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idea of a right line, to which this line does notagree. Do you therefore mean that it takes notthe points in the same order and by the samerule, as is peculiar and essential to a right line?If so, I must inform you, that besides that injudging after this manner you allow, that exten-sion is composed of indivisible points (which,perhaps, is more than you intend) besides this,I say, I must inform you, that neither is thisthe standard from which we form the idea ofa right line; nor, if it were, is there any suchfirmness in our senses or imagination, as to de-termine when such an order is violated or pre-served. The original standard of a right lineis in reality nothing but a certain general ap-pearance; and it is evident right lines may bemade to concur with each other, and yet corre-spond to this standard, though corrected by allthe means either practicable or imaginable.

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To whatever side mathematicians turn, thisdilemma still meets them. If they judge ofequality, or any other proportion, by the accu-rate and exact standard, viz. the enumerationof the minute indivisible parts, they both em-ploy a standard, which is useless in practice,and actually establish the indivisibility of ex-tension, which they endeavour to explode. Orif they employ, as is usual, the inaccurate stan-dard, derived from a comparison of objects,upon their general appearance, corrected bymeasuring and juxtaposition; their first prin-ciples, though certain and infallible, are toocoarse to afford any such subtile inferences asthey commonly draw from them. The firstprinciples are founded on the imagination andsenses: The conclusion, therefore, can never gobeyond, much less contradict these faculties.

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This may open our eyes a little, and let ussee, that no geometrical demonstration for theinfinite divisibility of extension can have somuch force as what we naturally attribute toevery argument, which is supported by suchmagnificent pretensions. At the same time wemay learn the reason, why geometry falls of ev-idence in this single point, while all its otherreasonings command our fullest assent and ap-probation. And indeed it seems more requi-site to give the reason of this exception, thanto shew, that we really must make such an ex-ception, and regard all the mathematical argu-ments for infinite divisibility as utterly sophis-tical. For it is evident, that as no idea of quan-tity is infinitely divisible, there cannot be imag-ined a more glaring absurdity, than to endeav-our to prove, that quantity itself admits of sucha division; and to prove this by means of ideas,

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which are directly opposite in that particular.And as this absurdity is very glaring in itself,so there is no argument founded on it whichis not attended with a new absurdity, and in-volves not an evident contradiction.

I might give as instances those arguments forinfinite divisibility, which are derived from thepoint of contact. I know there is no mathe-matician, who will not refuse to be judged bythe diagrams he describes upon paper, thesebeing loose draughts, as he will tell us, andserving only to convey with greater facility cer-tain ideas, which are the true foundation ofall our reasoning. This I am satisfyed with,and am willing to rest the controversy merelyupon these ideas. I desire therefore our mathe-matician to form, as accurately as possible, theideas of a circle and a right line; and I then ask,

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if upon the conception of their contact he canconceive them as touching in a mathematicalpoint, or if he must necessarily imagine themto concur for some space. Whichever side hechuses, he runs himself into equal difficulties.If he affirms, that in tracing these figures inhis imagination, he can imagine them to touchonly in a point, he allows the possibility of thatidea, and consequently of the thing. If he says,that in his conception of the contact of thoselines he must make them concur, he thereby ac-knowledges the fallacy of geometrical demon-strations, when carryed beyond a certain de-gree of minuteness; since it is certain he hassuch demonstrations against the concurrenceof a circle and a right line; that is, in otherwords, he can prove an idea, viz. that of con-currence, to be _incompatible with two otherideas, those of a circle and right line; though at

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the same time he acknowledges these ideas tobe inseparable.

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SECTION V. The Same Subject Continued

If the second part of my system be true, thatthe idea of space or extension is nothing but theidea of visible or tangible points distributed ina certain order; it follows, that we can form noidea of a vacuum, or space, where there is noth-ing visible or tangible. This gives rise to threeobjections, which I shall examine together, be-cause the answer I shall give to one is a conse-quence of that which I shall make use of for theothers.

First, It may be said, that men have dis-puted for many ages concerning a vacuum anda plenum, without being able to bring the affairto a final decision; and philosophers, even atthis day, think themselves at liberty to take parton either side, as their fancy leads them. But

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whatever foundation there may be for a contro-versy concerning the things themselves, it maybe pretended, that the very dispute is decisiveconcerning the idea, and that it is impossiblemen coued so long reason about a vacuum, andeither refute or defend it, without having a no-tion of what they refuted or defended.

Secondly, If this argument should be con-tested, the reality or at least the possibility ofthe idea of a vacuum may be proved by thefollowing reasoning. Every idea is possible,which is a necessary and infallible consequenceof such as are possible. Now though we allowthe world to be at present a plenum, we mayeasily conceive it to be deprived of motion; andthis idea will certainly be allowed possible. Itmust also be allowed possible, to conceive theannihilation of any part of matter by the om-

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nipotence of the deity, while the other parts re-main at rest. For as every idea, that is distin-guishable, is separable by the imagination; andas every idea, that is separable by the imagi-nation, may be conceived to be separately exis-tent; it is evident, that the existence of one par-ticle of matter, no more implies the existence ofanother, than a square figure in one body im-plies a square figure in every one. This beinggranted, I now demand what results from theconcurrence of these two possible ideas of restand annihilation, and what must we conceiveto follow upon the annihilation of all the airand subtile matter in the chamber, supposingthe walls to remain the same, without any mo-tion or alteration? There are some metaphysi-cians, who answer, that since matter and exten-sion are the same, the annihilation of one nec-essarily implies that of the other; and there be-

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ing now no distance betwixt the walls of thechamber, they touch each other; in the samemanner as my hand touches the paper, whichis immediately before me. But though this an-swer be very common, I defy these metaphysi-cians to conceive the matter according to theirhypothesis, or imagine the floor and roof, withall the opposite sides of the chamber, to toucheach other, while they continue in rest, and pre-serve the same position. For how can the twowalls, that run from south to north, touch eachother, while they touch the opposite ends oftwo walls, that run from east to west? Andhow can the floor and roof ever meet, whilethey are separated by the four walls, that lie ina contrary position? If you change their posi-tion, you suppose a motion. If you conceiveany thing betwixt them, you suppose a newcreation. But keeping strictly to the two ideas

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of rest and annihilation, it is evident, that theidea, which results from them, is not that of acontact of parts, but something else; which isconcluded to be the idea of a vacuum.

The third objection carries the matter still far-ther, and not only asserts, that the idea of avacuum is real and possible, but also necessaryand unavoidable. This assertion is foundedon the motion we observe in bodies, which,it is maintained, would be impossible and in-conceivable without a vacuum, into which onebody must move in order to make way for an-other.. I shall not enlarge upon this objection,because it principally belongs to natural philos-ophy, which lies without our present sphere.

In order to answer these objections, we musttake the matter pretty deep, and consider thenature and origin of several ideas, lest we dis-

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pute without understanding perfectly the sub-ject of the controversy. It is evident the ideaof darkness is no positive idea, but merely thenegation of light, or more properly speaking,of coloured and visible objects. A man, whoenjoys his sight, receives no other perceptionfrom turning his eyes on every side, when en-tirely deprived of light, than what is commonto him with one born blind; and it is certainsuch-a-one has no idea either of light or dark-ness. The consequence of this is, that it is notfrom the mere removal of visible objects we re-ceive the impression of extension without mat-ter; and that the idea of utter darkness cannever be the same with that of vacuum.

Suppose again a man to be supported in theair, and to be softly conveyed along by someinvisible power; it is evident he is sensible of

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nothing, and never receives the idea of exten-sion, nor indeed any idea, from this invariablemotion. Even supposing he moves his limbs toand fro, this cannot convey to him that idea. Hefeels in that case a certain sensation or impres-sion, the parts of which are successive to eachother, and may give him the idea of time: Butcertainly are not disposed in such a manner, asis necessary to convey the idea of space or theidea of space or extension.

Since then it appears, that darkness and mo-tion, with the utter removal of every thing vis-ible and tangible, can never give us the idea ofextension without matter, or of a vacuum; thenext question is, whether they can convey thisidea, when mixed with something visible andtangible?

It is commonly allowed by philosophers,

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that all bodies, which discover themselves tothe eye, appear as if painted on a plain sur-face, and that their different degrees of remote-ness from ourselves are discovered more byreason than by the senses. When I hold up myhand before me, and spread my fingers, theyare separated as perfectly by the blue colour ofthe firmament, as they coued be by any visi-ble object, which I coued place betwixt them.In order, therefore, to know whether the sightcan convey the impression and idea of a vac-uum, we must suppose, that amidst an entiredarkness, there are luminous bodies presentedto us, whose light discovers only these bodiesthemselves, without giving us any impressionof the surrounding objects.

We must form a parallel supposition con-cerning the objects of our feeling. It is not

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proper to suppose a perfect removal of all tan-gible objects: we must allow something to beperceived by the feeling; and after an intervaland motion of the hand or other organ of sensa-tion, another object of the touch to be met with;and upon leaving that, another; and so on, asoften as we please. The question is, whetherthese intervals do not afford us the idea of ex-tension without body?

To begin with the first case; it is evident,that when only two luminous bodies appear tothe eye, we can perceive, whether they be con-joined or separate: whether they be separatedby a great or small distance; and if this distancevaries, we can perceive its increase or diminu-tion, with the motion of the bodies. But as thedistance is not in this case any thing colouredor visible, it may be thought that there is here a

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vacuum or pure extension, not only intelligibleto the mind, but obvious to the very senses.

This is our natural and most familiar wayof thinking; but which we shall learn to cor-rect by a little reflection. We may observe, thatwhen two bodies present themselves, wherethere was formerly an entire darkness, the onlychange, that is discoverable, is in the appear-ance of these two objects, and that all the restcontinues to be as before, a perfect negationof light, and of every coloured or visible ob-ject. This is not only true of what may besaid to be remote from these bodies, but alsoof the very distance; which is interposed be-twixt them; that being nothing but darkness,or the negation of light; without parts, withoutcomposition, invariable and indivisible. Nowsince this distance causes no perception differ-

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ent from what a blind man receives from hiseyes, or what is conveyed to us in the dark-est night, it must partake of the same proper-ties: And as blindness and darkness afford usno ideas of extension, it is impossible that thedark and undistinguishable distance betwixttwo bodies can ever produce that idea.

The sole difference betwixt an absolute dark-ness and the appearance of two or more visibleluminous objects consists, as I said, in the ob-jects themselves, and in the manner they affectour senses. The angles, which the rays of lightflowing from them, form with each other; themotion that is required in the eye, in its passagefrom one to the other; and the different parts ofthe organs, which are affected by them; theseproduce the only perceptions, from which wecan judge of the distance. But as these percep-

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tions are each of them simple and indivisible,they can never give us the idea of extension.

We may illustrate this by considering thesense of feeling, and the imaginary distanceor interval interposed betwixt tangible or solidobjects. I suppose two cases, viz. that of a mansupported in the air, and moving his limbs toand fro, without meeting any thing tangible;and that of a man, who feeling something tan-gible, leaves it, and after a motion, of whichhe is sensible, perceives another tangible object;and I then ask, wherein consists the differencebetwixt these two cases? No one will make anyscruple to affirm, that it consists meerly in theperceiving those objects, and that the sensation,which arises from the motion, is in both casesthe same: And as that sensation is not capableof conveying to us an idea of extension, when

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unaccompanyed with some other perception,it can no more give us that idea, when mixedwith the impressions of tangible objects; sincethat mixture produces no alteration upon it.

But though motion and darkness, eitheralone, or attended with tangible and visible ob-jects, convey no idea of a vacuum or extensionwithout matter, yet they are the causes why wefalsly imagine we can form such an idea. Forthere is a close relation betwixt that motion anddarkness, and a real extension, or compositionof visible and tangible objects.

First, We may observe, that two visible ob-jects appearing in the midst of utter darkness,affect the senses in the same manner, and formthe same angle by the rays, which flow fromthem, and meet in the eye, as if the distancebetwixt them were find with visible objects,

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that give us a true idea of extension. The sen-sation of motion is likewise the same, whenthere is nothing tangible interposed betwixttwo bodies, as when we feel a compoundedbody, whose different parts are placed beyondeach other.

Secondly, We find by experience, that twobodies, which are so placed as to affect thesenses in the same manner with two others,that have a certain extent of visible objects in-terposed betwixt them, are capable of receiv-ing the same extent, without any sensible im-pulse or penetration, and without any changeon that angle, under which they appear to thesenses. In like manner, where there is one ob-ject, which we cannot feel after another withoutan interval, and the perceiving of that sensationwe call motion in our hand or organ of sensa-

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tion; experience shews us, that it is possible thesame object may be felt with the same sensationof motion, along with the interposed impres-sion of solid and tangible objects, attending thesensation. That is, in other words, an invisibleand intangible distance may be converted intoa visible and tangible one, without any changeon the distant objects.

Thirdly, We may observe, as another rela-tion betwixt these two kinds of distance, thatthey have nearly the same effects on every nat-ural phaenomenon. For as all qualities, suchas heat, cold, light, attraction, &c. diminishin proportion to the distance; there is but lit-tle difference observed, whether this distancebe marled out by compounded and sensible ob-jects, or be known only by the manner, in whichthe distant objects affect the senses.

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Here then are three relations betwixt that dis-tance, which conveys the idea of extension, andthat other, which is not filled with any colouredor solid object. The distant objects affect thesenses in the same manner, whether separatedby the one distance or the other; the secondspecies of distance is found capable of receiv-ing the first; and they both equally diminish theforce of every quality.

These relations betwixt the two kinds of dis-tance will afford us an easy reason, why theone has so often been taken for the other, andwhy we imagine we have an idea of exten-sion without the idea of any object either ofthe sight or feeling. For we may establish it asa general maxim in this science of human na-ture, that wherever there is a close relation be-twixt two ideas, the mind is very apt to mistake

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them, and in all its discourses and reasoningsto use the one for the other. This phaenomenonoccurs on so many occasions, and is of suchconsequence, that I cannot forbear stopping amoment to examine its causes. I shall onlypremise, that we must distinguish exactly be-twixt the phaenomenon itself, and the causes,which I shall assign for it; and must not imag-ine from any uncertainty in the latter, that theformer is also uncertain. The phaenomenonmay be real, though my explication be chimeri-cal. The falshood of the one is no consequenceof that of the other; though at the same timewe may observe, that it is very natural for us todraw such a consequence; which is an evidentinstance of that very principle, which I endeav-our to explain.

When I received the relations of resem-

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blance, contiguity and causation, as principlesof union among ideas, without examining intotheir causes, it was more in prosecution of myfirst maxim, that we must in the end rest con-tented with experience, than for want of some-thing specious and plausible, which I mighthave displayed on that subject. It would havebeen easy to have made an imaginary dissec-tion of the brain, and have shewn, why uponour conception of any idea, the animal spiritsrun into all the contiguous traces, and rouzeup the other ideas, that are related to it. Butthough I have neglected any advantage, whichI might have drawn from this topic in explain-ing the relations of ideas, I am afraid I musthere have recourse to it, in order to accountfor the mistakes that arise from these relations.I shall therefore observe, that as the mind isendowed with a power of exciting any idea

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it pleases; whenever it dispatches the spiritsinto that region of the brain, in which the ideais placed; these spirits always excite the idea,when they run precisely into the proper traces,and rummage that cell, which belongs to theidea. But as their motion is seldom direct, andnaturally turns a little to the one side or theother; for this reason the animal spirits, fallinginto the contiguous traces, present other re-lated ideas in lieu of that, which the mind de-sired at first to survey. This change we arenot always sensible of; but continuing still thesame train of thought, make use of the relatedidea, which is presented to us, and employ itin our reasoning, as if it were the same withwhat we demanded. This is the cause of manymistakes and sophisms in philosophy; as willnaturally be imagined, and as it would be easyto show, if there was occasion.

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Of the three relations above-mentioned thatof resemblance is the most fertile source of er-ror; and indeed there are few mistakes in rea-soning, which do not borrow largely from thatorigin. Resembling ideas are not only relatedtogether, but the actions of the mind, whichwe employ in considering them, are so littledifferent, that we are not able to distinguishthem. This last circumstance is of great conse-quence, and we may in general observe, thatwherever the actions of the mind in formingany two ideas are the same or resembling, weare very apt to confound these ideas, and takethe one for the other. Of this we shall seemany instances in the progress of this treatise.But though resemblance be the relation, whichmost readily produces a mistake in ideas, yetthe others of causation and contiguity may alsoconcur in the same influence. We might pro-

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duce the figures of poets and orators, as suffi-cient proofs of this, were it as usual, as it is rea-sonable, in metaphysical subjects to draw ourarguments from that quarter. But lest meta-physicians should esteem this below their dig-nity, I shall borrow a proof from an observa-tion, which may be made on most of their owndiscourses, viz. that it is usual for men to usewords for ideas, and to talk instead of thinkingin their reasonings. We use words for ideas, be-cause they are commonly so closely connectedthat the mind easily mistakes them. And thislikewise is the reason, why we substitute theidea of a distance, which is not considered ei-ther as visible or tangible, in the room of exten-sion, which is nothing but a composition of vis-ible or tangible points disposed in a certain or-der. In causing this mistake there concur boththe relations of causation and resemblance. As

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the first species of distance is found to be con-vertible into the second, it is in this respect akind of cause; and the similarity of their man-ner of affecting the senses, and diminishing ev-ery quality, forms the relation of resemblance.

After this chain of reasoning and explicationof my principles, I am now prepared to an-swer all the objections that have been offered,whether derived from metaphysics or mechan-ics. The frequent disputes concerning a vac-uum, or extension without matter prove notthe reality of the idea, upon which the disputeturns; there being nothing more common, thanto see men deceive themselves in this particu-lar; especially when by means of any close re-lation, there is another idea presented, whichmay be the occasion of their mistake.

We may make almost the same answer to the

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second objection, derived from the conjunctionof the ideas of rest and annihilation. When ev-ery thing is annihilated in the chamber, and thewalls continue immoveable, the chamber mustbe conceived much in the same manner as atpresent, when the air that fills it, is not an ob-ject of the senses. This annihilation leaves tothe eye, that fictitious distance, which is dis-covered by the different parts of the organ, thatare affected, and by the degrees of light andshade;–and to the feeling, that which consistsin a sensation of motion in the hand, or othermember of the body. In vain should we. searchany farther. On whichever side we turn thissubject, we shall find that these are the only im-pressions such an object can produce after thesupposed annihilation; and it has already beenremarked, that impressions can give rise to noideas, but to such as resemble them.

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Since a body interposed betwixt two othersmay be supposed to be annihilated, withoutproducing any change upon such as lie on eachhand of it, it is easily conceived, how it maybe created anew, and yet produce as little al-teration. Now the motion of a body has muchthe same effect as its creation. The distant bod-ies are no more affected in the one case, than inthe other. This suffices to satisfy the imagina-tion, and proves there is no repugnance in sucha motion. Afterwards experience comes in playto persuade us that two bodies, situated in themanner above-described, have really such a ca-pacity of receiving body betwixt them, and thatthere is no obstacle to the conversion of the in-visible and intangible distance into one that isvisible and tangible. However natural that con-version may seem, we cannot be sure it is prac-ticable, before we have had experience of it.

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Thus I seem to have answered the three ob-jections above-mentioned; though at the sametime I am sensible, that few will be satisfyedwith these answers, but will immediately pro-pose new objections and difficulties. It willprobably be said, that my reasoning makesnothing to the matter in hands and that I ex-plain only the manner in which objects affectthe senses, without endeavouring to accountfor their real nature and operations. Thoughthere be nothing visible or tangible interposedbetwixt two bodies, yet we find by experienceE,that the bodies may be placed in the same man-ner, with regard to the eye, and require thesame motion of the hand in passing from oneto the other, as if divided by something visibleand tangible. This invisible and intangible dis-tance is also found by experience to contain acapacity of receiving body, or of becoming vis-

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ible and tangible. Here is the whole of my sys-tem; and in no part of it have I endeavoured toexplain the cause, which separates bodies af-ter this manner, and gives them a capacity ofreceiving others betwixt them, without any im-pulse or penetration.

I answer this objection, by pleading guilty,and by confessing that my intention never wasto penetrate into the nature of bodies, or ex-plain the secret causes of their operations. Forbesides that this belongs not to my presentpurpose, I am afraid, that such an enterpriseis beyond the reach of human understanding,and that we can never pretend to know bodyotherwise than by those external properties,which discover themselves to the senses. Asto those who attempt any thing farther, I can-not approve of their ambition, till I see, in some

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one instance at least, that they have met withsuccess. But at present I content myself withknowing perfectly the manner in which objectsaffect my senses, and their connections witheach other, as far as experience informs me ofthem. This suffices for the conduct of life; andthis also suffices for my philosophy, which pre-tends only to explain the nature and causes ofour perceptions, or impressions and idea4

4As long as we confine our speculations to the ap-pearances of objects to our senses, without entering intodisquisitions concerning their real nature and opera-tions, we are safe from all difficulties, and can neverbe embarrassed by any question. Thus, if it be asked,if the invisible and intangible distance, interposed be-twixt two objects, be something or nothing: It is easy toanswer, that it is something, viz. a property of the objects,which affect the senses after such a particular manner. Ifit be asked whether two objects, having such a distancebetwixt them, touch or not: it may be answered, that this

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If we carry our enquiry beyond the appear-ances of objects to the senses, I am afraid, thatmost of our conclusions will be full of scep-ticism and uncertainty. Thus if it be asked,whether or not the invisible and intangible dis-tance be always full of body, or of somethingthat by an improvement of our organs mightbecome visible or tangible, I must acknowl-edge, that I find no very decisive arguments oneither side; though I am inclined to the contrary

depends upon the definition of the word, touch. If ob-jects be said to touch, when there is nothing sensible in-terposed betwixt them, these objects touch: it objects besaid to touch, when their images strike contiguous partsof the eye, and when the hand feels both objects succes-sively, without any interposed motion, these objects donot touch. The appearances of objects to our senses areall consistent; and no difficulties can ever arise, but fromthe obscurity of the terms we make use of.

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opinion, as being more suitable to vulgar andpopular notions. If the Newtonian philosophybe rightly understood, it will be found to meanno more. A vacuum is asserted: That is, bod-ies are said to be placed after such a manner,is to receive bodies betwixt them, without im-pulsion or penetration. The real nature of thisposition of bodies is unknown. We are only ac-quainted with its effects on the senses, and itspower of receiving body. Nothing is more suit-able to that philosophy, than a modest scepti-cism to a certain degree, and a fair confessionof ignorance in subjects, that exceed all humancapacity.)

I shall conclude this subject of extension witha paradox, which will easily be explained fromthe foregoing reasoning. This paradox is, that ifyou are pleased to give to the in-visible and in-

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tangible distance, or in other words, to the ca-pacity of becoming a visible and tangible dis-tance, the name of a vacuum, extension andmatter are the same, and yet there is a vac-uum. If you will not give it that name, motionis possible in a plenum, without any impulsein infinitum, without returning in a circle, andwithout penetration. But however we may ex-press ourselves, we must always confess, thatwe have no idea of any real extension withoutfilling it with sensible objects, and conceivingits parts as visible or tangible.

As to the doctrine, that time is nothing butthe manner, in which some real objects exist;we may observe, that it is liable to the same ob-jections as the similar doctrine with regard toextension. If it be a sufficient proof, that wehave the idea of a vacuum, because we dis-

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pute and reason concerning it; we must for thesame reason have the idea of time without anychangeable existence; since there is no subjectof dispute more frequent and common. Butthat we really have no such idea, is certain.For whence should it be derived? Does it arisefrom an impression of sensation or of reflec-tion? Point it out distinctly to us, that we mayknow its nature and qualities. But if you cannotpoint out any such impression, you may be cer-tain you are mistaken, when you imagine youhave any such idea.

But though it be impossible to shew the im-pression, from which the idea of time with-out a changeable existence is derived; yet wecan easily point out those appearances, whichmake us fancy we have that idea. For we mayobserve, that there is a continual succession of

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perceptions in our mind; so that the idea oftime being for ever present with us; when weconsider a stedfast object at five-a-clock, andregard the same at six; we are apt to apply toit that idea in the same manner as if every mo-ment were distinguished by a different posi-tion, or an alteration of the object. The first andsecond appearances of the object, being com-pared with the succession of our perceptions,seem equally removed as if the object had re-ally changed. To which we may add, what ex-perience shews us, that the object was suscepti-ble of such a number of changes betwixt theseappearances; as also that the unchangeable orrather fictitious duration has the same effectupon every quality, by encreasing or diminish-ing it, as that succession, which is obvious tothe senses. From these three relations we areapt to confound our ideas, and imagine we can

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form the idea of a time and duration, withoutany change or succession.

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SECTION VI. OF THE IDEA OF EXISTENCE,AND OR ETERNAL EXISTENCE

It may not be amiss, before we leave thissubject, to explain the ideas of existence andof external existence; which have their difficul-ties, as well as the ideas of space and time. Bythis means we shall be the better prepared forthe examination of knowledge and probability,when we understand perfectly all those partic-ular ideas, which may enter into our reasoning.

There is no impression nor idea of any kind,of which we have any consciousness or mem-ory, that is not conceived as existent; and it isevident, that from this consciousness the mostperfect idea and assurance of being is derived.From hence we may form a dilemma, the mostclear and conclusive that can be imagined, viz.

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that since we never remember any idea or im-pression without attributing existence to it, theidea of existence must either be derived from adistinct impression, conjoined with every per-ception or object of our thought, or must be thevery same with the idea of the perception orobject.

As this dilemma is an evident consequenceof the principle, that every idea arises from asimilar impression, so our decision betwixt thepropositions of the dilemma is no more doubt-ful. So far from there being any distinct impres-sion, attending every impression and everyidea, that I do not think there are any two dis-tinct impressions, which are inseparably con-joined. Though certain sensations may at onetime be united, we quickly find they admit of aseparation, and may be presented apart. And

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thus, though every impression and idea we re-member be considered as existent, the idea ofexistence is not derived from any particular im-pression.

The idea of existence, then, is the very samewith the idea of what we conceive to be exis-tent. To reflect on any thing simply, and to re-flect on it as existent, are nothing different fromeach other. That idea, when conjoined withthe idea of any object, makes no addition to it.Whatever we conceive, we conceive to be exis-tent. Any idea we please to form is the idea ofa being; and the idea of a being is any idea weplease to form.

Whoever opposes this, must necessarilypoint out that distinct impression, from whichthe idea of entity is derived, and must prove,that this impression is inseparable from every

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perception we believe to be existent. This wemay without hesitation conclude to be impos-sible.

Our foregoing reasoning (Part I. Sect. 7.)concerning the distinction of ideas without anyreal difference will not here serve us in anystead. That kind of distinction is foundedon the different resemblances, which the samesimple idea may have to several different ideas.But no object can be presented resemblingsome object with respect to its existence, anddifferent from others in the same particular;since every object, that is presented, must nec-essarily be existent.

A like reasoning will account for the ideaof external existence. We may observe, thatit is universally allowed by philosophers, andis besides pretty obvious of itself, that noth-

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ing is ever really present with the mind butits perceptions or impressions and ideas, andthat external objects become known to us onlyby those perceptions they occasion. To hate, tolove, to think, to feel, to see; all this is nothingbut to perceive.

Now since nothing is ever present to themind but perceptions, and since all ideas arederived from something antecedently presentto the mind; it follows, that it is impossible forus so much as to conceive or form an idea ofany thing specifically different from ideas andimpressions. Let us fix our attention out of our-selves as much as possible: Let us chase ourimagination to the heavens, or to the utmostlimits of the universe; we never really advancea step beyond ourselves, nor can conceive anykind of existence, but those perceptions, which

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have appeared in that narrow compass. This isthe universe of the imagination, nor have weany idea but what is there produced.

The farthest we can go towards a conceptionof external objects, when supposed specificallydifferent from our perceptions, is to form a rel-ative idea of them, without pretending to com-prehend the related objects. Generally speak-ing we do not suppose them specifically dif-ferent; but only attribute to them different re-lations, connections and durations. But of thismore fully hereafter.(Part IV, Sect. 2.)

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PART III

OF KNOWLEDGE AND PROBABILITY

SECTION I. OF KNOWLEDGE

There are seven (Part I. Sect. 5.) differ-ent kinds of philosophical relation, viz. resem-blance, identity, relations of time and place, propor-tion in quantity or number, degrees in any qual-ity, contrariety and causation. These relationsmay be divided into two classes; into such asdepend entirely on the ideas, which we com-pare together, and such as may be changedwithout any change in the ideas. It is fromthe idea of a triangle, that we discover the re-lation of equality, which its three angles bear

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to two right ones; and this relation is invari-able, as long as our idea remains the same.On the contrary, the relations of contiguity anddistance betwixt two objects may be changedmerely by an alteration of their place, with-out any change on the objects themselves or ontheir ideas; and the place depends on a hun-dred different accidents, which cannot be fore-seen by the mind. It is the same case with iden-tity and causation. Two objects, though per-fectly resembling each other, and even appear-ing in the same place at different times, maybe numerically different: And as the power,by which one object produces another, is neverdiscoverable merely from their idea, it is ev-ident cause and effect are relations, of whichwe receive information from experience, andnot from any abstract reasoning or reflection.There is no single phaenomenon, even the most

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simple, which can be accounted for from thequalities of the objects, as they appear to us; orwhich we coued foresee without the help of ourmemory and experience.

It appears, therefore, that of these sevenphilosophical relations, there remain only four,which depending solely upon ideas, can be theobjects of knowledge and certainty. These fourare resemblance, contrariety, degrees in quality andproportions in quantitiy or number. Three of theserelations are discoverable at first sight, and fallmore properly under the province of intuitionthan demonstration. When any objects resem-ble each other, the resemblance will at firststrike the eye, or rather the mind; and seldomrequires a second examination. The case is thesame with contrariety, and with the degrees ofany quality. No one can once doubt but ex-

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istence and non-existence destroy each other,and are perfectly incompatible and contrary.And though it be impossible to judge exactly ofthe degrees of any quality, such as colour, taste,heat, cold, when the difference betwixt them isvery small: yet it is easy to decide, that any ofthem is superior or inferior to another, whentheir difference is considerable. And this deci-sion we always pronounce at first sight, with-out any enquiry or reasoning.

We might proceed, after the same manner, infixing the proportions of quantity or number,and might at one view observe a superiority orinferiority betwixt any numbers, or figures; es-pecially where the difference is very great andremarkable. As to equality or any exact pro-portion, we can only guess at it from a singleconsideration; except in very short numbers,

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or very limited portions of extension; whichare comprehended in an instant, and wherewe perceive an impossibility of falling into anyconsiderable error. In all other cases we mustsettle the proportions with some liberty, or pro-ceed in a more artificial manner.

I have already observed, that geometry, orthe art, by which we fix the proportions of fig-ures; though it much excels both in universal-ity and exactness, the loose judgments of thesenses and imagination; yet never attains a per-fect precision and exactness. It’s first principlesare still drawn from the general appearance ofthe objects; and that appearance can never af-ford us any security, when we examine, theprodigious minuteness of which nature is sus-ceptible. Our ideas seem to give a perfect as-surance, that no two right lines can have a com-

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mon segment; but if we consider these ideas,we shall find, that they always suppose a sensi-ble inclination of the two lines, and that wherethe angle they form is extremely small, we haveno standard of a I @ right line so precise as toassure us of the truth of this proposition. It isthe same case with most of the primary deci-sions of the mathematics.

There remain, therefore, algebra and arith-metic as the only sciences, in which we cancarry on a chain of reasoning to any degree ofintricacy, and yet preserve a perfect exactnessand certainty. We are possest of a precise stan-dard, by which we can judge of the equalityand proportion of numbers; and according asthey correspond or not to that standard, we de-termine their relations, without any possibilityof error. When two numbers are so combined,

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as that the one has always an unite answeringto every unite of the other, we pronounce themequal; and it is for want of such a standard ofequality in extension, that geometry can scarcebe esteemed a perfect and infallible science.

But here it may not be amiss to obviate a dif-ficulty, which may arise from my asserting, thatthough geometry falls short of that perfect pre-cision and certainty, which are peculiar to arith-metic and algebra, yet it excels the imperfectjudgments of our senses and imagination. Thereason why I impute any defect to geometry,is, because its original and fundamental princi-ples are derived merely from appearances; andit may perhaps be imagined, that this defectmust always attend it, and keep it from everreaching a greater exactness in the compari-son of objects or ideas, than what our eye or

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imagination alone is able to attain. I own thatthis defect so far attends it, as to keep it fromever aspiring to a full certainty: But since thesefundamental principles depend on the easiestand least deceitful appearances, they bestowon their consequences a degree of exactness, ofwhich these consequences are singly incapable.It is impossible for the eye to determine the an-gles of a chiliagon to be equal to 1996 right an-gles, or make any conjecture, that approachesthis proportion; but when it determines, thatright lines cannot concur; that we cannot drawmore than one right line between two givenpoints; it’s mistakes can never be of any conse-quence. And this is the nature and use of geom-etry, to run us up to such appearances, as, byreason of their simplicity, cannot lead us intoany considerable error.

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I shall here take occasion to propose a secondobservation concerning our demonstrative rea-sonings, which is suggested by the same sub-ject of the mathematics. It is usual with math-ematicians, to pretend, that those ideas, whichare their objects, are of so refined and spiritual anature, that they fall not under the conceptionof the fancy, but must be comprehended by apure and intellectual view, of which the supe-rior faculties of the soul are alone capable. Thesame notion runs through most parts of philos-ophy, and is principally made use of to explainoar abstract ideas, and to shew how we canform an idea of a triangle, for instance, whichshall neither be an isoceles nor scalenum, norbe confined to any particular length and pro-portion of sides. It is easy to see, why philoso-phers are so fond of this notion of some spir-itual and refined perceptions; since by that

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means they cover many of their absurdities,and may refuse to submit to the decisions ofclear ideas, by appealing to such as are obscureand uncertain. But to destroy this artifice, weneed but reflect on that principle so oft insistedon, that all our ideas are copyed from our im-pressions. For from thence we may immedi-ately conclude, that since all impressions areclear and precise, the ideas, which are copyedfrom them, must be of the same nature, and cannever, but from our fault, contain any thing sodark and intricate. An idea is by its very natureweaker and fainter than an impression; but be-ing in every other respect the same, cannot im-ply any very great mystery. If its weakness ren-der it obscure, it is our business to remedy thatdefect, as much as possible, by keeping the ideasteady and precise; and till we have done so, itis in vain to pretend to reasoning and philoso-

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phy.

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SECTION II. OF PROBABILITY, AND OF THEIDEA OF CAUSE AND EFFECT

This is all I think necessary to observe con-cerning those four relations, which are thefoundation of science; but as to the other three,which depend not upon the idea, and may beabsent or present even while that remains thesame, it will be proper to explain them moreparticularly. These three relations are identity,the situations in time and place, and causation.

All kinds of reasoning consist in nothing buta comparison, and a discovery of those rela-tions, either constant or inconstant, which twoor more objects bear to each other. This com-parison we may make, either when both the ob-jects are present to the senses, or when neitherof them is present, or when only one. When

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both the objects are present to the senses alongwith the relation, we call this perception ratherthan reasoning; nor is there in this case any ex-ercise of the thought, or any action, properlyspeaking, but a mere passive admission of theimpressions through the organs of sensation.According to this way of thinking, we oughtnot to receive as reasoning any of the obser-vations we may make concerning identity, andthe relations of time and place; since in noneof them the mind can go beyond what is im-mediately present to the senses, either to dis-cover the real existence or the relations of ob-jects. It is only causation, which produces sucha connexion, as to give us assurance from theexistence or action of one object, that it was fol-lowed or preceded by any other existence oraction; nor can the other two relations be evermade use of in reasoning, except so far as they

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either affect or are affected by it. There is noth-ing in any objects to perswade us, that theyare either always remote or always contiguous;and when from experience and observation wediscover, that their relation in this particular isinvariable, we, always conclude there is somesecret cause, which separates or unites them.The same reasoning extends to identity. Wereadily suppose an object may continue indi-vidually the same, though several times absentfrom and present to the senses; and ascribe toit an identity, notwithstanding the interruptionof the perception, whenever we conclude, thatif we had kept our eye or hand constantly uponit, it would have conveyed an invariable anduninterrupted perception. But this conclusionbeyond the impressions of our senses can befounded only on the connexion of cause andeffect; nor can we otherwise have any security,

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that the object is not changed upon us, howevermuch the new object may resemble that whichwas formerly present to the senses. Wheneverwe discover such a perfect resemblance, weconsider, whether it be common in that speciesof objects; whether possibly or probably anycause coued operate in producing the changeand resemblance; and according as we deter-mine concerning these causes and effects, weform our judgment concerning the identity ofthe object.

Here then it appears, that of those three rela-tions, which depend not upon the mere ideas,the only one, that can be traced beyond oursenses and informs us of existences and objects,which we do not see or feel, is causation. Thisrelation, therefore, we shall endeavour to ex-plain fully before we leave the subject of the

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understanding.

To begin regularly, we must consider theidea of causation, and see from what origin it isderived. It is impossible to reason justly, with-out understanding perfectly the idea concern-ing which we reason; and it is impossible per-fectly to understand any idea, without tracingit up to its origin, and examining that primaryimpression, from which it arises. The examina-tion of the impression bestows a clearness onthe idea; and the examination of the idea be-stows a like clearness on all our reasoning.

Let us therefore cast our eye on any two ob-jects, which we call cause and effect, and turnthem on all sides, in order to find that impres-sion, which produces an idea, of such prodi-gious consequence. At first sight I perceive,that I must not search for it in any of the par-

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ticular qualities of the objects; since which-everof these qualities I pitch on, I find some object,that is not possessed of it, and yet falls underthe denomination of cause or effect. And in-deed there is nothing existent, either externallyor internally, which is not to be considered ei-ther as a cause or an effect; though it is plainthere is no one quality, which universally be-longs to all beings, and gives them a title to thatdenomination.

The idea, then, of causation must be derivedfrom some relation among objects; and that re-lation we must now endeavour to discover. Ifind in the first place, that whatever objectsare considered as causes or effects, are contigu-ous; and that nothing can operate in a timeor place, which is ever so little removed fromthose of its existence. Though distant objects

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may sometimes seem productive of each other,they are commonly found upon examination tobe linked by a chain of causes, which are con-tiguous among themselves, and to the distantobjects; and when in any particular instancewe cannot discover this connexion, we still pre-sume it to exist. We may therefore consider therelation of contiguity as essential to that of cau-sation; at least may suppose it such, accordingto the general opinion, till we can find a more(Part IV. Sect. 5.) proper occasion to clear upthis matter, by examining what objects are orare not susceptible of juxtaposition and con-junction.

The second relation I shall observe as essen-tial to causes and effects, is not so universallyacknowledged, but is liable to some contro-versy. It is that of priority Of time in the cause

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before the effect. Some pretend that it is not ab-solutely necessary a cause should precede itseffect; but that any object or action, in the veryfirst moment of its existence, may exert its pro-ductive quality, and give rise to another objector action, perfectly co-temporary with itself.But beside that experience in most instancesseems to contradict this opinion, we may estab-lish the relation of priority by a kind of infer-ence or reasoning. It is an established maximboth in natural and moral philosophy, that anobject, which exists for any time in its full per-fection without producing another, is not itssole cause; but is assisted by some other prin-ciple, which pushes it from its state of inactiv-ity, and makes it exert that energy, of which itwas secretly possest. Now if any cause may beperfectly co-temporary with its effect, it is cer-tain, according to this maxim, that they must

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all of them be so; since any one of them, whichretards its operation for a single moment, ex-erts not itself at that very individual time, inwhich it might have operated; and thereforeis no proper cause. The consequence of thiswould be no less than the destruction of thatsuccession of causes, which we observe in theworld; and indeed, the utter annihilation oftime. For if one cause were co-temporary withits effect, and this effect with its effect, and soon, it is plain there would be no such thing assuccession, and all objects must be co-existent.

If this argument appear satisfactory, it iswell. If not, I beg the reader to allow me thesame liberty, which I have used in the preced-ing case, of supposing it such. For he shall find,that the affair is of no great importance.

Having thus discovered or supposed the two

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relations of contiguity and succession to be es-sential to causes and effects, I find I am stoptshort, and can proceed no farther in consid-ering any single instance of cause and effect.Motion in one body is regarded upon impulseas the cause of motion in another. When weconsider these objects with utmost attention,we find only that the one body approaches theother; and that the motion of it precedes that ofthe other, but without any, sensible interval. Itis in vain to rack ourselves with farther thoughtand reflection upon this subject. We can go nofarther in considering this particular instance.

Should any one leave this instance, and pre-tend to define a cause, by saying it is somethingproductive of another, it is evident he wouldsay nothing. For what does he mean by pro-duction? Can he give any definition of it, that

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will not be the same with that of causation? Ifhe can; I desire it may be produced. If he can-not; he here runs in a circle, and gives a synon-imous term instead of a definition.

Shall we then rest contented with these tworelations of contiguity and succession, as af-fording a complete idea of causation? By, nomeans. An object may be contiguous andprior to another, without being considered asits cause. There is a necessary connexion to betaken into consideration; and that relation is ofmuch greater importance, than any of the othertwo above-mentioned.

Here again I turn the object on all sides, inorder to discover the nature of this necessaryconnexion, and find the impression, or impres-sions, from which its idea may be derived.When I cast my eye on the known Qualities

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of objects, I immediately discover that the re-lation of cause and effect depends not in theleast on them. When I consider their relations,I can find none but those of contiguity and suc-cession; which I have already regarded as im-perfect and unsatisfactory. Shall the despair ofsuccess make me assert, that I am here poss-est of an idea, which is not preceded by anysimilar impression? This would be too stronga proof of levity and inconstancy; since thecontrary principle has been already so firmlyestablished, as to admit of no farther doubt;at least, till we have more fully examined thepresent difficulty.

We must, therefore, proceed like those, whobeing in search of any thing, that lies concealedfrom them, and not finding it in the placethey expected, beat about all the neighbouring

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fields, without any certain view or design, inhopes their good fortune will at last guide themto what they search for. It is necessary for usto leave the direct survey of this question con-cerning the nature of that necessary connexion,which enters into our idea of cause and effect;and endeavour to find some other questions,the examination of which will perhaps afforda hint, that may serve to clear up the presentdifficulty. Of these questions there occur two,which I shall proceed to examine, viz.

First, For what reason we pronounce it nec-essary, that every thing whose existence has abeginning, should also have a cause.

Secondly, Why we conclude, that such par-ticular causes must necessarily have such par-ticular effects; and what is the nature of that in-ference we draw from the one to the other, and

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of the belief we repose in it?I shall only observe before I proceed any far-

ther, that though the ideas of cause and effectbe derived from the impressions of reflection aswell as from those of sensation, yet for brevity’ssake, I commonly mention only the latter asthe origin of these ideas; though I desire thatwhatever I say of them may also extend to theformer. Passions are connected with their ob-jects and with one another; no less than exter-nal bodies are connected together. The same re-lation, then, of cause and effect, which belongsto one, must be common to all of them.

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SECTION III. WHY A CAUSE IS ALWAYSNECESSARY

To begin with the first question concerningthe necessity of a cause: It is a general maxim inphilosophy, that whatever begins to exist, musthave a cause of existence. This is commonlytaken for granted in all reasonings, without anyproof given or demanded. It is supposed to befounded on intuition, and to be one of thosemaxims, which though they may be denyedwith the lips, it is impossible for men in theirhearts really to doubt of. But if we examinethis maxim by the idea of knowledge above-explained, we shall discover in it no mark ofany such intuitive certainty; but on the con-trary shall find, that it is of a nature quite for-eign to that species of conviction.

All certainty arises from the comparison of

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ideas, and from the discovery of such relationsas are unalterable, so long as the ideas continuethe same. These relations are resemblance, pro-portions in quantity and number, degrees or anyquality, and contrarietyi; none of which are im-plyed in this proposition, Whatever has a be-ginning has also a cause of existence. Thatproposition therefore is not intuitively certain.At least any one, who would assert it to be intu-itively certain, must deny these to be the onlyinfallible relations, and must find some otherrelation of that kind to be implyed in it; whichit will then be time enough to examine.

But here is an argument, which proves atonce, that the foregoing proposition is neitherintuitively nor demonstrably certain. We cannever demonstrate the necessity of a cause toevery new existence, or new modification of ex-

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istence, without shewing at the same time theimpossibility there is, that any thing can everbegin to exist without some productive princi-ple; and where the latter proposition cannot beproved, we must despair of ever being able toprove the former. Now that the latter propo-sition is utterly incapable of a demonstrativeproof, we may satisfy ourselves by consider-ing that as all distinct ideas are separable fromeach other, and as the ideas of cause and effectare evidently distinct, it will be easy for us toconceive any object to be non-existent this mo-ment, and existent the next, without conjoiningto it the distinct idea of a cause or productiveprinciple. The separation, therefore, of the ideaof a cause from that of a beginning of existence,is plainly possible for the imagination; and con-sequently the actual separation of these objectsis so far possible, that it implies no contradic-

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tion nor absurdity; and is therefore incapableof being refuted by any reasoning from mereideas; without which it is impossible to demon-strate the necessity of a cause.

Accordingly we shall find upon examina-tion, that every demonstration, which has beenproduced for the necessity of a cause, is falla-cious and sophistical. All the points of time andplace, say some philosophers (Mr. Hobbes.), inwhich we can suppose any object to begin toexist, are in themselves equal; and unless therebe some cause, which is peculiar to one timeand to one place, and which by that means de-termines and fixes the existence, it must remainin eternal suspence; and the object can neverbegin to be, for want of something to fix itsbeginning. But I ask; Is there any more dif-ficulty in supposing the time and place to be

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fixed without a cause, than to suppose the ex-istence to be determined in that manner? Thefirst question that occurs on this subject is al-ways, whether the object shall exist or not: Thenext, when and where it shall begin to exist. Ifthe removal of a cause be intuitively absurd inthe one case, it must be so in the other: And ifthat absurdity be not clear without a proof inthe one case, it will equally require one in theother. The absurdity, then, of the one supposi-tion can never be a proof of that of the other;since they are both upon the same footing, andmust stand or fall by the same reasoning.

The second argument (Dr. Clarke and oth-ers.), which I find used on this head, laboursunder an equal difficulty. Every thing, it is said,must have a cause; for if any thing wanted acause, it would produce itself ; that is, exist be-

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fore it existed; which is impossible. But thisreasoning is plainly unconclusive; because itsupposes, that in our denial of a cause we stillgrant what we expressly deny, viz. that theremust be a cause; which therefore is taken to bethe object itself; and that, no doubt, is an ev-ident contradiction. But to say that any thingis produced, or to express myself more prop-erly, comes into existence, without a cause, isnot to affirm, that it is itself its own cause; buton the contrary in excluding all external causes,excludes a fortiori the thing itself, which is cre-ated. An object, that exists absolutely withoutany cause, certainly is not its own cause; andwhen you assert, that the one follows from theother, you suppose the very point in questionsand take it for granted, that it is utterly impos-sible any thing can ever begin to exist without acause, but that, upon the exclusion of one pro-

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ductive principle, we must still have recourseto another.

It is exactly the same case with the thirdargument (Mr. Locke.), which has been em-ployed to demonstrate the necessity of a cause.Whatever is produced without any cause, isproduced by nothing; or in other words, hasnothing for its cause. But nothing can never bea cause, no more than it can be something, orequal to two right angles. By the same intu-ition, that we perceive nothing not to be equalto two right angles, or not to be something, weperceive, that it can never be a cause; and con-sequently must perceive, that every object hasa real cause of its existence.

I believe it will not be necessary to employmany words in shewing the weakness of thisargument, after what I have said of the forego-

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ing. They are all of them founded on the samefallacy, and are derived from the same turn ofthought. It is sufficient only to observe, thatwhen we exclude all causes we really do ex-clude them, and neither suppose nothing northe object itself to be the causes of the existence;and consequently can draw no argument fromthe absurdity of these suppositions to prove theabsurdity of that exclusion. If every thing musthave a cause, it follows, that upon the exclusionof other causes we must accept of the object it-self or of nothing as causes. But it is the verypoint in question, whether every thing musthave a cause or not; and therefore, accordingto all just reasoning, it ought never to be takenfor granted.

They are still more frivolous, who say, thatevery effect must have a cause, because it is im-

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plyed in the very idea of effect. Every effectnecessarily pre-supposes a cause; effect beinga relative term, of which cause is the correla-tive. But this does not prove, that every be-ing must be preceded by a cause; no more thanit follows, because every husband must havea wife, that therefore every man must be mar-ryed. The true state of the question is, whetherevery object, which begins to exist, must oweits existence to a cause: and this I assert nei-ther to be intuitively nor demonstratively cer-tain, and hope to have proved it sufficiently bythe foregoing arguments.

Since it is not from knowledge or any scien-tific reasoning, that we derive the opinion ofthe necessity of a cause to every new produc-tion, that opinion must necessarily arise fromobservation and experience. The next ques-

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tion, then, should naturally be, how experiencegives rise to such a principle? But as I find itwill be more convenient to sink this question inthe following, Why we conclude, that such par-ticular causes must necessarily have such par-ticular erects, and why we form an inferencefrom one to another? we shall make that thesubject of our future enquiry. It will, perhaps,be found in the end, that the same answer willserve for both questions.

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SECTION IV. OF THE COMPONENT PARTS OFOUR REASONING CONCERNING CAUSE AND

EFFECT

Though the mind in its reasonings fromcauses or effects carries its view beyond thoseobjects, which it sees or remembers, it mustnever lose sight of them entirely, nor reasonmerely upon its own ideas, without some mix-ture of impressions, or at least of ideas of thememory, which are equivalent to impressions.When we infer effects from causes, we must es-tablish the existence of these causes; which wehave only two ways of doing, either by an im-mediate perception of our memory or senses,or by an inference from other causes; whichcauses again we must ascertain in the samemanner, either by a present impression, or byan inference from their causes, and so on, till

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we arrive at some object, which we see or re-member. It is impossible for us to carry on ourinferences in finitum; and the only thing, thatcan stop them, is an impression of the memoryor senses, beyond which there is no room fordoubt or enquiry.

To give an instance of this, we may chuse anypoint of history, and consider for what reasonwe either believe or reject it. Thus we believethat Caesar was killed in the senate-house onthe ides of March; and that because this fact isestablished on the unanimous testimony of his-torians, who agree to assign this precise timeand place to that event. Here are certain char-acters and letters present either to our mem-ory or senses; which characters we likewise re-member to have been used as the signs of cer-tain ideas; and these ideas were either in the

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minds of such as were immediately present atthat action, and received the ideas directly fromits existence; or they were derived from the tes-timony of others, and that again from anothertestimony, by a visible gradation, it will we ar-rive at those who were eyewitnesses and spec-tators of the event. It is obvious all this chain ofargument or connexion of causes and effects,is at first founded on those characters or let-ters, which are seen or remembered, and thatwithout the authority either of the memory orsenses our whole reasoning would be chimeri-cal and without foundation. Every link of thechain would in that case hang upon another;but there would not be any thing fixed to oneend of it, capable of sustaining the whole; andconsequently there would be no belief nor ev-idence. And this actually is the case with allhypothetical arguments, or reasonings upon a

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supposition; there being in them, neither anypresent impression, nor belief of a real exis-tence.

I need not observe, that it is no just objec-tion to the present doctrine, that we can rea-son upon our past conclusions or principles,without having recourse to those impressions,from which they first arose. For even sup-posing these impressions should be entirely ef-faced from the memory, the conviction theyproduced may still remain; and it is equallytrue, that all reasonings concerning causes andeffects are originally derived from some im-pression; in the same manner, as the assur-ance of a demonstration proceeds always froma comparison of ideas, though it may continueafter the comparison is forgot.

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SECTION V. OF THE IMPRESSIONS OF THESENSES AND MEMORY

In this kind of reasoning, then, from cau-sation, we employ materials, which are of amixed and heterogeneous nature, and which,however connected, are yet essentially differ-ent from each other. All our arguments con-cerning causes and effects consist both of animpression of the memory or, senses, and ofthe idea of that existence, which produces theobject of the impression, or is produced byit. Here therefore we have three things to ex-plain, viz. First, The original impression. Sec-ondly, The transition to the idea of the con-nected cause or effect. Thirdly, The nature andqualities of that idea.

As to those impressions, which arise fromthe senses, their ultimate cause is, in my opin-

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ion, perfectly inexplicable by human reason,and it will always be impossible to decide withcertainty, whether they arise immediately fromthe object, or are produced by the creativepower of the mind, or are derived from the au-thor of our being. Nor is such a question anyway material to our present purpose. We maydraw inferences from the coherence of our per-ceptions, whether they be true or false; whetherthey represent nature justly, or be mere illu-sions of the senses.

When we search for the characteristic, whichdistinguishes the memory from the imagina-tion, we must immediately perceive, that it can-not lie in the simple ideas it presents to us;since both these faculties borrow their simpleideas from the impressions, and can never gobeyond these original perceptions. These fac-

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ulties are as little distinguished from each otherby the arrangement of their complex ideas. Forthough it be a peculiar property of the mem-ory to preserve the original order and positionof its ideas, while the imagination transposesand changes them, as it pleases; yet this dif-ference is not sufficient to distinguish them intheir operation, or make us know the one fromthe other; it being impossible to recal the pastimpressions, in order to compare them withour present ideas, and see whether their ar-rangement be exactly similar. Since thereforethe memory, is known, neither by the order ofits complex ideas, nor the nature of its simpleones; it follows, that the difference betwixt itand the imagination lies in its superior forceand vivacity. A man may indulge his fancyin feigning any past scene of adventures; norwould there be any possibility of distinguish-

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ing this from a remembrance of a like kind,were not the ideas of the imagination fainterand more obscure.

It frequently happens, that when two menhave been engaged in any scene of action, theone shall remember it much better than theother, and shall have all the difficulty in theworld to make his companion recollect it. Heruns over several circumstances in vain; men-tions the time, the place, the company, whatwas said, what was done on all sides; till atlast he hits on some lucky circumstance, that re-vives the whole, and gives his friend a perfectmemory of every thing. Here the person thatforgets receives at first all the ideas from thediscourse of the other, with the same circum-stances of time and place; though he considersthem as mere fictions of the imagination. But

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as soon as the circumstance is mentioned, thattouches the memory, the very same ideas nowappear in a new light, and have, in a manner,a different feeling from what they had before.Without any other alteration, beside that of thefeeling, they become immediately ideas of thememory, and are assented to.

Since, therefore, the imagination can repre-sent all the same objects that the memory canoffer to us, and since those faculties are onlydistinguished by the different feeling of theideas they present, it may be proper to considerwhat is the nature of that feeling. And here Ibelieve every one will readily agree with me,that the ideas of the memory are more strongand lively than those of the fancy.

A painter, who intended to represent a pas-sion or emotion of any kind, would endeavour

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to get a sight of a person actuated by a likeemotion, in order to enliven his ideas, and givethem a force and vivacity superior to what isfound in those, which are mere fictions of theimagination. The more recent this memory is,the clearer is the idea; and when after a long in-terval he would return to the contemplation ofhis object, he always finds its idea to be muchdecayed, if not wholly obliterated. We are fre-quently in doubt concerning the ideas of thememory, as they become very weak and fee-ble; and are at a loss to determine whether anyimage proceeds from the fancy or the memory,when it is not drawn in such lively colours asdistinguish that latter faculty. I think, I remem-ber such an event, says one; but am not sure.A long tract of time has almost worn it out ofmy memory, and leaves me uncertain whetheror not it be the pure offspring of my fancy.

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And as an idea of the memory, by losing itsforce and vivacity, may degenerate to such adegree, as to be taken for an idea of the imag-ination; so on the other hand an idea of theimagination may acquire such a force and vi-vacity, as to pass for an idea of the memory, andcounterfeit its effects on the belief and judg-ment. This is noted in the case of liars; who bythe frequent repetition of their lies, come at lastto believe and remember them, as realities; cus-tom and habit having in this case, as in manyothers, the same influence on the mind as na-ture, and infixing the idea with equal force andvigour.

Thus it appears, that the belief or assent,which always attends the memory and senses,is nothing but the vivacity of those perceptionsthey present; and that this alone distinguishes

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them from the imagination. To believe is inthis case to feel an immediate impression of thesenses, or a repetition of that impression in thememory. It is merely the force and liveliness ofthe perception, which constitutes the first act ofthe judgment, and lays the foundation of thatreasoning, which we build upon it, when wetrace the relation of cause and effect.

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SECTION VI. OF THE INFERENCE FROM THEIMPRESSION TO THE IDEA

It is easy to observe, that in tracing this rela-tion, the inference we draw from cause to ef-fect, is not derived merely from a survey ofthese particular objects, and from such a pen-etration into their essences as may discoverthe dependance of the one upon the other.There is no object, which implies the existenceof any other if we consider these objects inthemselves, and never look beyond the ideaswhich we form of them. Such an inferencewould amount to knowledge, and would im-ply the absolute contradiction and impossibil-ity of conceiving any thing different. But as alldistinct ideas are separable, it is evident therecan be no impossibility of that kind. When wepass from a present impression to the idea of

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any object, we might possibly have separatedthe idea from the impression, and have substi-tuted any other idea in its room.

It is therefore by experience only, that we caninfer the existence of one object from that ofanother. The nature of experience is this. Weremember to have had frequent instances ofthe existence of one species of objects; andalso remember, that the individuals of anotherspecies of objects have always attended them,and have existed in a regular order of contigu-ity and succession with regard to them. Thuswe remember, to have seen that species of ob-ject we call flame, and to have felt that speciesof sensation we call heat. We likewise call tomind their constant conjunction in all past in-stances. Without any farther ceremony, we callthe one cause and the other effect, and infer the

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existence of the one from that of the other. In allthose instances, from which we learn the con-junction of particular causes and effects, boththe causes and effects have been perceived bythe senses, and are remembered But in all cases,wherein we reason concerning them, there isonly one perceived or remembered, and theother is supplyed in conformity to our past ex-perience.

Thus in advancing we have insensibly dis-covered a new relation betwixt cause and ef-fect, when we least expected it, and were en-tirely employed upon another subject. This re-lation is their constant conjunction. Contiguityand succession are not sufficient to make uspronounce any two objects to be cause and ef-fect, unless we perceive, that these two rela-tions are preserved in several instances. We

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may now see the advantage of quitting the di-rect survey of this relation, in order to discoverthe nature of that necessary connexion, whichmakes so essential a part of it. There are hopes,that by this means we may at last arrive atour proposed end; though to tell the truth, thisnew-discovered relation of a constant conjunc-tion seems to advance us but very little in ourway. For it implies no more than this, that likeobjects have always been placed in like rela-tions of contiguity and succession; and it seemsevident, at least at first sight, that by this meanswe can never discover any new idea, and canonly multiply, but not enlarge the objects of ourmind. It may be thought, that what we learnnot from one object, we can never learn froma hundred, which are all of the same kind, andare perfectly resembling in every circumstance.As our senses shew us in one instance two

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bodies, or motions, or qualities in certain rela-tions of success and contiguity; so our memorypresents us only with a multitude of instances,wherein we always find like bodies, motions,or qualities in like relations. From the mererepetition of any past impression, even to infin-ity, there never will arise any new original idea,such as that of a necessary connexion; and thenumber of impressions has in this case no moreeffect than if we confined ourselves to one only.But though this reasoning seems just and obvi-ous; yet as it would be folly to despair too soon,we shall continue the thread of our discourse;and having found, that after the discovery ofthe constant conjunction of any objects, we al-ways draw an inference from one object to an-other, we shall now examine the nature of thatinference, and of the transition from the im-pression to the idea. Perhaps it will appear in

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the end, that the necessary connexion dependson the inference, instead of the inference’s de-pending on the necessary connexion.

Since it appears, that the transition from animpression present to the memory or sensesto the idea of an object, which we call causeor effect, is founded on past experience, andon our remembrance of their constant conjunc-tion, the next question is, Whether experienceproduces the idea by means of the understand-ing or imagination; whether we are determinedby reason to make the transition, or by a cer-tain association and relation of perceptions. Ifreason determined us, it would proceed uponthat principle, that instances, of which we havehad no experience, must resemble those, ofwhich we have had experience, and that thecourse of nature continues always uniformly

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the same. In order therefore to clear up thismatter, let us consider all the arguments, uponwhich such a proposition may be supposed tobe founded; and as these must be derived ei-ther from knowledge or probability, let us castour eye on each of these degrees of evidence,and see whether they afford any just conclu-sion of this nature.

Our foregoing method of reasoning will eas-ily convince us, that there can be no demonstra-tive arguments to prove, that those instances,of which we have, had no experience, resemblethose, of which we have had experience. Wecan at least conceive a change in the course ofnature; which sufficiently proves, that such achange is not absolutely impossible. To form aclear idea of any thing, is an undeniable argu-ment for its possibility, and is alone a refutation

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of any pretended demonstration against it.

Probability, as it discovers not the relationsof ideas, considered as such, but only thoseof objects, must in some respects be foundedon the impressions of our memory and senses,and in some respects on our ideas. Were thereno mixture of any impression in our proba-ble reasonings, the conclusion would be en-tirely chimerical: And were there no mixtureof ideas, the action of the mind, in observingthe relation, would, properly speaking, be sen-sation, not reasoning. It is therefore necessary,that in all probable reasonings there be some-thing present to the mind, either seen or re-membered; and that from this we infer some-thing connected with it, which is not seen norremembered.

The only connexion or relation of objects,

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which can lead us beyond the immediate im-pressions of our memory and senses, is that ofcause and effect; and that because it is the onlyone, on which we can found a just inferencefrom one object to another. The idea of causeand effect is derived from experience, which in-forms us, that such particular objects, in all pastinstances, have been constantly conjoined witheach other: And as an object similar to one ofthese is supposed to be immediately present inits impression, we thence presume on the exis-tence of one similar to its usual attendant. Ac-cording to this account of things, which is, Ithink, in every point unquestionable, probabil-ity is founded on the presumption of a resem-blance betwixt those objects, of which we havehad experience, and those, of which we havehad none; and therefore it is impossible thispresumption can arise from probability. The

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same principle cannot be both the cause andeffect of another; and this is, perhaps, the onlyproposition concerning that relation, which iseither intuitively or demonstratively certain.

Should any one think to elude this argument;and without determining whether our reason-ing on this subject be derived from demonstra-tion or probability, pretend that all conclusionsfrom causes and effects are built on solid rea-soning: I can only desire, that this reasoningmay be produced, in order to be exposed to ourexamination. It may, perhaps, be said, that afterexperience of the constant conjunction of cer-tain objects, we reason in the following man-ner. Such an object is always found to produceanother. It is impossible it coued have this ef-fect, if it was not endowed with a power ofproduction. The power necessarily implies the

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effect; and therefore there is a just foundationfor drawing a conclusion from the existence ofone object to that of its usual attendant. Thepast production implies a power: The powerimplies a new production: And the new pro-duction is what we infer from the power andthe past production.

It were easy for me to shew the weakness ofthis reasoning, were I willing to make use ofthose observations, I have already made, thatthe idea of production is the same with that ofcausation, and that no existence certainly anddemonstratively implies a power in any otherobject; or were it proper to anticipate what Ishall have occasion to remark afterwards con-cerning the idea we form of power and efficacy.But as such a method of proceeding may seemeither to weaken my system, by resting one

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part of it on another, or to breed a confusionin my reasoning, I shall endeavour to maintainmy present assertion without any such assis-tance.

It shall therefore be allowed for a moment,that the production of one object by anotherin any one instance implies a power; and thatthis power is connected with its effect. But ithaving been already proved, that the powerlies not in the sensible qualities of the cause;and there being nothing but the sensible quali-ties present to us; I ask, why in other instancesyou presume that the same power still exists,merely upon the appearance of these qualities?Your appeal to past experience decides noth-ing in the present case; and at the utmost canonly prove, that that very object, which pro-duced any other, was at that very instant en-

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dowed with such a power; but can never prove,that the same power must continue in the sameobject or collection of sensible qualities; muchless, that a like power is always conjoined withlike sensible qualities, should it be said, that wehave experience, that the same power contin-ues united with the same object, and that likeobjects are endowed with like powers, I wouldrenew my question, why from this experiencewe form any conclusion beyond those past in-stances, of which we have had experience. Ifyou answer this question in, the same manneras the preceding, your answer gives still occa-sion to a new question of the same kind, even ininfinitum; which clearly proves, that the fore-going reasoning had no just foundation.

Thus not only our reason fails us in the dis-covery of the ultimate connexion of causes and

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effects, but even after experience has informedus of their constant conjunction, it is impossi-ble for us to satisfy ourselves by our reason,why we should extend that experience beyondthose particular instances, which have fallenunder our observation. We suppose, but arenever able to prove, that there must be a resem-blance betwixt those objects, of which we havehad experience, and those which lie beyond thereach of our discovery.

We have already taken notice of certain rela-tions, which make us pass from one object toanother, even though there be no reason to de-termine us to that transition; and this we mayestablish for a general rule, that wherever themind constantly and uniformly makes a tran-sition without any reason, it is influenced bythese relations. Now this is exactly the present

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case. Reason can never shew us the connex-ion of one object with another, though aidedby experience, and the observation of their con-stant conjunction in all past instances. Whenthe mind, therefore, passes from the idea orimpression of one object to the idea or beliefof another, it is not determined by reason, butby certain principles, which associate togetherthe ideas of these objects, and unite them inthe imagination. Had ideas no more union inthe fancy than objects seem to have to the un-derstanding, we coued never draw any infer-ence from causes to effects, nor repose belief inany matter of fact. The inference, therefore, de-pends solely on the union of ideas.

The principles of union among ideas, I havereduced to three general ones, and have as-serted, that the idea or impression of any object

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naturally introduces the idea of any other ob-ject, that is resembling, contiguous to, or con-nected with it. These principles I allow to beneither the infallible nor the sole causes of anunion among ideas. They are not the infalli-ble causes. For one may fix his attention dur-ing Sometime on any one object without look-ing farther. They are not the sole causes. Forthe thought has evidently a very irregular mo-tion in running along its objects, and may leapfrom the heavens to the earth, from one end ofthe creation to the other, without any certainmethod or order. But though I allow this weak-ness in these three relations, and this irregu-larity in the imagination; yet I assert that theonly general principles, which associate ideas,are resemblance, contiguity and causation.

There is indeed a principle of union among

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ideas, which at first sight may be esteemeddifferent from any of these, but will be foundat the bottom to depend on the same origin.When every individual of any species of ob-jects is found by experience to be constantlyunited with an individual of another species,the appearance of any new individual of ei-ther species naturally conveys the thought toits usual attendant. Thus because such a par-ticular idea is commonly annexed to such aparticular word, nothing is required but thehearing of that word to produce the correspon-dent idea; and it will scarce be possible for themind, by its utmost efforts, to prevent that tran-sition. In this case it is not absolutely neces-sary, that upon hearing such a particular soundwe should reflect on any past experience, andconsider what idea has been usually connectedwith the sound. The imagination of itself sup-

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plies the place of this reflection, and is so accus-tomed to pass from the word to the idea, thatit interposes not a moment’s delay betwixt thehearing of the one, and the conception of theother.

But though I acknowledge this to be a trueprinciple of association among ideas, I assertit to be the very same with that betwixt theideas of cause and effects and to be an essen-tial part in all our reasonings from that rela-tion. We have no other notion of cause andeffect, but that of certain objects, which havebeen always conjoined together, and which inall past instances have been found inseparable.We cannot penetrate into the reason of the con-junction. We only observe the thing itself, andalways find that from the constant conjunctionthe objects acquire an union in the imagination.

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When the impression of one becomes presentto us, we immediately form an idea of its usualattendant; and consequently we may establishthis as one part of the definition of an opinionor belief, that it is an idea related to or associ-ated with a present impression.

Thus though causation be a philosophical re-lation, as implying contiguity, succession, andconstant conjunction, yet it is only so far as itis a natural relation, and produces an unionamong our ideas, that we are able to reasonupon it, or draw any inference from it.

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SECTION VII. OF THE NATURE OF THE IDEAOR BELIEF

The idea of an object is an essential part ofthe belief of it, but not the whole. We conceivemany things, which we do not believe. In orderthen to discover more fully the nature of belief,or the qualities of those ideas we assent to, letus weigh the following considerations.

It is evident, that all reasonings from causesor effects terminate in conclusions, concerningmatter of fact; that is, concerning the existenceof objects or of their qualities. It is also evident,that the idea, of existence is nothing differentfrom the idea of any object, and that when afterthe simple conception of any thing we wouldconceive it as existent, we in reality make noaddition to or alteration on our first idea. Thus

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when we affirm, that God is existent, we sim-ply form the idea of such a being, as he is rep-resented to us; nor is the existence, which weattribute to him, conceived by a particular idea,which we join to the idea of his other qualities,and can again separate and distinguish fromthem. But I go farther; and not content with as-serting, that the conception of the existence ofany object is no addition to the simple concep-tion of it, I likewise maintain, that the belief ofthe existence joins no new ideas to those whichcompose the idea of the object. When I thinkof God, when I think of him as existent, andwhen I believe him to be existent, my idea ofhim neither encreases nor diminishes. But asit is certain there is a great difference betwixtthe simple conception of the existence of an ob-ject, and the belief of it, and as this differencelies not in the parts or composition of the idea,

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which we conceive; it follows, that it must liein the manner, in which we conceive it.

Suppose a person present with me, whoadvances propositions, to which I do not as-sent, that Caesar dyed in his bed, that silveris more fusible, than lead, or mercury heav-ier than gold; it is evident, that notwithstand-ing my incredulity, I clearly understand hismeaning, and form all the same ideas, whichhe forms. My imagination is endowed withthe same powers as his; nor is it possible forhim to conceive any idea, which I cannot con-ceive; nor conjoin any, which I cannot con-join. I therefore ask, Wherein consists the dif-ference betwixt believing and disbelieving anyproposition? The answer is easy with regardto propositions, that are proved by intuition ordemonstration. In that case, the person, who

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assents, not only conceives the ideas accord-ing to the proposition, but is necessarily deter-mined to conceive them in that particular man-ner, either immediately or by the interpositionof other ideas. Whatever is absurd is unintel-ligible; nor is it possible for the imaginationto conceive any thing contrary to a demonstra-tion. But as in reasonings from causation, andconcerning matters of fact, this absolute neces-sity cannot take place, and the imagination isfree to conceive both sides of the question, I stillask, Wherein consists the deference betwixt in-credulity and belief? since in both cases theconception of the idea is equally possible andrequisite.

It will not be a satisfactory answer to say, thata person, who does not assent to a propositionyou advance; after having conceived the ob-

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ject in the same manner with you; immediatelyconceives it in a different manner, and has dif-ferent ideas of it. This answer is unsatisfactory;not because it contains any falshood, but be-cause it discovers not all the truth. It is contest,that in all cases, wherein we dissent from anyperson, we conceive both sides of the question;but as we can believe only one, it evidently fol-lows, that the belief must make some differ-ence betwixt that conception to which we as-sent, and that from which we dissent. We maymingle, and unite, and separate, and confound,and vary our ideas in a hundred different ways;but until there appears some principle, whichfixes one of these different situations, we havein reality no opinion: And this principle, asit plainly makes no addition to our precedentideas, can only change the manner of our con-ceiving them.

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All the perceptions of the mind are of twokinds, viz. impressions and ideas, which differfrom each other only in their different degreesof force and vivacity. Our ideas are copyedfrom our impressions, and represent them inall their parts. When you would any way varythe idea of a particular object, you can only en-crease or diminish its force and vivacity. If youmake any other change on it, it represents adifferent object or impression. The case is thesame as in colours. A particular shade of anycolour may acquire a new degree of livelinessor brightness without any other variation. Butwhen you produce any other variation, it is nolonger the same shade or colour. So that as be-lief does nothing but vary the manner, in whichwe conceive any object, it can only bestow onour ideas an additional force and vivacity. Anopinion, therefore, or belief may be most accu-

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rately defined, a lively idea related to or associ-ated with a present impression.

We may here take occasion to observe a veryremarkable error, which being frequently in-culcated in the schools, has become a kind ofestablishd maxim, and is universally receivedby all logicians. This error consists in the vul-gar division of the acts of the understanding,into conception, judgment and reasoning, and inthe definitions we give of them. Conception isdefind to be the simple survey of one or moreideas: Judgment to be the separating or unit-ing of different ideas: Reasoning to be the sep-arating or uniting of different ideas by the in-terposition of others, which show the relationthey bear to each other. But these distinctionsand definitions are faulty in very considerablearticles. For first, it is far from being true, that

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in every judgment, which we form, we unitetwo different ideas; since in that proposition,God is, or indeed any other, which regards exis-tence, the idea of existence is no distinct idea,which we unite with that of the object, andwhich is capable of forming a compound ideaby the union. Secondly, as we can thus forma proposition, which contains only one idea,so we may exert our reason without employ-ing more than two ideas, and without hav-ing recourse to a third to serve as a mediumbetwixt them. We infer a cause immediatelyfrom its effect; and this inference is not onlya true species of reasoning, but the strongestof all others, and more convincing than whenwe interpose another idea to connect the twoextremes. What we may in general affirm con-cerning these three acts of the understandingis, that taking them in a proper light, they all

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resolve themselves into the first, and are noth-ing but particular ways of conceiving our ob-jects. Whether we consider a single object, orseveral; whether we dwell on these objects, orrun from them to others; and in whatever formor order we survey them, the act of the mindexceeds not a simple conception; and the onlyremarkable difference, which occurs on this oc-casion, is, when we join belief to the concep-tion, and are persuaded of the truth of what weconceive. This act of the mind has never yetbeen explaind by any philosopher; and there-fore I am at liberty to propose my hypothesisconcerning it; which is, that it is only a strongand steady conception of any idea, and such asapproaches in some measure to an immediateimpression.5

5Here are the heads of those arguments, which lead

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This operation of the mind, which forms thebelief of any matter of fact, seems hitherto tohave been one of the greatest mysteries of phi-losophy; though no one has so much as sus-pected, that there was any difficulty in explain-

us to this conclusion. When we infer the existence of anobject from that of others, some object must always bepresent either to the memory or senses, in order to bethe foundation of our reasoning; since the mind cannotrun up with its inferences in infinitum. Reason can neversatisfy us that the existence of any one object does everimply that of another; so that when we pass from theimpression of one to the idea or belief of another, we arenot determined by reason, but by custom or a principleof association. But belief is somewhat more than a sim-ple idea. It is a particular manner of forming an idea:And as the same idea can only be varyed by a variationof its degrees of force and vivacity; it follows upon thewhole, that belief is a lively idea produced by a relationto a present impression, according to the foregoing def-inition.

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ing it. For my part I must own, that I find a con-siderable difficulty in the case; and that evenwhen I think I understand the subject perfectly,I am at a loss for terms to express my mean-ing. I conclude, by an induction which seemsto me very evident, that an opinion or beliefis nothing but an idea, that is different froma fiction, not in the nature or the order of itsparts, but in the manner of its being conceived.But when I would explain this manner, I scarcefind any word that fully answers the case, butam obliged to have recourse to every one’s feel-ing, in order to give him a perfect notion ofthis operation of the mind. An idea assentedto feels different from a fictitious idea, that thefancy alone presents to us: And this differentfeeling I endeavour to explain by calling it asuperior force, or vivacity, or solidity, or firm-ness, or steadiness. This variety of terms, which

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may seem so unphilosophical, is intended onlyto express that act of the mind, which ren-ders realities more present to us than fictions,causes them to weigh more in the thought, andgives them a superior influence on the passionsand imagination. Provided we agree about thething, it is needless to dispute about the terms.The imagination has the command over all itsideas, and can join, and mix, and vary them inall the ways possible. It may conceive objectswith all the circumstances of place and time.It may set them, in a manner, before our eyesin their true colours, just as they might haveexisted. But as it is impossible, that that fac-ulty can ever, of itself, reach belief, it is evident,that belief consists not in the nature and orderof our ideas, but in the manner of their concep-tion, and in their feeling to the mind. T confess,that it is impossible to explain perfectly this

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feeling or manner of conception. We may makeuse of words, that express something near it.But its true and proper name is belief, which isa term that every one sufficiently understandsin common life. And in philosophy we can gono farther, than assert, that it is something feltby the mind, which distinguishes the ideas ofthe judgment from the fictions of the imagina-tion. It gives them more force and influence;makes them appear of greater importance; in-fixes them in the mind; and renders them thegoverning principles of all our actions.

This definition will also be found to be en-tirely conformable to every one’s feeling andexperience. Nothing is more evident, thanthat those ideas, to which we assent, are morestrong, firm and vivid, than the loose rever-ies of a castle-builder. If one person sits down

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to read a book as a romance, and another asa true history, they plainly receive the sameideas, and in the same order; nor does the in-credulity of the one, and the belief of the otherhinder them from putting the very same senseupon their author. His words produce the sameideas in both; though his testimony has not thesame influence on them. The latter has a morelively conception of all the incidents. He entersdeeper into the concerns of the persons: rep-resents to himself their actions, and characters,and friendships, and enmities: He even goesso far as to form a notion of their features, andair, and person. While the former, who givesno credit to the testimony of the author, has amore faint and languid conception of all theseparticulars; and except on account of the styleand ingenuity of the composition, can receivelittle entertainment from it.

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SECTION VIII. OF THE CAUSES OF BELIEF

Having thus explained the nature of belief,and shewn that it consists in a lively idea re-lated to a present impression; let us now pro-ceed to examine from what principles it is de-rived, and what bestows the vivacity on theidea.

I would willingly establish it as a generalmaxim in the science of human nature, thatwhen any impression becomes present to us,it not only transports the mind to such ideasas are related to it, but likewise communicatesto them a share of its force and vivacity. Allthe operations of the mind depend in a greatmeasure on its disposition, when it performsthem; and according as the spirits are more orless elevated, and the attention more or less

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fixed, the action will always have more or lessvigour and vivacity. When therefore any ob-ject is presented, which elevates and enlivensthe thought, every action, to which the mindapplies itself, will be more strong and vivid,as Tong as that disposition continues, Now itis evident the continuance of the dispositiondepends entirely on the objects, about whichthe mind is employed; and that any new objectnaturally gives a new direction to the spirits,and changes the disposition; as on the contrary,when the mind fixes constantly on the same ob-ject, or passes easily and insensibly along re-lated objects, the disposition has a much longerduration. Hence it happens, that when themind is once inlivened by a present impression,it proceeds to form a more lively idea of the re-lated objects, by a natural transition of the dis-position from the one to the other. The change

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of the objects is so easy, that the mind is scarcesensible of it, but applies itself to the concep-tion of the related idea with all the force and vi-vacity it acquired from the present impression.

If in considering the nature of relation, andthat facility of transition, which is essential toit, we can satisfy ourselves concerning the real-ity of this phaenomenon, it is well: But I mustconfess I place my chief confidence in experi-ence to prove so material a principle. We may,therefore, observe, as the first experiment toour present purpose, that upon the appearanceof the picture of an absent friend, our idea ofhim is evidently inlivened by the resemblance,and that every passion, which that idea occa-sions, whether of joy or sorrow, acquires newforce and vigour. In producing this effect thereconcur both a relation and a present impres-

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sion. Where the picture bears him no resem-blance, or at least was not intended for him, itnever so much as conveys our thought to him:And where it is absent, as well as the person;though the mind may pass from the thought ofthe one to that of the other; it feels its idea to berather weekend than inlivened by that transi-tion. We take a pleasure in viewing the pictureof a friend, when it is set before us; but whenit is removed, rather choose to consider him di-rectly, than by reflexion in an image, which isequally distinct and obscure.

The ceremonies of the Roman Catholic reli-gion may be considered as experiments of thesame nature. The devotees of that strange su-perstition usually plead in excuse of the mum-meries, with which they are upbraided, thatthey feel the good effect of those external mo-

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tions, and postures, and actions, in enliveningtheir devotion, and quickening their fervour,which otherwise would decay away, if directedentirely to distant and immaterial objects. Weshadow out the objects of our faith, say they,in sensible types and images, and render themmore present to us by the immediate presenceof these types, than it is possible for us to do,merely by an intellectual view and contempla-tion. Sensible objects have always a greater in-fluence on the fancy than any other; and thisinfluence they readily convey to those ideas, towhich they are related, and which they Resem-ble. I shall only infer from these practices, andthis reasoning, that the effect of resemblancein inlivening the idea is very common; and asin every case a resemblance and a present im-pression must concur, we are abundantly sup-plyed with experiments to prove the reality of

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the foregoing principle.

We may add force to these experiments byothers of a different kind, in considering the ef-fects of contiguity, as well as of resemblance. Itis certain, that distance diminishes the force ofevery idea, and that upon our approach to anyobject; though it does not discover itself to oursenses; it operates upon the mind with an in-fluence that imitates an immediate impression.The thinking on any object readily transportsthe mind to what is contiguous; but it is onlythe actual presence of an object, that transportsit with a superior vivacity. When I am a fewmiles from home, whatever relates to it touchesme more nearly than when I am two hundredleagues distant; though even at that distancethe reflecting on any thing in the neighbour-hood of my friends and family naturally pro-

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duces an idea of them. But as in this lattercase, both the objects of the mind are ideas;notwithstanding there is an easy transition be-twixt them; that transition alone is not able togive a superior vivacity to any of the ideas, forwant of some immediate impression.6

6Naturano nobis, in quit, datum dicam, an errorequadam, ut, cum ea loca videamus, in quibus memoria dignotviros acceperimus multurn esse verstaos, magis moveamur,quam siquando eorun ipsorum aut jacta audiamus, aut scrip-tum aliquod legamus? Velut ego nunc moveor, venit enimmihim platonis in mentem: quem accipimus primurn his dis-putare solitum: cujus etiam ille hortuli propinqui non memo-riam solum mihi afferunt, sed impsum videntur in conspectumeo hic ponere. Hic Speusippus, hic auditor polemo; cujusipsa illa sessio fuit, quam videamus. Equidem etiam curiamnostramm hostiliam dico, non hanc ovam, quae mihi minoresse videtur post quam est major, sole barn intuens Scipi-onem, Catonem< Laclium. nostrum vero in primis avum cog-itare. Tanta vis admonitionis inest in locis; ut non sine cause

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{“Should I, he said, “attribute to instinct or tosome kind of illusion the fact that when we seethose places in which we are told notable menspent much of their time, we are more pow-erfully affected than when we hear of the ex-ploits of the men themselves or read somethingwritten? This is just what is happening to menow; for I am reminded of Plato who, we aretold, was the first to make a practice of hold-ing discussions here. Those gardens of his nearby do not merely put me in mind of him; theyseem to set the man himself before my veryeyes. Speusippus was here; so was Xenocrates;so was his pupil, Polemo, and that very seatwhich we may view was his.

“Then again, when I looked at our Senate-

ex his memoriae ducta sit disciplina. Cicero de Finibus,lib. 5.

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house (I mean the old building of Hostilius, notthis new one; when it was enlarged, it dimin-ished in my estimation), I used to think of Sci-pio, Cato, Laelius and in particular of my owngrandfather.

“Such is the power of places to evoke asso-ciations; so it is with good reason that they areused as a basis for memory training.”}

No one can doubt but causation has the sameinfluence as the other two relations; of resem-blance and contiguity. Superstitious people arefond of the relicks of saints and holy men, forthe same reason that they seek after types andimages, in order to enliven their devotion, andgive them a more intimate and strong concep-tion of those exemplary lives, which they de-sire to imitate. Now it is evident, one of thebest relicks a devotee coued procure, would be

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the handywork of a saint; and if his cloaths andfurniture are ever to be considered in this light,it is because they were once at his disposal, andwere moved and affected by him; in which re-spect they are to be considered as imperfect ef-fects, and as connected with him by a shorterchain of consequences than any of those, fromwhich we learn the reality of his existence. Thisphaenomenon clearly proves, that a presentimpression with a relation of causation may, in-liven any idea, and consequently produce be-lief or assent, according to the precedent defi-nition of it.

But why need we seek for other argumentsto prove, that a present impression with a rela-tion or transition of the fancy may inliven anyidea, when this very instance of our reasoningsfrom cause and effect will alone suffice to that

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purpose? It is certain we must have an idea ofevery matter of fact, which we believe. It is cer-tain, that this idea arises only from a relationto a present impression. It is certain, that thebelief super-adds nothing to the idea, but onlychanges our manner of conceiving it, and ren-ders it more strong and lively. The present con-clusion concerning the influence of relation isthe immediate consequence of all these steps;and every step appears to me sure end infal-lible. There enters nothing into this operationof the mind but a present impression, a livelyidea, and a relation or association in the fancybetwixt the impression and idea; so that therecan be no suspicion of mistake.

In order to put this whole affair in a fullerlight, let us consider it as a question in natu-ral philosophy, which we must determine by

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experience and observation. I suppose thereis an object presented, from which I draw acertain conclusion, and form to myself ideas,which I am said to believe or assent to. Hereit is evident, that however that object, which ispresent to my senses, and that other, whose ex-istence I infer by reasoning, may be thought toinfluence each other by their particular powersor qualities; yet as the phenomenon of belief,which we at present examine, is merely inter-nal, these powers and qualities, being entirelyunknown, can have no hand in producing it. Itis the present impression, which is to be consid-ered as the true and real cause of the idea, andof the belief which attends it. We must there-fore endeavour to discover by experiments theparticular qualities, by which it is enabled toproduce so extraordinary an effect.

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First then I observe, that the present impres-sion has not this effect by its own proper powerand efficacy, and when considered alone, as asingle perception, limited to the present mo-ment. I find, that an impression, from which,on its first appearance, I can draw no conclu-sion, may afterwards become the foundation ofbelief, when I have had experience of its usualconsequences. We must in every case have ob-served the same impression in past instances,and have found it to be constantly conjoinedwith some other impression. This is confirmedby such a multitude of experiments, that it ad-mits not of the smallest doubt.

From a second observation I conclude, thatthe belief, which attends the present impres-sion, and is produced by a number of past im-pressions and conjunctions; that this belief, I

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say, arises immediately, without any new op-eration of the reason or imagination. Of thisI can be certain, because I never am consciousof any such operation, and find nothing in thesubject, on which it can be founded. Nowas we call every thing custom, which proceedsfrom a past repetition, without any new rea-soning or conclusion, we-may establish it as acertain truth, that all the belief, which followsupon any present impression, is derived solelyfrom that origin. When we are accustomed tosee two impressions conjoined together, the ap-pearance or idea of the one immediately carriesus to the idea of the other.

Being fully satisfyed on this head, I makea third set of experiments, in order to know,whether any thing be requisite, beside the cus-tomary transition, towards the production of

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this phaenomenon of belief. I therefore changethe first impression into an idea; and observe,that though the customary transition to the cor-relative idea still remains, yet there is in real-ity no belief nor perswasion. A present impres-sion, then, is absolutely requisite to this wholeoperation; and when after this I compare an im-pression with an idea, and find that their onlydifference consists in their different degrees offorce and vivacity, I conclude upon the whole,that belief is a more vivid and intense concep-tion of an idea, proceeding from its relation toa present impression.

Thus all probable reasoning is nothing but aspecies of sensation. It is not solely in poetryand music, we must follow our taste and sen-timent, but likewise in philosophy. When I amconvinced of any principle, it is only an idea,

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which strikes more strongly upon me. WhenI give the preference to one set of argumentsabove another, I do nothing but decide frommy feeling concerning the superiority of theirinfluence. Objects have no discoverable con-nexion together; nor is it from any other prin-ciple but custom operating upon the imagina-tion, that we can draw any inference from theappearance of one to the existence of another.

It will here be worth our observation, thatthe past experience, on which all our judg-ments concerning cause and effect depend,may operate on our mind in such an insensi-ble manner as never to be taken notice of, andmay even in some measure be unknown to us.A person, who stops short in his journey uponmeeting a river in his way, foresees the con-sequences of his proceeding forward; and his

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knowledge of these consequences is conveyedto him by past experience, which informs himof such certain conjunctions of causes and ef-fects. But can we think, that on this occasionhe reflects on any past experience, and callsto remembrance instances, that he has seen orheard of, in order to discover the effects of wa-ter on animal bodies? No surely; this is not themethod, in which he proceeds in his reasoning.The idea of sinking is so closely connected withthat of water, and the idea of suffocating withthat of sinking, that the mind makes the transi-tion without the assistance of the memory. Thecustom operates before we have time for re-flection. The objects seem so inseparable, thatwe interpose not a moment’s delay in passingfrom the one to the other. But as this transitionproceeds from experience, and not from anyprimary connexion betwixt the ideas, we must

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necessarily acknowledge, that experience mayproduce a belief and a judgment of causes andeffects by a secret operation, and without be-ing once thought of. This removes all pretext,if there yet remains any, for asserting that themind is convinced by reasoning of that prin-ciple, that instances of which we have no ex-perience, must necessarily resemble those, ofwhich we have. For we here find, that theunderstanding or imagination can draw infer-ences from past experience, without reflectingon it; much more without forming any princi-ple concerning it, or reasoning upon that prin-ciple.

In general we may observe, that in all themost established and uniform conjunctions ofcauses and effects, such as those of gravity, im-pulse, solidity, &c. the mind never carries its

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view expressly to consider any past experience:Though in other associations of objects, whichare more rare and unusual, it may assist thecustom and transition of ideas by this reflec-tion. Nay we find in some cases, that the reflec-tion produces the belief without the custom; ormore properly speaking, that the reflection pro-duces the custom in an oblique and artificialmanner. I explain myself. It is certain, thatnot only in philosophy, but even in commonlife, we may attain the knowledge of a particu-lar cause merely by one experiment, providedit be made with judgment, and after a carefulremoval of all foreign and superfluous circum-stances. Now as after one experiment of thiskind, the mind, upon the appearance either ofthe cause or the effect, can draw an inferenceconcerning the existence of its correlative; andas a habit can never be acquired merely by one

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instance; it may be thought, that belief cannotin this case be esteemed the effect of custom.But this difficulty will vanish, if we consider,that though we are here supposed to have hadonly one experiment of a particular effect, yetwe have many millions to convince us of thisprinciple; that like objects placed in like cir-cumstances, will always produce like effects;and as this principle has established itself bya sufficient custom, it bestows an evidence andfirmness on any opinion, to which it can be ap-plied. The connexion of the ideas is not habit-ual after one experiment: but this connexion iscomprehended under another principle, that ishabitual; which brings us back to our hypothe-sis. In all cases we transfer our experience to in-stances, of which we have no experience, eitherexpressly or tacitly, either directly or indirectly.

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I must not conclude this subject without ob-serving, that it is very difficult to talk of theoperations of the mind with perfect proprietyand exactness; because common language hasseldom made any very nice distinctions amongthem, but has generally called by the same termall such as nearly resemble each other. Andas this is a source almost inevitable of obscu-rity and confusion in the author; so it may fre-quently give rise to doubts and objections inthe reader, which otherwise he would neverhave dreamed of. Thus my general position,that an opinion or belief is nothing but a strongand lively idea derived from a present impres-sion related to it, maybe liable to the follow-ing objection, by reason of a little ambiguityin those words strong and lively. It may besaid, that not only an impression may give riseto reasoning, but that an idea may also have

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the same influence; especially upon my princi-ple, that all our ideas are derived from corre-spondent impressions. For suppose I form atpresent an idea, of which I have forgot the cor-respondent impression, I am able to concludefrom this idea, that such an impression didonce exist; and as this conclusion is attendedwith belief, it may be asked, from whenceare the qualities of force and vivacity derived,which constitute this belief? And to this I an-swer very readily, from the present idea. Foras this idea is not here considered, as the rep-resentation of any absent object, but as a realperception in the mind, of which we are inti-mately conscious, it must be able to bestow onwhatever is related to it the same quality, call itfirmness, or solidity, or force, or vivacity, withwhich the mind reflects upon it, and is assuredof its present existence. The idea here supplies

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the place of an impression, and is entirely thesame, so far as regards our present purpose.

Upon the same principles we need not besurprized to hear of the remembrance of anidea: that is, of the idea of an idea, and of itsforce and vivacity superior to the loose concep-tions of the imagination. In thinking of our pastthoughts we not only delineate out the objects,of which we were thinking, but also conceivethe action of the mind in the meditation, thatcertain je ne sais quoi, of which it is impossibleto give any definition or description, but whichevery one sufficiently understands. When thememory offers an idea of this, and represents itas past, it is easily conceived how that idea mayhave more vigour and firmness, than when wethink of a past thought, of which we have noremembrance.

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After this any one will understand how wemay form the idea of an impression and of anidea, and how we way believe the existence ofan impression and of an idea.

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SECTION IX. OF THE EFFECTS OF OTHERRELATIONS AND OTHER HABITS

However convincing the foregoing argu-ments may appear, we must not rest contentedwith them, but must turn the subject on ev-ery side, in order to find some new points ofview, from which we may illustrate and con-firm such extraordinary, and such fundamen-tal principles. A scrupulous hesitation to re-ceive any new hypothesis is so laudable a dis-position in philosophers, and so necessary tothe examination of truth, that it deserves to becomplyed with, and requires that every argu-ment be produced, which may tend to their sat-isfaction, and every objection removed, whichmay stop them in their reasoning.

I have often observed, that, beside cause andeffect, the two relations of resemblance and

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contiguity, are to be considered as associatingprinciples of thought, and as capable of con-veying the imagination from one idea to an-other. I have also observed, that when of twoobjects connected to-ether by any of these rela-tions, one is immediately present to the mem-ory or senses, not only the mind is conveyed toits co-relative by means of the associating prin-ciple; but likewise conceives it with an addi-tional force and vigour, by the united operationof that principle, and of the present impression.All this I have observed, in order to confirmby analogy, my explication of our judgmentsconcerning cause and effect. But this very ar-gument may, perhaps, be turned against me,and instead of a confirmation of my hypothe-sis, may become an objection to it. For it maybe said, that if all the parts of that hypothesisbe true, viz. that these three species of relation

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are derived from the same principles; that theireffects in informing and enlivening our ideasare the same; and that belief is nothing but amore forcible and vivid conception of an idea;it should follow, that that action of the mindmay not only be derived from the relation ofcause and effect, but also from those of contigu-ity and resemblance. But as we find by experi-ence, that belief arises only from causation, andthat we can draw no inference from one objectto another, except they be connected by this re-lation, we may conclude, that there is some er-ror in that reasoning, which leads us into suchdifficulties.

This is the objection; let us now considerits solution. It is evident, that whatever ispresent to the memory, striking upon the mindwith a vivacity, which resembles an immedi-

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ate impression, must become of considerablemoment in all the operations of the mind, andmust easily distinguish itself above the merefictions of the imagination. Of these impres-sions or ideas of the memory we form a kind ofsystem, comprehending whatever we remem-ber to have been present, either to our inter-nal perception or senses; and every particularof that system, joined to the present impres-sions, we are pleased to call a reality. But themind stops not here. For finding, that withthis system of perceptions, there is another con-nected by custom, or if you will, by the relationof cause or effect, it proceeds to the consider-ation of their ideas; and as it feels that it is ina manner necessarily determined to view theseparticular ideas, and that the custom or rela-tion, by which it is determined, admits not ofthe least change, it forms them into a new sys-

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tem, which it likewise dignifies with the title ofrealities. The first of these systems is the objectof the memory and senses; the second of thejudgment.

It is this latter principle, which peoples theworld, and brings us acquainted with such ex-istences, as by their removal in time and place,lie beyond the reach of the senses and mem-ory. By means of it I paint the universe inmy imagination, and fix my attention on anypart of it I please. I form an idea of ROME,which I neither see nor remember; but which isconnected with such impressions as I remem-ber to have received from the conversation andbooks of travellers and historians. This idea ofRome I place in a certain situation on the ideaof an object, which I call the globe. I join to itthe conception of a particular government, and

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religion, and manners. I look backward andconsider its first foundation; its several revo-lutions, successes, and misfortunes. All this,and everything else, which I believe, are noth-ing but ideas; though by their force and settledorder, arising from custom and the relation ofcause and effect, they distinguish themselvesfrom the other ideas, which are merely the off-spring of the imagination.

As to the influence of contiguity and resem-blance, we may observe, that if the contiguousand resembling object be comprehended in thissystem of realities, there is no doubt but thesetwo relations will assist that of cause and ef-fect, and infix the related idea with more forcein the imagination. This I shall enlarge uponpresently. Mean while I shall carry my observa-tion a step farther, and assert, that even where

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the related object is but feigned, the relationwill serve to enliven the idea, and encrease itsinfluence. A poet, no doubt, will be the betterable to form a strong description of the Elysianfields, that he prompts his imagination by theview of a beautiful meadow or garden; as at an-other time he may by his fancy place himself inthe midst of these fabulous regions, that by thefeigned contiguity he may enliven his imagina-tion.

But though I cannot altogether exclude therelations of resemblance and contiguity fromoperating on the fancy in this manner, it is ob-servable that, when single, their influence isvery feeble and uncertain. As the relation ofcause and effect is requisite to persuade us ofany real existence, so is this persuasion requi-site to give force to these other relations. For

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where upon the appearance of an impressionwe not only feign another object, but likewisearbitrarily, and of our mere good-will and plea-sure give it a particular relation to the impres-sion, this can have but a small effect upon themind; nor is there any reason, why, upon thereturn of the same impression, we should bedetermined to place the same object in the samerelation to it. There is no manner of necessityfor the mind to feign any resembling and con-tiguous objects; and if it feigns such, there is aslittle necessity for it always to confine itself tothe same, without any difference or variation.And indeed such a fiction is founded on so littlereason, that nothing but pure caprice can deter-mine the mind to form it; and that principle be-ing fluctuating and uncertain, it is impossible itcan ever operate with any considerable degreeof force and constancy. The mind forsees and

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anticipates the change; and even from the veryfirst instant feels the looseness of its actions,and the weak hold it has of its objects. Andas this imperfection is very sensible in everysingle instance, it still encreases by experienceand observation, when we compare the severalinstances we may remember, and form a gen-eral rule against the reposing any assurance inthose momentary glimpses of light, which arisein the imagination from a feigned resemblanceand contiguity.

The relation of cause and effect has all theopposite advantages. The objects it presentsare fixt and unalterable. The impressions of thememory never change in any considerable de-gree; and each impression draws along with ita precise idea, which takes its place in the imag-ination as something solid and real, certain and

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invariable. The thought is always determinedto pass from the impression to the idea, andfrom that particular impression to that partic-ular idea, without any choice or hesitation.

But not content with removing this objection,I shall endeavour to extract from it a proof ofthe present doctrine. Contiguity and resem-blance have an effect much inferior to causa-tion; but still have some effect, and augmentthe conviction of any opinion, and the vivac-ity of any conception. If this can be provedin several new instances, beside what we havealready observed, it will be allowed no incon-siderable argument, that belief is nothing but alively idea related to a present impression.

To begin with contiguity; it has been re-marked among the Mahometans as well asChristians, that those pilgrims, who have seen

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Mecca or the Holy Land, are ever after morefaithful and zealous believers, than those whohave not had that advantage. A man, whosememory presents him with a lively image ofthe Red-Sea, and the Desert, and Jerusalem,and Galilee, can never doubt of any miracu-lous events, which are related either by Mosesor the Evangelists. The lively idea of the placespasses by an easy transition to the facts, whichare supposed to have been related to them bycontiguity, and encreases the belief by encreas-ing the vivacity of the conception. The remem-brance of these fields and rivers has the sameinfluence on the vulgar as a new argument; andfrom the same causes.

We may form a like observation concerningresemblance. We have remarked, that the con-clusion, which we draw from a present object

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to its absent cause or effect, is never foundedon any qualities, which we observe in that ob-ject, considered in itself, or, in other words, thatit is impossible to determine, otherwise thanby experience, what will result from any phe-nomenon, or what has preceded it. But thoughthis be so evident in itself, that it seemed not torequire any, proof; yet some philosophers haveimagined that there is an apparent cause for thecommunication of motion, and that a reason-able man might immediately infer the motionof one body from the impulse of another, with-out having recourse to any past observation.That this opinion is false will admit of an easyproof. For if such an inference may be drawnmerely from the ideas of body, of motion, andof impulse, it must amount to a demonstration,and must imply the absolute impossibility ofany contrary supposition. Every effect, then,

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beside the communication of motion, implies aformal contradiction; and it is impossible notonly that it can exist, but also that it can be con-ceived. But we may soon satisfy ourselves ofthe contrary, by forming a clear and consistentidea of one body’s moving upon another, andof its rest immediately upon the contact, or ofits returning back in the same line in which itcame; or of its annihilation; or circular or ellip-tical motion: and in short, of an infinite numberof other changes, which we may suppose it toundergo. These suppositions are all consistentand natural; and the reason, Why we imaginethe communication of motion to be more con-sistent and natural not only than those suppo-sitions, but also than any other natural effect,is founded on the relation of resemblance be-twixt the cause and effect, which is here unitedto experience, and binds the objects in the clos-

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est and most intimate manner to each other, soas to make us imagine them to be absolutely in-separable. Resemblance, then, has the same ora parallel influence with experience; and as theonly immediate effect of experience is to asso-ciate our ideas together, it follows, that all be-lief arises from the association of ideas, accord-ing to my hypothesis.

It is universally allowed by the writers onoptics, that the eye at all times sees an equalnumber of physical points, and that a man onthe top of a mountain has no larger an imagepresented to his senses, than when he is coopedup in the narrowest court or chamber. It is onlyby experience that he infers the greatness of theobject from some peculiar qualities of the im-age; and this inference of the judgment he con-founds with sensation, as is common on other

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occasions. Now it is evident, that the inferenceof the judgment is here much more lively thanwhat is usual in our common reasonings, andthat a man has a more vivid conception of thevast extent of the ocean from the image he re-ceives by the eye, when he stands on the top ofthe high promontory, than merely from hearingthe roaring of the waters. He feels a more sen-sible pleasure from its magnificence; which is aproof of a more lively idea: And he confoundshis judgment with sensation, which is anotherproof of it. But as the inference is equally cer-tain and immediate in both cases, this supe-rior vivacity of our conception in one case canproceed from nothing but this, that in drawingan inference from the sight, beside the custom-ary conjunction, there is also a resemblance be-twixt the image and the object we infer; whichstrengthens the relation, and conveys the vi-

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vacity of the impression to the related idea withan easier and more natural movement.

No weakness of human nature is more uni-versal and conspicuous than what we com-monly call credulity, or a too easy faith in thetestimony of others; and this weakness is alsovery naturally accounted for from the influenceof resemblance. When we receive any mat-ter of fact upon human testimony, our faitharises from the very same origin as our infer-ences from causes to effects, and from effectsto causes; nor is there anything but our experi-ence of the governing principles of human na-ture, which can give us any assurance of theveracity of men. But though experience be thetrue standard of this, as well as of all otherjudgments, we seldom regulate ourselves en-tirely by it; but have a remarkable propensity

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to believe whatever is reported, even concern-ing apparitions, enchantments, and prodigies,however contrary to daily experience and ob-servation. The words or discourses of othershave an intimate connexion with certain ideasin their mind; and these ideas have also a con-nexion with the facts or objects, which they rep-resent. This latter connexion is generally muchover-rated, and commands our assent beyondwhat experience will justify; which can pro-ceed from nothing beside the resemblance be-twixt the ideas and the facts. Other effects onlypoint out their causes in an oblique manner;but the testimony of men does it directly, andis to be considered as an image as well as aneffect. No wonder, therefore, we are so rashin drawing our inferences from it, and are lessguided by experience in our judgments con-cerning it, than in those upon any other subject.

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As resemblance, when conjoined with cau-sation, fortifies our reasonings; so the want ofit in any very great degree is able almost en-tirely to destroy them. Of this there is a remark-able instance in the universal carelessness andstupidity of men with regard to a future state,where they show as obstinate an incredulity, asthey do a blind credulity on other occasions.There is not indeed a more ample matter ofwonder to the studious, and of regret to the pi-ous man, than to observe the negligence of thebulk of mankind concerning their approachingcondition; and it is with reason, that many em-inent theologians have not scrupled to affirm,that though the vulgar have no formal prin-ciples of infidelity, yet they are really infidelsin their hearts, and have nothing like what wecan call a belief of the eternal duration of theirsouls. For let us consider on the one hand what

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divines have displayed with such eloquenceconcerning the importance of eternity; and atthe same time reflect, that though in mattersof rhetoric we ought to lay our account withsome exaggeration, we must in this case allow,that the strongest figures are infinitely inferiorto the subject: And after this let us view onthe other hand, the prodigious security of menin this particular: I ask, if these people reallybelieve what is inculcated on them, and whatthey pretend to affirm; and the answer is obvi-ously in the negative. As belief is an act of themind arising from custom, it is not strange thewant of resemblance should overthrow whatcustom has established, and diminish the forceof the idea, as much as that latter principle en-creases it. A future state is so far removedfrom our comprehension, and we have so ob-scure an idea of the manner, in which we shall

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exist after the dissolution of the body, that allthe reasons we can invent, however strong inthemselves, and however much assisted by ed-ucation, are never able with slow imaginationsto surmount this difficulty, or bestow a suffi-cient authority and force on the idea. I ratherchoose to ascribe this incredulity to the faintidea we form of our future condition, derivedfrom its want of resemblance to the present life,than to that derived from its remoteness. ForI observe, that men are everywhere concernedabout what may happen after their death, pro-vided it regard this world; and that there arefew to whom their name, their family, theirfriends, and their country are in any period oftime entirely indifferent.

And indeed the want of resemblance in thiscase so entirely destroys belief, that except

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those few, who upon cool reflection on the im-portance of the subject, have taken care by re-peated meditation to imprint in their minds thearguments for a future state, there scarce areany, who believe the immortality of the soulwith a true and established judgment; such asis derived from the testimony of travellers andhistorians. This appears very conspicuouslywherever men have occasion to compare thepleasures and pains, the rewards and punish-ments of this life with those of a future; eventhough the case does not concern themselves,and there is no violent passion to disturb theirjudgment. The Roman Clatholicks are certainlythe most zealous of any sect in the Christianworld; and yet you’ll find few among the moresensible people of that communion who do notblame the Gunpowder-treason, and the mas-sacre of St. Bartholomew, as cruel and bar-

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barous, though projected or executed againstthose very people, whom without any scruplethey condemn to eternal and infinite punish-ments. All we can say in excuse for this in-consistency is, that they really do not believewhat they affirm concerning a future state; noris there any better proof of it than the very in-consistency.

We may add to this a remark; that in mattersof religion men take a pleasure in being terri-fyed, and that no preachers are so popular, asthose who excite the most dismal and gloomypassions. In the common affairs of life, wherewe feel and are penetrated with the solidity ofthe subject, nothing can be more disagreeablethan fear and terror; and it is only in dramaticperformances and in religious discourses, thatthey ever give pleasure. In these latter cases

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the imagination reposes itself indolently on theidea; and the passion, being softened by thewant of belief in the subject, has no more thanthe agreeable effect of enlivening the mind, andfixing the attention.

The present hypothesis will receive addi-tional confirmation, if we examine the effectsof other kinds of custom, as well as of other re-lations. To understand this we must consider,that custom, to which I attribute all belief andreasoning, may operate upon the mind in in-vigorating an idea after two several ways. Forsupposing that in all past experience we havefound two objects to have been always con-joined together, it is evident, that upon the ap-pearance of one of these objects in an impres-sion, we must from custom make an easy tran-sition to the idea of that object, which usually

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attends it; and by means of the present im-pression and easy transition must conceive thatidea in a stronger and more lively manner, thanwe do any loose floating image of the fancy.But let us next suppose, that a mere idea alone,without any of this curious and almost arti-ficial preparation, should frequently make itsappearance in the mind, this idea must by de-grees acquire a facility and force; and both byits firm hold and easy introduction distinguishitself from any new and unusual idea. This isthe only particular, in which these two kinds ofcustom agree; and if it appear, that their effectson the judgment, are similar and proportion-able, we may certainly conclude, that the fore-going explication of that faculty is satisfactory.But can we doubt of this agreement in their in-fluence on the judgment, when we consider thenature and effects Of education?

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All those opinions and notions of things, towhich we have been accustomed from our in-fancy, take such deep root, that it is impossiblefor us, by all the powers of reason and experi-ence, to eradicate them; and this habit not onlyapproaches in its influence, but even on manyoccasions prevails over that which a-rises fromthe constant and inseparable union of causesand effects. Here we most not be contentedwith saying, that the vividness of the idea pro-duces the belief: We must maintain that theyare individually the same. The frequent repe-tition of any idea infixes it in the imagination;but coued never possibly of itself produce be-lief, if that act of the mind was, by the origi-nal constitution of our natures, annexed onlyto a reasoning and comparison of ideas. Cus-tom may lead us into some false comparison ofideas. This is the utmost effect we can conceive

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of it. But it is certain it coued never supply theplace of that comparison, nor produce any actof the mind, which naturally belonged to thatprinciple.

A person, that has lost a leg or an arm byamputation, endeavours for a long time after-wards to serve himself with them. After thedeath of any one, it is a common remark ofthe whole family, but especially of the servants,that they can scarce believe him to be dead, butstill imagine him to be in his chamber or inany other place, where they were accustomedto find him. I have often heard in conversation,after talking of a person, that is any way cele-brated, that one, who has no acquaintance withhim, will say, I have never seen such-a-one, butalmost fancy I have; so often have I heard talkof him. All these are parallel instances.

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If we consider this argument from educationin a proper light, it will appear very convinc-ing; and the more so, that it is founded onone of the most common phaenomena, that isany where to be met with. I am persuaded,that upon examination we shall find more thanone half of those opinions, that prevail amongmankind, to be owing to education, and thatthe principles, which are thus implicitely em-braced, overballance those, which are owingeither to abstract reasoning or experience. Asliars, by the frequent repetition of their lies,come at last to remember them; so the judg-ment, or rather the imagination, by the likemeans, may have ideas so strongly imprintedon it, and conceive them in so full a light, thatthey may operate upon the mind in the samemanner with those, which the senses, mem-ory or reason present to us. But as education

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is an artificial and not a natural cause, and asits maxims are frequently contrary to reason,and even to themselves in different times andplaces, it is never upon that account recognizedby philosophers; though in reality it be built al-most on the same foundation of custom andrepetition as our reasonings from causes andeffects.7

7In general we may observe, that as our assent to allprobable reasonings is founded on the vivacity of ideas,It resembles many of those whimsies and prejudices,which are rejected under the opprobrious character ofbeing the offspring of the imagination. By this expres-sion it appears that the word, imagination, is commonlyusd in two different senses; and tho nothing be morecontrary to true philosophy, than this inaccuracy, yet inthe following reasonings I have often been obligd to fallinto it. When I oppose the Imagination to the mem-ory, I mean the faculty, by which we form our fainterideas. When I oppose it to reason, I mean the same

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SECTION X. OF THE INFLUENCE OF BELIEF

But though education be disclaimed by phi-losophy, as a fallacious ground of assent to anyopinion, it prevails nevertheless in the world,and is the cause why all systems are apt tobe rejected at first as new and unusual. Thisperhaps will be the fate of what I have hereadvanced concerning belief, and though theproofs I have produced appear to me perfectlyconclusive, I expect not to make many pros-elytes to my opinion. Men will scarce everbe persuaded, that effects of such consequencecan flow from principles, which are seemingly

faculty, excluding only our demonstrative and probablereasonings. When I oppose it to neither, it is indifferentwhether it be taken in the larger or more limited sense,or at least the context will sufficiently explain the mean-ing.

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so inconsiderable, and that the far greatest partof our reasonings with all our actions and pas-sions, can be derived from nothing but customand habit. To obviate this objection, I shall hereanticipate a little what would more properlyfall under our consideration afterwards, whenwe come to treat of the passions and the senseof beauty.

There is implanted in the human mind a per-ception of pain and pleasure, as the chief springand moving principle of all its actions. Butpain and pleasure have two ways of makingtheir appearance in the mind; of which the onehas effects very different from the other. Theymay either appear in impression to the actualfeeling, or only in idea, as at present when Imention them. It is evident the influence ofthese upon our actions is far from being equal.

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Impressions always actuate the soul, and thatin the highest degree; but it is not every ideawhich has the same effect. Nature has pro-ceeded with caution in this came, and seemsto have carefully avoided the inconveniencesof two extremes. Did impressions alone influ-ence the will, we should every moment of ourlives be subject to the greatest calamities; be-cause, though we foresaw their approach, weshould not be provided by nature with anyprinciple of action, which might impel us toavoid them. On the other hand, did every ideainfluence our actions, our condition would notbe much mended. For such is the unsteadi-ness and activity of thought, that the imagesof every thing, especially of goods and evils,are always wandering in the mind; and were itmoved by every idle conception of this kind, itwould never enjoy a moment’s peace and tran-

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quillity.

Nature has, therefore, chosen a medium, andhas neither bestowed on every idea of goodand evil the power of actuating the will, noryet has entirely excluded them from this influ-ence. Though an idle fiction has no efficacy, yetwe find by experience, that the ideas of thoseobjects, which we believe either are or will beexistent, produce in a lesser degree the sameeffect with those impressions, which are imme-diately present to the senses and perception.The effect, then, of belief is to raise up a simpleidea to an equality with our impressions, andbestow on it a like influence on the passions.This effect it can only have by making an ideaapproach an impression in force and vivacity.For as the different degrees of force make allthe original difference betwixt an impression

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and an idea, they must of consequence be thesource of all the differences in the effects ofthese perceptions, and their removal, in wholeor in part, the cause of every new resemblancethey acquire. Wherever we can make an ideaapproach the impressions in force and vivac-ity, it will likewise imitate them in its influenceon the mind; and vice versa, where it imitatesthem in that influence, as in the present case,this must proceed from its approaching themin force and vivacity. Belief, therefore, since itcauses an idea to imitate the effects of the im-pressions, must make it resemble them in thesequalities, and is nothing but a more vivid and in-tense conception of any idea. This, then, may bothserve as an additional argument for the presentsystem, and may give us a notion after whatmanner our reasonings from causation are ableto operate on the will and passions.

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As belief is almost absolutely requisite tothe exciting our passions, so the passions intheir turn are very favourable to belief; andnot only such facts as convey agreeable emo-tions, but very often such as give pain, do uponthat account become more readily the objectsof faith and opinion. A coward, whose fearsare easily awakened, readily assents to everyaccount of danger he meets with; as a personof a sorrowful and melancholy disposition isvery credulous of every thing, that nourisheshis prevailing passion. When any affecting ob-ject is presented, it gives the alarm, and ex-cites immediately a degree of its proper pas-sion; especially in persons who are naturallyinclined to that passion. This emotion passesby an easy transition to the imagination; anddiffusing itself over our idea of the affecting ob-ject, makes us form that idea with greater force

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and vivacity, and consequently assent to it, ac-cording to the precedent system. Admirationand surprize have the same effect as the otherpassions; and accordingly we may observe,that among the vulgar, quacks and projectorsmeet with a more easy faith upon account oftheir magnificent pretensions, than if they keptthemselves within the bounds of moderation.The first astonishment, which naturally attendstheir miraculous relations, spreads itself overthe whole soul, and so vivifies and enlivensthe idea, that it resembles the inferences wedraw from experience. This is a mystery, withwhich we may be already a little acquainted,and which we shall have farther occasion to belet into in the progress of this treatise.

After this account of the influence of be-lief on the passions, we shall find less diffi-

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culty in explaining its effects on the imagina-tion, however extraordinary they may appear.It is certain we cannot take pleasure in any dis-course, where our judgment gives no assent tothose images which are presented to our fancy.The conversation of those who have acquired ahabit of lying, though in affairs of no moment,never gives any satisfaction; and that becausethose ideas they present to us, not being at-tended with belief, make no impression uponthe mind. Poets themselves, though liars byprofession, always endeavour to give an air oftruth to their fictions; and where that is totallyneglected, their performances, however inge-nious, will never be able to afford much plea-sure. In short, we may observe, that even whenideas have no manner of influence on the willand passions, truth and reality are still requi-site, in order to make them entertaining to the

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imagination.

But if we compare together all the phenom-ena that occur on this head, we shall find, thattruth, however necessary it may seem in allworks of genius, has no other effect than toprocure an easy reception for the ideas, and tomake the mind acquiesce in them with satis-faction, or at least without reluctance. But asthis is an effect, which may easily be supposedto flow from that solidity and force, which, ac-cording to my system, attend those ideas thatare established by reasonings from causation;it follows, that all the influence of belief uponthe fancy may be explained from that system.Accordingly we may observe, that whereverthat influence arises from any other principlesbeside truth or reality, they supply its place,and give an equal entertainment to the imag-

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ination. Poets have formed what they call apoetical system of things, which though it bebelieved neither by themselves nor readers, iscommonly esteemed a sufficient foundation forany fiction. We have been so much accustomedto the names of Mars, Jupiter, Venus, that in thesame manner as education infixes any opinion,the constant repetition of these ideas makesthem enter into the mind with facility, and pre-vail upon the fancy, without influencing thejudgment. In like manner tragedians alwaysborrow their fable, or at least the names of theirprincipal actors, from some known passage inhistory; and that not in order to deceive thespectators; for they will frankly confess, thattruth is not in any circumstance inviolably ob-served: but in order to procure a more easy re-ception into the imagination for those extraor-dinary events, which they represent. But this

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is a precaution, which is not required of comicpoets, whose personages and incidents, beingof a more familiar kind, enter easily into theconception, and are received without any suchformality, even though at first night they beknown to be fictitious, and the pure offspringof the fancy.

This mixture of truth and falshood in the fa-bles of tragic poets not only serves our presentpurpose, by shewing, that the imagination canbe satisfyed without any absolute belief or as-surance; but may in another view be regardedas a very strong confirmation of this system. Itis evident, that poets make use of this artificeof borrowing the names of their persons, andthe chief events of their poems, from history, inorder to procure a more easy reception for thewhole, and cause it to make a deeper impres-

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sion on the fancy and affections. The severalincidents of the piece acquire a kind of relationby being united into one poem or representa-tion; and if any of these incidents be an objectof belief, it bestows a force and vivacity on theothers, which are related to it. The vividness ofthe first conception diffuses itself along the re-lations, and is conveyed, as by so many pipesor canals, to every idea that has any commu-nication with the primary one. This, indeed,can never amount to a perfect assurance; andthat because the union among the ideas is, ina manner, accidental: But still it approaches sonear, in its influence, as may convince us, thatthey are derived from the same origin. Beliefmust please the imagination by means of theforce and vivacity which attends it; since everyidea, which has force and vivacity, is found tobe agreeable to that faculty.

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To confirm this we may observe, that the as-sistance is mutual betwixt the judgment andfancy, as well as betwixt the judgment and pas-sion; and that belief not only gives vigour tothe imagination, but that a vigorous and strongimagination is of all talents the most proper toprocure belief and authority. It is difficult forus to withhold our assent from what is paintedout to us in all the colours of eloquence; and thevivacity produced by the fancy is in many casesgreater than that which arises from custom andexperience. We are hurried away by the livelyimagination of our author or companion; andeven he himself is often a victim to his own fireand genius.

Nor will it be amiss to remark, that as a livelyimagination very often degenerates into mad-ness or folly, and bears it a great resemblance in

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its operations; so they influence the judgmentafter the same manner, and produce belief fromthe very same principles. When the imagi-nation, from any extraordinary ferment of theblood and spirits, acquires such a vivacity asdisorders all its powers and faculties, there isno means of distinguishing betwixt truth andfalshood; but every loose fiction or idea, hav-ing the same influence as the impressions of thememory, or the conclusions of the judgment,is received on the same footing, and operateswith equal force on the passions. A present im-pression and a customary transition are nowno longer necessary to enliven our ideas. Ev-ery chimera of the brain is as vivid and intenseas any of those inferences, which we formerlydignifyed with the name of conclusions con-cerning matters of fact, and sometimes as thepresent impressions of the senses.

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We may observe the same effect of poetryin a lesser degree; and this is common bothto poetry and madness, that the vivacity theybestow on the ideas is not derived from theparticular situations or connexions of the ob-jects of these ideas, but from the present temperand disposition of the person. But how greatsoever the pitch may be, to which this vivac-ity rises, it is evident, that in poetry it neverhas the same feeling with that which arises inthe mind, when we reason, though even uponthe lowest species of probability. The mindcan easily distinguish betwixt the one and theother; and whatever emotion the poetical en-thusiasm may give to the spirits, it is still themere phantom of belief or persuasion. The caseis the same with the idea, as with the passion itoccasions. There is no passion of the humanmind but what may arise from poetry; though

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at the same time the feelings of the passionsare very different when excited by poetical fic-tions, from what they are when they are frombelief and reality. A passion, which is disagree-able in real life, may afford the highest enter-tainment in a tragedy, or epic poem. In thelatter case, it lies not with that weight uponus: It feels less firm and solid: And has noother than the agreeable effect of exciting thespirits, and rouzing the attention. The differ-ence in the passions is a clear proof of a likedifference in those ideas, from which the pas-sions are derived. Where the vivacity arisesfrom a customary conjunction with a presentimpression; though the imagination may not,in appearance, be so much moved; yet thereis always something more forcible and real inits actions, than in the fervors of poetry andeloquence. The force of our mental actions in

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this case, no more than in any other, is not tobe measured by the apparent agitation of themind. A poetical description may have a moresensible effect on the fancy, than an historicalnarration. It may collect more of those circum-stances, that form a compleat image or picture.It may seem to set the object before us in morelively colours. But still the ideas it presents aredifferent to the feeling from those, which arisefrom the memory and the judgment. There issomething weak and imperfect amidst all thatseeming vehemence of thought and sentiment,which attends the fictions of poetry.

We shall afterwards have occasion to remarkboth the resemblance and differences betwixta poetical enthusiasm, and a serious convic-tion. In the mean time I cannot forbear ob-serving, that the great difference in their feel-

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ing proceeds in some measure from reflectionand general rules. We observe, that the vigour ofconception, which fictions receive from poetryand eloquence, is a circumstance merely acci-dental, of which every idea is equally suscep-tible; and that such fictions are connected withnothing that is real. This observation makes usonly lend ourselves, so to speak, to the fiction:But causes the idea to feel very different fromthe eternal established persuasions founded onmemory and custom. They are somewhat ofthe same kind: But the one is much inferior tothe other, both in its causes and effects.

A like reflection on general rules keeps usfrom augmenting our belief upon every en-crease of the force and vivacity of our ideas.Where an opinion admits of no doubt, or op-posite probability, we attribute to it a full con-

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viction: though the want of resemblance, orcontiguity, may render its force inferior to thatof other opinions. It is thus the understand-ing corrects the appearances of the senses, andmakes us imagine, that an object at twenty footdistance seems even to the eye as large as oneof the same dimensions at ten.

We may observe the same effect of poetry ina lesser degree; only with this difference, thatthe least reflection dissipates the illusions ofpoetry, and Places the objects in their properlight. It is however certain, that in the warmthof a poetical enthusiasm, a poet has a coun-terfeit belief, and even a kind of vision of hisobjects: And if there be any shadow of argu-ment to support this belief, nothing contributesmore to his full conviction than a blaze of po-etical figures and images, which have their ef-

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fect upon the poet himself, as well as upon hisreaders.

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SECTION XI. OF THE PROBABILITY OFCHANCES

But in order to bestow on this system its fullforce and evidence, we must carry our eye fromit a moment to consider its consequences, andexplain from the same principles some otherspecies of reasoning, which are derived fromthe same origin.

Those philosophers, who have divided hu-man reason into knowledge and probability,and have defined the first to be that evidence,which arises from the comparison of ideas, areobliged to comprehend all our arguments fromcauses or effects under the general term ofprobability. But though every one be free touse his terms in what sense he pleases; andaccordingly in the precedent part of this dis-

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course, I have followed this method of expres-sion; it is however certain, that in common dis-course we readily affirm, that many argumentsfrom causation exceed probability, and may bereceived as a superior kind of evidence. Onewould appear ridiculous, who would say, thatit is only probable the sun will rise to-morrow,or that all men must dye; though it is plain wehave no further assurance of these facts, thanwhat experience affords us. For this reason, itwould perhaps be more convenient, in orderat once to preserve the common significationof words, and mark the several degrees of ev-idence, to distinguish human reason into threekinds, viz. that from knowledge, from proofs, andfrom probabilities. By knowledge, I mean the as-surance arising from the comparison of ideas.By proofs, those arguments, which are derivedfrom the relation of cause and effect, and which

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are entirely free from doubt and uncertainty.By probability, that evidence, which is still at-tended with uncertainty. It is this last speciesof reasoning, I proceed to examine.

Probability or reasoning from conjecturemay be divided into two kinds, viz. that whichis founded on chance, and that which arisesfrom causes. We shall consider each of thesein order.

The idea of cause and effect is derived fromexperience, which presenting us with certainobjects constantly conjoined with each other,produces such a habit of surveying them in thatrelation, that we cannot without a sensible vi-olence survey them iii any other. On the otherhand, as chance is nothing real in itself, and,properly speaking, is merely the negation ofa cause, its influence on the mind is contrary

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to that of causation; and it is essential to it, toleave the imagination perfectly indifferent, ei-ther to consider the existence or non-existenceof that object, which is regarded as contingent.A cause traces the way to our thought, and ina manner forces us to survey such certain ob-jects, in such certain relations. Chance can onlydestroy this determination of the thought, andleave the mind in its native situation of indif-ference; in which, upon the absence of a cause,it is instantly re-instated.

Since therefore an entire indifference is es-sential to chance, no one chance can possibly besuperior to another, otherwise than as it is com-posed of a superior number of equal chances.For if we affirm that one chance can, after anyother manner, be superior to another, we mustat the same time affirm, that there is some-

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thing, which gives it the superiority, and de-termines the event rather to that side than theother: That is, in other words, we must allow ofa cause, and destroy the supposition of chance;which we had before established. A perfectand total indifference is essential to chance, andone total indifference can never in itself be ei-ther superior or inferior to another. This truthis not peculiar to my system, but is acknowl-edged by every one, that forms calculationsconcerning chances.

And here it is remarkable, that thoughchance and causation be directly contrary, yetit is impossible for us to conceive this combi-nation of chances, which is requisite to renderone hazard superior to another, without sup-posing a mixture of causes among the chances,and a conjunction of necessity in some particu-

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lars, with a total indifference in others. Wherenothing limits the chances, every notion, thatthe most extravagant fancy can form, is upona footing of equality; nor can there be any cir-cumstance to give one the advantage above an-other. Thus unless we allow, that there aresome causes to make the dice fall, and preservetheir form in their fall, and lie upon some one oftheir sides, we can form no calculation concern-ing the laws of hazard. But supposing thesecauses to operate, and supposing likewise allthe rest to be indifferent and to be determinedby chance, it is easy to arrive at a notion of asuperior combination of chances. A dye thathas four sides marked with a certain number ofspots, and only two with another, affords us anobvious and easy instance of this superiority.The mind is here limited by the causes to sucha precise number and quality of the events; and

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at the same time is undetermined in its choiceof any particular event.

Proceeding then in that reasoning, whereinwe have advanced three steps; that chance ismerely the negation of a cause, and producesa total indifference in the mind; that one nega-tion of a cause and one total indifference cannever be superior or inferior to another; andthat there must always be a mixture of causesamong the chances, in order to be the foun-dation of any reasoning: We are next to con-sider what effect a superior combination ofchances can have upon the mind, and afterwhat manner it influences our judgment andopinion. Here we may repeat all the same argu-ments we employed in examining that belief,which arises from causes; and may prove, af-ter the same manner, that a superior number of

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chances produces our assent neither by demon-stration nor probability. It is indeed evidentthat we can never by the comparison of mereideas make any discovery, which can be of con-sequence in this affairs and that it is impossi-ble to prove with certainty, that any event mustfall on that side where there is a superior num-ber of chances. To, suppose in this case anycertainty, were to overthrow what we have es-tablished concerning the opposition of chances,and their perfect equality and indifference.

Should it be said, that though in an oppo-sition of chances it is impossible to determinewith certainty, on which side the event will fall,yet we can pronounce with certainty, that it ismore likely and probable, it will be on that sidewhere there is a superior number of chances,than where there is an inferior: should this be

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said, I would ask, what is here meant by like-lihood and probability? The likelihood andprobability of chances is a superior number ofequal chances; and consequently when we sayit is likely the event win fall on the side, whichis superior, rather than on the inferior, we do nomore than affirm, that where there is a superiornumber of chances there is actually a superior,and where there is an inferior there is an infe-rior; which are identical propositions, and of noconsequence. The question is, by what meansa superior number of equal chances operatesupon the mind, and produces belief or assent;since it appears, that it is neither by argumentsderived from demonstration, nor from proba-bility.

In order to clear up this difficulty, we shallsuppose a person to take a dye, formed af-

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ter such a manner as that four of its sides aremarked with one figure, or one number ofspots, and two with another; and to put thisdye into the box with an intention of throwingit: It is plain, he must conclude the one figureto be more probable than the other, and givethe preference to that which is inscribed on thegreatest number of sides. He in a manner be-lieves, that this will lie uppermost; though stillwith hesitation and doubt, in proportion to thenumber of chances, which are contrary: Andaccording as these contrary chances diminish,and the superiority encreases on the other side,his belief acquires new degrees of stability andassurance. This belief arises from an opera-tion of the mind upon the simple and limitedobject before us; and therefore its nature willbe the more easily discovered and explained.We have nothing but one single dye to contem-

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plate, in order to comprehend one of the mostcurious operations of the understanding.

This dye, formed as above, contains three cir-cumstances worthy of our attention. First, Cer-tain causes, such as gravity, solidity, a cubicalfigure, &c. which determine it to fall, to pre-serve its form in its fall, and to turn up one ofits sides. Secondly, A certain number of sides,which are supposed indifferent. Thirdly, A cer-tain figure inscribed on each side. These threeparticulars form the whole nature of the dye, sofar as relates to our present purpose; and con-sequently are the only circumstances regardedby the mind in its forming a judgment concern-ing the result of such a throw. Let us, therefore,consider gradually and carefully what mustbe the influence of these circumstances on thethought and imagination.

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First, We have already observed, that themind is determined by custom to pass fromany cause to its effect, and that upon the ap-pearance of the one, it is almost impossiblefor it not to form an idea of the other. Theirconstant conjunction in past instances has pro-duced such a habit in the mind, that it alwaysconjoins them in its thought, and infers the ex-istence of the one from that of its usual atten-dant. When it considers the dye as no longersupported by the box, it can not without vi-olence regard it as suspended in the air; butnaturally places it on the table, and views itas turning up one of its sides. This is the ef-fect of the intermingled causes, which are req-uisite to our forming any calculation concern-ing chances.

Secondly, It is supposed, that though the dye

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be necessarily determined to fall, and turn upone of its sides, yet there is nothing to fix theparticular side, but that this is determined en-tirely by chance. The very nature and essenceof chance is a negation of causes, and the leav-ing the mind in a perfect indifference amongthose events, which are supposed contingent.When therefore the thought is determined bythe causes to consider the dye as falling andturning up one of its sides, the chances presentall these sides as equal, and make us considerevery one of them, one after another, as alikeprobable and possible. The imagination passesfrom the cause, viz. the throwing of the dye,to the effect, viz. the turning up one of the sixsides; and feels a kind of impossibility both ofstopping short in the way, and of forming anyother idea. But as all these six sides are incom-patible, and the dye cannot turn up above one

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at once, this principle directs us not to considerall of them at once as lying uppermost; whichwe look upon as impossible: Neither does itdirect us with its entire force to any particularside; for in that case this side would be consid-ered as certain and inevitable; but it directs usto the whole six sides after such a manner as todivide its force equally among them. We con-clude in general, that some one of them mustresult from the throw: We run all of them overin our minds: The determination of the thoughtis common to all; but no more of its force fallsto the share of any one, than what is suitable toits proportion with the rest. It is after this man-ner the original impulse, and consequently thevivacity of thought, arising from the causes, isdivided and split in pieces by the intermingledchances.

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We have already seen the influence of thetwo first qualities of the dye, viz. the causes,and the number and indifference of the sides,and have learned how they give an impulse tothe thought, and divide that impulse into asmany parts as there are unites in the number ofsides. We must now consider the effects of thethird particular, viz. the figures inscribed oneach side. It is evident that where several sideshave the same figure inscribe on them, theymust concur in their influence on the mind, andmust unite upon one image or idea of a figureall those divided impulses, that were dispersedover the several sides, upon which that figureis inscribed. Were the question only what sidewill be turned up, these are all perfectly equal,and no one coued ever have any advantageabove another. But as the question is concern-ing the figure, and as the same figure is pre-

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sented by more than one side: it is evident, thatthe impulses belonging to all these sides mustre-unite in that one figure, and become strongerand more forcible by the union. Four sides aresupposed in the present case to have the samefigure inscribed on them, and two to have an-other figure. The impulses of the former are,therefore, superior to those of the latter. Butas the events are contrary, and it is impossibleboth these figures can be turned up; the im-pulses likewise become contrary, and the infe-rior destroys the superior, as far as its strengthgoes. The vivacity of the idea is always propor-tionable to the degrees of the impulse or ten-dency to the transition; and belief is the samewith the vivacity of the idea, according to theprecedent doctrine.

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SECTION XII. OF THE PROBABILITY OFCAUSES

What I have said concerning the probabil-ity of chances can serve to no other purpose,than to assist us in explaining the probabil-ity of causes; since it is commonly allowed byphilosophers, that what the vulgar call chanceis nothing but a secret and concealed cause.That species of probability, therefore, is whatwe must chiefly examine.

The probabilities of causes are of severalkinds; but are all derived from the same ori-gin, viz. the association of ideas to a present im-pression. As the habit, which produces the as-sociation, arises from the frequent conjunctionof objects, it must arrive at its perfection by de-grees, and must acquire new force from each

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instance, that falls under our observation. Thefirst instance has little or no force: The secondmakes some addition to it: The third becomesstill more sensible; and it is by these slow steps,that our judgment arrives at a full assurance.But before it attains this pitch of perfection, itpasses through several inferior degrees, and inall of them is only to be esteemed a presump-tion or probability. The gradation, therefore,from probabilities to proofs is in many cases in-sensible; and the difference betwixt these kindsof evidence is more easily perceived in the re-mote degrees, than in the near and contiguous.

It is worthy of remark on this occasion,that though the species of probability here ex-plained be the first in order, and naturally takesplace before any entire proof can exist, yet noone, who is arrived at the age of maturity, can

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any longer be acquainted with it. It is true,nothing is more common than for people ofthe most advanced knowledge to have attainedonly an imperfect experience of many particu-lar events; which naturally produces only animperfect habit and transition: But then wemust consider, that the mind, having formedanother observation concerning the connexionof causes and effects, gives new force to its rea-soning from that observation; and by meansof it can build an argument on one single ex-periment, when duly prepared and examined.What we have found once to follow from anyobject, we conclude will for ever follow fromit; and if this maxim be not always built uponas certain, it is not for want of a sufficientnumber of experiments, but because we fre-quently meet with instances to the contrary;which leads us to the second species of prob-

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ability, where there is a contrariety in our expe-rience and observation.

It would be very happy for men in the con-duct of their lives and actions, were the sameobjects always conjoined together, and, we hadnothing to fear but the mistakes of our ownjudgment, without having any reason to ap-prehend the uncertainty of nature. But as itis frequently found, that one observation iscontrary to another, and that causes and ef-fects follow not in the same order, of which wehave I had experience, we are obliged to varyour reasoning on, account of this uncertainty,and take into consideration the contrariety ofevents. The first question, that occurs on thishead, is concerning the nature and causes of thecontrariety.

The vulgar, who take things according to

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their first appearance, attribute the uncertaintyof events to such an uncertainty in the causes,as makes them often fail of their usual influ-ence, though they meet with no obstacle norimpediment in their operation. But philoso-phers observing, that almost in every part ofnature there is contained a vast variety ofsprings and principles, which are hid, by rea-son of their minuteness or remoteness, find thatit is at least possible the contrariety of eventsmay not proceed from any contingency in thecause, but from the secret operation of con-trary causes. This possibility is converted intocertainty by farther observation, when they re-mark, that upon an exact scrutiny, a contrari-ety of effects always betrays a contrariety ofcauses, and proceeds from their mutual hin-drance and opposition. A peasant can give nobetter reason for the stopping of any clock or

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watch than to say, that commonly it does notgo right: But an artizan easily perceives, thatthe same force in the spring or pendulum hasalways the same influence on the wheels; butfails of its usual effect, perhaps by reason of agrain of dust, which puts a stop to the wholemovement. From the observation of severalparallel instances, philosophers form a maxim,that the connexion betwixt all causes and ef-fects is equally necessary, and that its seeminguncertainty in some instances proceeds fromthe secret opposition of contrary causes.

But however philosophers and the vulgarmay differ in their explication of the contrarietyof events, their inferences from it are always ofthe same kind, and founded on the same prin-ciples. A contrariety of events in the past maygive us a kind of hesitating belief for the future

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after two several ways. First, By producing animperfect habit and transition from the presentimpression to the related idea. When the con-junction of any two objects is frequent, with-out being entirely constant, the mind is deter-mined to pass from one object to the other; butnot with so entire a habit, as when the unionis uninterrupted, and all the instances we haveever met with are uniform and of a piece-.. Wefind from common experience, in our actionsas well as reasonings, that a constant persever-ance in any course of life produces a strong in-clination and tendency to continue for the fu-ture; though there are habits of inferior degreesof force, proportioned to the inferior degrees ofsteadiness and uniformity in our conduct.

There is no doubt but this principle some-times takes place, and produces those infer-

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ences we draw from contrary phaenomena:though I am perswaded, that upon examina-tion we shall not find it to be the principle, thatmost commonly influences the mind in thisspecies of reasoning. When we follow only thehabitual determination of the mind, we makethe transition without any reflection, and inter-pose not a moment’s delay betwixt the view ofone object and the belief of that, which is oftenfound to attend it. As the custom depends notupon any deliberation, it operates immediately,without allowing any time for reflection. Butthis method of proceeding we have but few in-stances of in our probable reasonings; and evenfewer than in those, which are derived fromthe uninterrupted conjunction of objects. In theformer species of reasoning we commonly takeknowingly into consideration the contrariety ofpast events; we compare the different sides of

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the contrariety, and carefully weigh the exper-iments, which we have on each side: Whencewe may conclude, that our reasonings of thiskind arise not directly from the habit, but in anoblique manner; which we must now endeav-our to explain.

It is evident, that when an object is attendedwith contrary effects, we judge of them only byour past experience, and always consider thoseas possible, which we have observed to followfrom it. And as past experience regulates ourjudgment concerning the possibility of these ef-fects, so it does that concerning their probabil-ity; and that effect, which has been the mostcommon, we always esteem the most likely.Here then are two things to be considered, viz.the reasons which determine us to make thepast a standard for the future, and the manner

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how we extract a single judgment from a con-trariety of past events.

First we may observe, that the supposi-tion, that the future resembles the past, is notfounded on arguments of any kind, but is de-rived entirely from habit, by which we are de-termined to expect for the future the same trainof objects, to which we have been accustomed.This habit or determination to transfer the pastto the future is full and perfect; and conse-quently the first impulse of the imagination inthis species of reasoning is endowed with thesame qualities.

But, secondly, when in considering past ex-periments we find them of a contrary nature,this determination, though full and perfect initself, presents us with no steady object, but of-fers us a number of disagreeing images in a cer-

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tain order and proportion. The first impulse,therefore, is here broke into pieces, and diffusesitself over all those images, of which each par-takes an equal share of that force and vivacity,that is derived from the impulse. Any of thesepast events may again happen; and we judge,that when they do happen, they will be mixedin the same proportion as in the past.

If our intention, therefore, be to consider theproportions of contrary events in a great num-ber of instances, the images presented by ourpast experience must remain in their FIRSTFORM, and preserve their first proportions.Suppose, for instance, I have found by long ob-servation, that of twenty ships, which go to sea,only nineteen return. Suppose I see at presenttwenty ships that leave the port: I transfer mypast experience to the future, and represent to

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myself nineteen of these ships as returning insafety, and one as perishing. Concerning thisthere can be no difficulty. But as we frequentlyrun over those several ideas of past events, inorder to form a judgment concerning one sin-gle event, which appears uncertain; this con-sideration must change the FIRST FORM of ourideas, and draw together the divided imagespresented by experience; since it is to it we re-fer the determination of that particular event,upon which we reason. Many of these imagesare supposed to concur, and a superior numberto concur on one side. These agreeing imagesunite together, and render the idea more strongand lively, not only than a mere fiction of theimagination, but also than any idea, which issupported by a lesser number of experiments.Each new experiment is as a new stroke ofthe pencil, which bestows an additional vivac-

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ity on the colours without either multiplyingor enlarging the figure. This operation of themind has been so fully explained in treating ofthe probability of chance, that I need not hereendeavour to render it more intelligible. Everypast experiment may be considered as a kind ofchance; I it being uncertain to us, whether theobject will exist conformable to one experimentor another. And for this reason every thing thathas been said on the one subject is applicable toboth.

Thus upon the whole, contrary experimentsproduce an imperfect belief, either by weaken-ing the habit, or by dividing and afterwardsjoining in different parts, that perfect habit,which makes us conclude in general, that in-stances, of which we have no experience, mustnecessarily resemble those of which we have.

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To justify still farther this account of the sec-ond species of probability, where we reasonwith knowledge and reflection from a contrari-ety of past experiments, I shall propose the fol-lowing considerations, without fearing to giveoffence by that air of subtilty, which attendsthem. Just reasoning ought still, perhaps, toretain its force, however subtile; in the samemanner as matter preserves its solidity in theair, and fire, and animal spirits, as well as inthe grosser and more sensible forms.

First, We may observe, that there is no prob-ability so great as not to allow of a contrarypossibility; because otherwise it would cease tobe a probability, and would become a certainty.That probability of causes, which is most ex-tensive, and which we at present examine, de-pends on a contrariety of experiments: and it

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is evident An experiment in the past proves atleast a possibility for the future.

Secondly, The component parts of this pos-sibility and probability are of the same nature,and differ in number only, but not in kind. Ithas been observed, that all single chances areentirely equal, and that the only circumstance,which can give any event, that is contingent, asuperiority over another is a superior numberof chances. In like manner, as the uncertaintyof causes is discovery by experience, whichpresents us with a view of contrary events, itis plain, that when we transfer the past to thefuture, the known to the unknown, every pastexperiment has the same weight, and that itis only a superior number of them, which canthrow the ballance on any side. The possibility,therefore, which enters into every reasoning of

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this kind, is composed of parts, which are of thesame nature both among themselves, and withthose, that compose the opposite probability.

Thirdly, We may establish it as a certainmaxim, that in all moral as well as naturalphaenomena, wherever any cause consists ofa number of parts, and the effect encreasesor diminishes, according to the variation ofthat number, the effects properly speaking, isa compounded one, and arises from the unionof the several effects, that proceed from eachpart of the cause. Thus, because the gravityof a body encreases or diminishes by the en-crease or diminution of its parts, we concludethat each part contains this quality and con-tributes to the gravity of the whole. The ab-sence or presence of a part of the cause is at-tended with that of a proportionable part of the

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effect. This connexion or constant conjunctionsufficiently proves the one part to be the causeof the other. As the belief which we have ofany event, encreases or diminishes accordingto the number of chances or past experiments,it is to be considered as a compounded effect,of which each part arises from a proportionablenumber of chances or experiments.

Let us now join these three observations, andsee what conclusion we can draw from them.To every probability there is an opposite pos-sibility. This possibility is composed of parts,that are entirely of the same nature with thoseof the probability; and consequently have thesame influence on the mind and understand-ing. The belief, which attends the probability, isa compounded effect, and is formed by the con-currence of the several effects, which proceed

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from each part of the probability. Since there-fore each part of the probability contributes tothe production of the belief, each part of thepossibility must have the same influence on theopposite side; the nature of these parts beingentirely the same. The contrary belief, attend-ing the possibility, implies a view of a certainobject, as well as the probability does an op-posite view. In this particular both these de-grees of belief are alike. The only manner then,in which the superior number of similar com-ponent parts in the one can exert its influence,and prevail above the inferior in the other, is byproducing a stronger and more lively view ofits object. Each part presents a particular view;and all these views uniting together produceone general view, which is fuller and more dis-tinct by the greater number of causes or princi-ples, from which it is derived.

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The component parts of the probability andpossibility, being alike in their nature, mustproduce like effects; and the likeness of their ef-fects consists in this, that each of them presentsa view of a particular object. But though theseparts be alike in their nature, they are very dif-ferent in their quantity and number; and thisdifference must appear in the effect as well asthe similarity. Now as the view they present isin both cases full and entire, and comprehendsthe object in all its parts, it is impossible thatin this particular there can be any difference;nor is there any thing but a superior vivacity inthe probability, arising from the concurrence ofa superior number of views, which can distin-guish these effects.

Here is almost the same argument in a dif-ferent light. All our reasonings concerning the

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probability of causes are founded on the trans-ferring of past to future. The transferring ofany past experiment to the future is sufficientto give us a view of the object; whether thatexperiment be single or combined with othersof the same kind; whether it be entire, or op-posed by others of a contrary kind. Suppose,then, it acquires both these qualities of combi-nation and opposition, it loses not upon thataccount its former power of presenting a viewof the object, but only concurs with and op-poses other experiments, that have a like influ-ence. A question, therefore, may arise concern-ing the manner both of the concurrence and op-position. As to the concurrence, there is onlythe choice left betwixt these two hypotheses.First, That the view of the object, occasionedby the transference of each past experiment,preserves itself entire, and only multiplies the

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number of views. Or, secondly, That it runsinto the other similar and correspondent views,and gives them a superior degree of force andvivacity. But that the first hypothesis is erro-neous, is evident from experience, which in-forms us, that the belief, attending any reason-ing, consists in one conclusion, not in a mul-titude of similar ones, which would only dis-tract the mind, and in many cases would betoo numerous to be comprehended distinctlyby any finite capacity. It remains, therefore, asthe only reasonable opinion, that these simi-lar views run into each other, and unite theirforces; so as to produce a stronger and clearerview, than what arises from any one alone. Thisis the manner, in which past experiments con-cur, when they are transfered to any futureevent. As to the manner of their opposition,it is evident, that as the contrary views are in-

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compatible with each other, and it is impossi-ble the object can at once exist conformable toboth of them, their influence becomes mutuallydestructive, and the mind is determined to thesuperior only with that force, which remains,after subtracting the inferior.

I am sensible how abstruse all this reason-ing must appear to the generality of readers,who not being accustomed to such profoundreflections on the intellectual faculties of themind, will be apt to reject as chimerical what-ever strikes not in with the common receivednotions, and with the easiest and most obviousprinciples of philosophy. And no doubt thereare some pains required to enter into these ar-guments; though perhaps very little are nec-essary to perceive the imperfection of everyvulgar hypothesis on this subject, and the lit-

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tle light, which philosophy can yet afford usin such sublime and such curious speculations.Let men be once fully perswaded of these twoprinciples, that there, is nothing in any object, con-sidered in itself, which can afford us a reason fordrawing a conclusion beyond it; and, even after theobservation of the frequent or constant conjunctionof objects, we have no reason to draw any infer-ence concerning any object beyond those of whichwe have had experience; I say, let men be oncefully convinced of these two principles, andthis will throw them so loose from all commonsystems, that they will make no difficulty ofreceiving any, which may appear the most ex-traordinary. These principles we have foundto be sufficiently convincing, even with regardto our most certain reasonings from causation:But I shall venture to affirm, that with regard tothese conjectural or probable reasonings they

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still acquire a new degree of evidence.

First, It is obvious, that in reasonings of thiskind, it is not the object presented to us, which,considered in itself, affords us any reason todraw a conclusion concerning any other ob-ject or event. For as this latter object is sup-posed uncertain, and as the uncertainty is de-rived from a concealed contrariety of causes inthe former, were any of the causes placed in theknown qualities of that object, they would nolonger be concealed, nor would our conclusionbe uncertain.

But, secondly, it is equally obvious in thisspecies of reasoning, that if the transferenceof the past to the future were founded merelyon a conclusion of the understanding, it couednever occasion any belief or assurance. Whenwe transfer contrary experiments to the future,

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we can only repeat these contrary experimentswith their particular proportions; which couednot produce assurance in any single event,upon which we reason, unless the fancy meltedtogether all those images that concur, and ex-tracted from them one single idea or image,which is intense and lively in proportion to thenumber of experiments from which it is de-rived, and their superiority above their antag-onists. Our past experience presents no deter-minate object; and as our belief, however faint,fixes itself on a determinate object, it is evidentthat the belief arises not merely from the trans-ference of past to future, but from some oper-ation of the fancy conjoined with it. This maylead us to conceive the manner, in which thatfaculty enters into all our reasonings.

I shall conclude this subject with two reflec-

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tions, which may deserve our attention. TheFIRST may be explained after this manner.When the mind forms a reasoning concerningany matter of fact, which is only probable, itcasts its eye backward upon past experience,and transferring it to the future, is presentedwith so many contrary views of its object, ofwhich those that are of the same kind unit-ing together, and running into one act of themind, serve to fortify and inliven it. But sup-pose that this multitude of views or glimpsesof an object proceeds not from experience, butfrom a voluntary act of the imagination; thiseffect does not follow, or at least, follows notin the same degree. For though custom andeducation produce belief by such a repetition,as is not derived from experience, yet this re-quires a long tract of time, along with a veryfrequent and undesigned repetition. In general

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we may pronounce, that a person who wouldvoluntarily repeat any idea in his mind, thoughsupported by one past experience, would beno more inclined to believe the existence of itsobject, than if he had contented himself withone survey of it. Beside the effect of design;each act of the mind, being separate and in-dependent, has a separate influence, and joinsnot its force with that of its fellows. Not beingunited by any common object, producing them,they have no relation to each other; and conse-quently make no transition or union of forces.This phaenomenon we shall understand betterafterwards.

My second reflection is founded on thoselarge probabilities, which the mind can judgeof, and the minute differences it can observebetwixt them. When the chances or experi-

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ments on one side amount to ten thousand, andon the other to ten thousand and one, the judg-ment gives the preference to the latter, upon ac-count of that superiority; though it is plainlyimpossible for the mind to run over every par-ticular view, and distinguish the superior vi-vacity of the image arising from the superiornumber, where the difference is so inconsid-erable. We have a parallel instance in the af-fections. It is evident, according to the prin-ciples above-mentioned, that when an objectproduces any passion in us, which varies ac-cording to the different quantity of the object;I say, it is evident, that the passion, properlyspeaking, is not a simple emotion, but a com-pounded one, of a great number of weakerpassions, derived from a view of each part ofthe object. For otherwise it were impossiblethe passion should encrease by the encrease of

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these parts. Thus a man, who desires a thou-sand pound, has in reality a thousand or moredesires which uniting together, seem to makeonly one passion; though the composition ev-idently betrays itself upon every alteration ofthe object, by the preference he gives to thelarger number, if superior only by an unite. Yetnothing can be more certain, than that so smalla difference would not be discernible in thepassions, nor coued render them distinguish-able from each other. The difference, therefore,of our conduct in preferring the greater num-ber depends not upon our passions, but uponcustom, and general rules. We have found ina multitude of instances, that the augmentingthe numbers of any sum augments the passion,where the numbers are precise and the differ-ence sensible. The mind can perceive from itsimmediate feeling, that three guineas produce

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a greater passion than two; and this it trans-fers to larger numbers, because of the resem-blance; and by a general rule assigns to a thou-sand guineas, a stronger passion than to ninehundred and ninety nine. These general ruleswe shall explain presently.

But beside these two species of probability,which a-re derived from an imperfect experi-ence and from contrary causes, there is a thirdarising from analogy, which differs from themin some material circumstances. According tothe hypothesis above explained all kinds of rea-soning from causes or effects are founded ontwo particulars, viz., the constant conjunctionof any two objects in all past experience, andthe resemblance of a present object to any oneof them. The effect of these two particulars is,that the present object invigorates and inlivens

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the imagination; and the resemblance, alongwith the constant union, conveys this force andvivacity to the related idea; which we are there-fore said to believe, or assent to. If you weakeneither the union or resemblance, you weakenthe principle of transition, and of consequencethat belief, which arises from it. The vivacity ofthe first impression cannot be fully conveyedto the related idea, either where the conjunc-tion of their objects is not constant, or wherethe present impression does not perfectly re-semble any of those, whose union we are ac-customed to observe. In those probabilities ofchance and causes above-explained, it is theconstancy of the union, which is diminished;and in the probability derived from analogy,it is the resemblance only, which is affected.Without some degree of resemblance, as wellas union, it is impossible there can be any rea-

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soning: but as this resemblance admits of manydifferent degrees, the reasoning becomes pro-portionably more or less firm and certain. Anexperiment loses of its force, when transferredto instances, which are not exactly resembling;though it is evident it may still retain as muchas may be the foundation of probability, as longas there is any resemblance remaining.

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SECTION XIII. OF UNPHILOSOPHICALPROBABILITY

All these kinds of probability are receivedby philosophers, and allowed to be reasonablefoundations of belief and opinion. But there areothers, that are derived from the same princi-ples, though they have not had the good for-tune to obtain the same sanction. The firstprobability of this kind may be accounted forthus. The diminution of the union, and of theresemblance, as above explained, diminishesthe facility of the transition, and by that meansweakens the evidence; and we may farther ob-serve, that the same diminution of the evidencewill follow from a diminution of the impres-sion, and from the shading of those colours, un-der which it appears to the memory or senses.The argument, which we found on any mat-

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ter of fact we remember, is more or less con-vincing according as the fact is recent or re-mote; and though the difference in these de-grees of evidence be not received by philos-ophy as solid and legitimate; because in thatcase an argument must have a different force today, from what it shall have a month hence; yetnotwithstanding the opposition of philosophy,it is certain, this circumstance has a consider-able influence on the understanding, and se-cretly changes the authority of the same argu-ment, according to the different times, in whichit is proposed to us. A greater force and vi-vacity in the impression naturally conveys agreater to the related idea; and it is on the de-grees of force and vivacity, that the belief de-pends, according to the foregoing system.

There is a second difference, which we may

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frequently observe in our degrees of belief andassurance, and which never fails to take place,though disclaimed by philosophers. An exper-iment, that is recent and fresh in the memory,affects us more than one that is in some mea-sure obliterated; and has a superior influenceon the judgment, as well as on the passions.A lively impression produces more assurancethan a faint one; because it has more originalforce to communicate to the related idea, whichthereby acquires a greater force and vivacity. Arecent observation has a like effect; because thecustom and transition is there more entire, andpreserves better the original force in the com-munication. Thus a drunkard, who has seenhis companion die of a debauch, is struck withthat instance for some time, and dreads a likeaccident for himself: But as the memory of itdecays away by degrees, his former security

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returns, and the danger seems less certain andreal.

I add, as a third instance of this kind, thatthough our reasonings from proofs and fromprobabilities be considerably different fromeach other, yet the former species of reason-ing often degenerates insensibly into the latter,by nothing but the multitude of connected ar-guments. It is certain, that when an inferenceis drawn immediately from an object, withoutany intermediate cause or effect, the convic-tion is much stronger, and the persuasion morelively, than when the imagination is carryedthrough a long chain of connected arguments,however infallible the connexion of each linkmay be esteemed. It is from the original im-pression, that the vivacity of all the ideas is de-rived, by means of the customary transition of

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the imagination; and it is evident this vivacitymust gradually decay in proportion to the dis-tance, and must lose somewhat in each transi-tion. Sometimes this distance has a greater in-fluence than even contrary experiments wouldhave; and a man may receive a more livelyconviction from a probable reasoning, which isclose and immediate, than from a long chainof consequences, though just and conclusivein each part. Nay it is seldom such reason-ings produce any conviction; and one musthave a very strong and firm imagination to pre-serve the evidence to the end, where it passesthrough so many, stages.

But here it may not be amiss to remark a verycurious phaenomenon, which the present sub-ject suggests to us. It is evident there is no pointof ancient history, of which we can have any as-

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surance, but by passing through many millionsof causes and effects, and through a chain ofarguments of almost an immeasurable length.Before the knowledge of the fact coued come tothe first historian, it must be conveyed throughmany mouths; and after it is committed to writ-ing, each new copy is a new object, of which theconnexion with the foregoing is known onlyby experience and observation. Perhaps, there-fore, it may be concluded from the precedentreasoning, that the evidence of all ancient his-tory must now be lost; or at least, will be lost intime, as the chain of causes encreases, and runson to a greater length. But as it seems contraryto common sense to think, that if the republic ofletters, and the art of printing continue on thesame footing as at present, our posterity, evenafter a thousand ages, can ever doubt if therehas been such a man as Julius Caesar; this may

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be considered as an objection to the presentsystem. If belief consisted only in a certain vi-vacity, conveyed from an original impression,it would decay by the length of the transition,and must at last be utterly extinguished: Andvice versa, if belief on some occasions be notcapable of such an extinction; it must be some-thing different from that vivacity.

Before I answer this objection I shall observe,that from this topic there has been borroweda very celebrated argument against the Chris-tian Religion; but with this difference, that theconnexion betwixt each link of the chain in hu-man testimony has been there supposed not togo beyond probability, and to be liable to a de-gree of doubt and uncertainty. And indeed itmust be confest, that in this manner of consid-ering the subject, (which however is not a true

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one) there is no history or tradition, but whatmust in the end lose all its force and evidence.Every new probability diminishes the originalconviction; and however great that convictionmay be supposed, it is impossible it can subsistunder such re-iterated diminutions. This is truein general; though we shall find (Part IV. Sect.1.) afterwards, that there is one very memo-rable exception, which is of vast consequencein the present subject of the understanding.

Mean while to give a solution of the preced-ing objection upon the supposition, that histor-ical evidence amounts at first to an entire proof;let us consider, that though the links are innu-merable, that connect any original fact with thepresent impression, which is the foundation ofbelief; yet they are all of the same kind, anddepend on the fidelity of Printers and Copy-

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ists. One edition passes into another, and thatinto a third, and so on, till we come to that vol-ume we peruse at present. There is no varia-tion in the steps. After we know one we knowall of them; and after we have made one, wecan have no scruple as to the rest. This circum-stance alone preserves the evidence of history,and will perpetuate the memory of the presentage to the latest posterity. If all the long chainof causes and effects, which connect any pastevent with any volume of history, were com-posed of parts different from each other, andwhich it were necessary for the mind distinctlyto conceive, it is impossible we should preserveto the end any belief or evidence. But as mostof these proofs are perfectly resembling, themind runs easily along them, jumps from onepart to another with facility, and forms but aconfused and general notion of each link. By

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this means a long chain of argument, has aslittle effect in diminishing the original vivac-ity, as a much shorter would have, if composedof parts, which were different from each other,and of which each required a distinct consider-ation.

A fourth unphilosophical species of proba-bility is that derived from general rules, whichwe rashly form to ourselves, and which are thesource of what we properly call prejudice. AnIrishman cannot have wit, and a Frenchman can-not have solidity; for which reason, though theconversation of the former in any instance bevisibly very agreeable, and of the latter very ju-dicious, we have entertained such a prejudiceagainst them, that they must be dunces or fopsin spite of sense and reason. Human nature isvery subject to errors of this kind; and perhaps

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this nation as much as any other.

Should it be demanded why men form gen-eral rules, and allow them to influence theirjudgment, even contrary to present observa-tion and experience, I should reply, that inmy opinion it proceeds from those very princi-ples, on which all judgments concerning causesand effects depend. Our judgments concerningcause and effect are derived from habit and ex-perience; and when we have been accustomedto see one object united to another, our imag-ination passes from the first to the second, bya natural transition, which precedes reflection,and which cannot be prevented by it. Now it isthe nature of custom not only to operate withits full force, when objects are presented, thatare exactly the same with those to which wehave been accustomed; but also to operate in an

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inferior degree, when we discover such as aresimilar; and though the habit loses somewhatof its force by every difference, yet it is seldomentirely destroyed, where any considerable cir-cumstances remain the same. A man, who hascontracted a custom of eating fruit by the use ofpears or peaches, will satisfy himself with mel-ons, where he cannot find his favourite fruit; asone, who has become a drunkard by the use ofred wines, will be carried almost with the sameviolence to white, if presented to him. Fromthis principle I have accounted for that speciesof probability, derived from analogy, where wetransfer our experience in past instances to ob-jects which are resembling, but are not exactlythe same with those concerning which we havehad experience. In proportion as the resem-blance decays, the probability diminishes; butstill has some force as long as there remain any

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traces of the resemblance.

This observation we may carry farther; andmay remark, that though custom be the foun-dation of all our judgments, yet sometimes ithas an effect on the imagination in opposi-tion to the judgment, and produces a contrari-ety in our sentiments concerning the same ob-ject. I explain myself. In almost all kinds ofcauses there is a complication of circumstances,of which some are essential, and others super-fluous; some are absolutely requisite to the pro-duction of the effect, and others are only con-joined by accident. Now we may observe, thatwhen these superfluous circumstances are nu-merous, and remarkable, and frequently con-joined with the essential, they have such aninfluence on the imagination, that even in theabsence of the latter they carry us on to t-he

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conception of the usual effect, and give to thatconception a force and vivacity, which make itsuperior to the mere fictions of the fancy. Wemay correct this propensity by a reflection onthe nature of those circumstances: but it is stillcertain, that custom takes the start, and gives abiass to the imagination.

To illustrate this by a familiar instance, let usconsider the case of a man, who, being hungout from a high tower in a cage of iron can-not forbear trembling, when he surveys theprecipice below him, though he knows himselfto be perfectly secure from falling, by his ex-perience of the solidity of the iron, which sup-ports him; and though the ideas of fall and de-scent, and harm and death, be derived solelyfrom custom and experience. The same cus-tom goes beyond the instances, from which it is

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derived, and to which it perfectly corresponds;and influences his ideas of such objects as arein some respect resembling, but fall not pre-cisely under the same rule. The circumstancesof depth and descent strike so strongly uponhim, that their influence can-not be destroyedby the contrary circumstances of support andsolidity, which ought to give him a perfect se-curity. His imagination runs away with its ob-ject, and excites a passion proportioned to it.That passion returns back upon the imagina-tion and inlivens the idea; which lively idea hasa new influence on the passion, and in its turnaugments its force and violence; and both hisfancy and affections, thus mutually supportingeach other, cause the whole to have a very greatinfluence upon him.

But why need we seek for other instances,

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while the present subject of philosophical prob-abilities offers us so obvious an one, in the op-position betwixt the judgment and imaginationarising from these effects of custom? Accord-ing to my system, all reasonings are nothingbut the effects of custom; and custom has noinfluence, but by inlivening the imagination,and giving us a strong conception of any ob-ject. It may, therefore, be concluded, that ourjudgment and imagination can never be con-trary, and that custom cannot operate on thelatter faculty after such a manner, as to ren-der it opposite to the former. This difficultywe can remove after no other manner, thanby supposing the influence of general rules.We shall afterwards take (Sect. 15.) notice ofsome general rules, by which we ought to reg-ulate our judgment concerning causes and ef-fects; and these rules are formed on the na-

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ture of our understanding, and on our expe-rience of its operations in the judgments weform concerning objects. By them we learn todistinguish the accidental circumstances fromthe efficacious causes; and when we find thatan effect can be produced without the concur-rence of any particular circumstance, we con-clude that that circumstance makes not a partof the efficacious cause, however frequentlyconjoined with it. But as this frequent con-junction necessity makes it have some effect onthe imagination, in spite of the opposite con-clusion from general rules, the opposition ofthese two principles produces a contrariety inour thoughts, and causes us to ascribe the oneinference to our judgment, and the other toour imagination. The general rule is attributedto our judgment; as being more extensive andconstant. The exception to the imagination, as

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being more capricious and uncertain.

Thus our general rules are in a manner set inopposition to each other. When an object ap-pears, that resembles any cause in very con-siderable circumstances, the imagination nat-urally carries us to a lively conception of theusual effect, Though the object be different inthe most material and most efficacious circum-stances from that cause. Here is the first in-fluence of general rules. But when we take areview of this act of the mind, and compareit with the more general and authentic oper-ations of the understanding, we find it to beof an irregular nature, and destructive of allthe most established principles of reasonings;which is the cause of our rejecting it. This is asecond influence of general rules, and impliesthe condemnation of the former. Sometimes

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the one, sometimes the other prevails, accord-ing to the disposition and character of the per-son. The vulgar are commonly guided by thefirst, and wise men by the second. Mean whilethe sceptics may here have the pleasure of ob-serving a new and signal contradiction in ourreason, and of seeing all philosophy ready tobe subverted by a principle of human nature,and again saved by a new direction of the verysame principle. The following of general rulesis a very unphilosophical species of probabil-ity; and yet it is only by following them thatwe can correct this, and all other unphilosoph-ical probabilities.

Since we have instances, where general rulesoperate on the imagination even contrary tothe judgment, we need not be surprized tosee their effects encrease, when conjoined with

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that latter faculty, and to observe that they be-stow on the ideas they present to us a force su-perior to what attends any other. Every oneknows, there is an indirect manner of insinuat-ing praise or blame, which is much less shock-ing than the open flattery or censure of any per-son. However he may communicate his senti-ments by such secret insinuations, and makethem known with equal certainty as by theopen discovery of them, it is certain that theirinfluence is not equally strong and powerful.One who lashes me with concealed strokes ofsatire, moves not my indignation to such a de-gree, as if he flatly told me I was a fool and cox-comb; though I equally understand his mean-ing, as if he did. This difference is to be at-tributed to the influence of general rules.

Whether a person openly, abuses me, or slyly

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intimates his contempt, in neither case do I im-mediately perceive his sentiment or opinion;and it is only by signs, that is, by its effects, Ibecome sensible of it. The only difference, then,betwixt these two cases consists in this, that inthe open discovery of his sentiments he makesuse of signs, which are general and universal;and in the secret intimation employs such asare more singular and uncommon. The effectof this circumstance is, that the imagination,in running from the present impression to theabsent idea, makes the transition with greaterfacility, and consequently conceives the objectwith greater force, where the connexion is com-mon and universal, than where it is more rareand particular. Accordingly we may observe,that the open declaration of our sentiments iscalled the taking off the mask, as the secret inti-mation of our opinions is said to be the veiling

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of them. The difference betwixt an idea pro-duced by a general connexion, and that aris-ing from a particular one is here compared tothe difference betwixt an impression and anidea. This difference in the imagination has asuitable effect on the passions; and this effectis augmented by another circumstance. A se-cret intimation of anger or contempt shews thatwe still have some consideration for the per-son, and avoid the directly abusing him. Thismakes a concealed satire less disagreeable; butstill this depends on the same principle. For ifan idea were not more feeble, when only inti-mated, it would never be esteemed a mark ofgreater respect to proceed in this method thanin the other.

Sometimes scurrility is less displeasing thandelicate satire, because it revenges us in a man-

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ner for the injury at the very time it is com-mitted, by affording us a just reason to blameand contemn the person, who injures us. Butthis phaenomenon likewise depends upon thesame principle. For why do we blame all grossand injurious language, unless it be, becausewe esteem it contrary to good breeding and hu-manity? And why is it contrary, unless it bemore shocking than any delicate satire? Therules of good breeding condemn whatever isopenly disobliging, and gives a sensible painand confusion to those, with whom we con-verse. After this is once established, abusivelanguage is universally blamed, and gives lesspain upon account of its coarseness and in-civility, which render the person despicable,that employs it. It becomes less disagreeable,merely because originally it is more so; and itis more disagreeable, because it affords an in-

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ference by general and common rules, that arepalpable and undeniable.

To this explication of the different influenceof open and concealed flattery or satire, I shalladd the consideration of another phenomenon,which is analogous to it. There are many par-ticulars in the point of honour both of menand women, whose violations, when open andavowed, the world never excuses, but whichit is more apt to overlook, when the appear-ances are saved, and the transgression is se-cret and concealed. Even those, who knowwith equal certainty, that the fault is commit-ted, pardon it more easily, when the proofsseem in some measure oblique and equivocal,than when they are direct and undeniable. Thesame idea is presented in both cases, and, prop-erly speaking, is equally assented to by the

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judgment; and yet its influence is different, be-cause of the different manner, in which it is pre-sented.

Now if we compare these two cases, of theopen and concealed violations of the laws ofhonour, we shall find, that the difference be-twixt them consists in this, that in the firstease the sign, from which we infer the blame-able action, is single, and suffices alone to bethe foundation of our reasoning and judgment;whereas in the latter the signs are numerous,and decide little or nothing when alone andunaccompanyed with many minute circum-stances, which are almost imperceptible. Butit is certainly true, that any reasoning is al-ways the more convincing, the more single andunited it is to the eye, and the less exercise itgives to the imagination to collect all its parts,

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and run from them to the correlative idea,which forms the conclusion. The labour of thethought disturbs the regular progress of thesentiments, as we shall observe presently.(PartIV. Sect. 1.) The idea strikes not on us withouch vivacity; and consequently has no suchinfluence on the passion and imagination.

From the same principles we may accountfor those observations of the Cardinal de Retz,that there are many things, in which the worldwishes to be deceived; and that it more easilyexcuses a person in acting than in talking con-trary to the decorum of his profession and char-acter. A fault in words is commonly more openand distinct than one in actions, which admitof many palliating excuses, and decide not soclearly concerning the intention and views ofthe actor.

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Thus it appears upon the whole, that everykind of opinion or judgment, which amountsnot to knowledge, is derived entirely from theforce and vivacity of the perception, and thatthese qualities constitute in the mind, what wecall the belief Of the existence of any object.This force and this vivacity are most conspic-uous in the memory; and therefore our confi-dence in the veracity of that faculty is the great-est imaginable, and equals in many respectsthe assurance of a demonstration. The nextdegree of these qualities is that derived fromthe relation of cause and effect; and this too isvery great, especially when the conjunction isfound by experience to be perfectly constant,and when the object, which is present to us, ex-actly resembles those, of which we have hadexperience. But below this degree of evidencethere are many others, which have an influence

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on the passions and imagination, proportionedto that degree of force and vivacity, which theycommunicate to the ideas. It is by habit wemake the transition from cause to effect; andit is from some present impression we borrowthat vivacity, which we diffuse over the correl-ative idea. But when we have not observeda sufficient number of instances, to produce astrong habit; or when these instances are con-trary to each other; or when the resemblance isnot exact; or the present impression is faint andobscure; or the experience in some measureobliterated from the memory; or the connex-ion dependent on a long chain of objects; or theinference derived from general rules, and yetnot conformable to them: In all these cases theevidence diminishes by the diminution of theforce and intenseness of the idea. This thereforeis the nature of the judgment and probability.

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What principally gives authority to this sys-tem is, beside the undoubted arguments, uponwhich each part is founded, the agreement ofthese parts, and the necessity of one to explainanother. The belief, which attends our mem-ory, is of the same nature with that, which isderived from our judgments: Nor is there anydifference betwixt that judgment, which is de-rived from a constant and uniform connexionof causes and effects, and that which dependsupon an interrupted and uncertain. It is indeedevident, that in all determinations, where themind decides from contrary experiments, it isfirst divided within itself, and has an inclina-tion to either side in proportion to the num-ber of experiments we have seen and remem-ber. This contest is at last determined to theadvantage of that side, where we observe a su-perior number of these experiments; but still

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with a diminution of force in the evidence cor-respondent to the number of the opposite ex-periments. Each possibility, of which the prob-ability is composed, operates separately uponthe imagination; and it is the larger collectionof possibilities, which at last prevails, and thatwith a force proportionable to its superiority.All these phenomena lead directly to the prece-dent system; nor will it ever be possible uponany other principles to give a satisfactory andconsistent explication of them. Without consid-ering these judgments as the effects of customon the imagination, we shall lose ourselves inperpetual contradiction and absurdity.

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SECTION XIV. OF THE IDEA OF NECESSARYCONNEXION

Having thus explained the manner, in whichwe reason beyond our immediate impressions,and conclude that such particular causes musthave such particular effects; we must now re-turn upon our footsteps to examine that ques-tion, which (Sect. 2.) first occured to us, andwhich we dropt in our way, viz. What is ouridea of necessity, when we say that two objectsare necessarily connected together. Upon thishead I repeat what I have often had occasion toobserve, that as we have no idea, that is not de-rived from an impression, we must find someimpression, that gives rise to this idea of neces-sity, if we assert we have really such an idea.In order to this I consider, in what objects ne-cessity is commonly supposed to lie; and find-

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ing that it is always ascribed to causes and ef-fects, I turn my eye to two objects supposed tobe placed in that relation; and examine them inall the situations, of which they are susceptible.I immediately perceive, that they are contigu-ous in time and place, and that the object wecall cause precedes the other we call effect. Inno one instance can I go any farther, nor is itpossible for me to discover any third relationbetwixt these objects. I therefore enlarge myview to comprehend several instances; where Ifind like objects always existing in like relationsof contiguity and succession. At first sight thisseems to serve but little to my purpose. Thereflection on several instances only repeats thesame objects; and therefore can never give riseto a new idea. But upon farther enquiry I find,that the repetition is not in every particular thesame, but produces a new impression, and by

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that means the idea, which I at present exam-ine. For after a frequent repetition, I find, thatupon the appearance of one of the objects, themind is determined by custom to consider itsusual attendant, and to consider it in a strongerlight upon account of its relation to the first ob-ject. It is this impression, then, or determina-tion, which affords me the idea of necessity.

I doubt not but these consequences will atfirst sight be received without difficulty, as be-ing evident deductions from principles, whichwe have already established, and which wehave often employed in our reasonings. Thisevidence both in the first principles, and in thedeductions, may seduce us unwarily into theconclusion, and make us imagine it containsnothing extraordinary, nor worthy of our cu-riosity. But though such an inadvertence may

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facilitate the reception of this reasoning, it willmake it be the more easily forgot; for whichreason I think it proper to give warning, thatI have just now examined one of the most sub-lime questions in philosophy, viz. that concern-ing the power and efficacy of causes; where allthe sciences seem so much interested. Such awarning will naturally rouze up the attentionof the reader, and make him desire a more fullaccount of my doctrine, as well as of the argu-ments, on which it is founded. This request isso reasonable, that I cannot refuse complyingwith it; especially as I am hopeful that theseprinciples, the more they are examined, will ac-quire the more force and evidence.

There is no question, which on account ofits importance, as well as difficulty, has causedmore disputes both among antient and mod-

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ern philosophers, than this concerning the ef-ficacy of causes, or that quality which makesthem be followed by their effects. But beforethey entered upon these disputes, methinks itwould not have been improper to have exam-ined what idea we have of that efficacy, whichis the subject of the controversy. This is whatI find principally wanting in their reasonings,and what I shall here endeavour to supply.

I begin with observing that the terms of ef-ficacy, agency, power, force, energy, necessity, con-nexion and productive quality, are all nearly syn-onymous; and therefore it is an absurdity toemploy any of them in defining the rest. Bythis observation we reject at once all the vul-gar definitions, which philosophers have givenof power and efficacy; and instead of searchingfor the idea in these definitions, must look for

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it in the impressions, from which it is originallyderived. If it be a compound idea, it must arisefrom compound impressions. If simple, fromsimple impressions.

I believe the most general and most pop-ular explication of this matter, is to say (SeeMr. Locke, chapter of power.), that findingfrom experience, that there are several newproductions in matter, such as the motions andvariations of body, and concluding that theremust somewhere be a power capable of pro-ducing them, we arrive at last by this reason-ing at the idea of power and efficacy. But tobe convinced that this explication is more pop-ular than philosophical, we need but reflecton two very obvious principles. First, Thatreason alone can never give rise to any origi-nal idea, and secondly, that reason, as distin-

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guished from experience, can never make usconclude, that a cause or productive quality isabsolutely requisite to every beginning of ex-istence. Both these considerations have beensufficiently explained: and therefore shall notat present be any farther insisted on.

I shall only infer from them, that since rea-son can never give rise to the idea of efficacy,that idea must be derived from experience, andfrom some particular instances of this efficacy,which make their passage into the mind bythe common channels of sensation or reflection.Ideas always represent their objects or impres-sions; and vice versa, there are some objectsnecessary to give rise to every idea. If we pre-tend, therefore, to have any just idea of this effi-cacy, we must produce some instance, whereinthe efficacy is plainly discoverable to the mind,

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and its operations obvious to our conscious-ness or sensation. By the refusal of this, weacknowledge, that the idea is impossible andimaginary, since the principle of innate ideas,which alone can save us from this dilemma,has been already refuted, and is now almostuniversally rejected in the learned world. Ourpresent business, then, must be to find somenatural production, where the operation andefficacy of a cause can be clearly conceived andcomprehended by the mind, without any dan-ger of obscurity or mistake.

In this research we meet with very little en-couragement from that prodigious diversity,which is found in the opinions of those philoso-phers, who have pretended to explain the se-cret force and energy of causes. (See FatherMalbranche, Book vi. Part 2, chap. 3. And

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the illustrations upon it.) There are some, whomaintain, that bodies operate by their substan-tial form; others, by their accidents or quali-ties; several, by their matter and form; some,by their form and accidents; others, by certainvirtues and faculties distinct from all this. Allthese sentiments again are mixed and varyedin a thousand different ways; and form a strongpresumption, that none of them have any solid-ity or evidence, and that the supposition of anefficacy in any of the known qualities of matteris entirely without foundation. This presump-tion must encrease upon us, when we consider,that these principles of substantial forms, andaccidents, and faculties, are not in reality anyof the known properties of bodies, but are per-fectly unintelligible and inexplicable. For it isevident philosophers would never have hadrecourse to such obscure and uncertain prin-

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ciples, had they met with any satisfaction insuch as are clear and intelligible; especially insuch an affair as this, which must be an ob-ject of the simplest understanding, if not of thesenses. Upon the whole, we may conclude, thatit is impossible in any one instance to shew theprinciple, in which the force and agency of acause is placed; and that the most refined andmost vulgar understandings are equally at aloss in this particular. If any one think properto refute this assertion, he need not put him-self to the trouble of inventing any long reason-ings: but may at once shew us an instance of acause, where we discover the power or oper-ating principle. This defiance we are obligedfrequently to make use of, as being almost theonly means of proving a negative in philoso-phy.

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The small success, which has been met within all the attempts to fix this power, has at lastobliged philosophers to conclude, that the ul-timate force and efficacy of nature is perfectlyunknown to us, and that it is in vain we searchfor it in all the known qualities of matter. Inthis opinion they are almost unanimous; andit is only in the inference they draw from it,that they discover any difference in their sen-timents. For some of them, as the Cartesiansin particular, having established it as a princi-ple, that we are perfectly acquainted with theessence of matter, have very naturally inferred,that it is endowed with no efficacy, and that itis impossible for it of itself to communicate mo-tion, or produce any of those effects, which weascribe to it. As the essence of matter consists inextension, and as extension implies not actualmotion, but only mobility; they conclude, that

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the energy, which produces the motion, cannotlie in the extension.

This conclusion leads them into another,which they regard as perfectly unavoidable.Matter, say they, is in itself entirely unactive,and deprived of any power, by which it mayproduce, or continue, or communicate motion:But since these effects are evident to our senses,and since the power, that produces them, mustbe placed somewhere, it must lie in the deity, orthat divine being, who contains in his natureall excellency and perfection. It is the deity,therefore, who is the prime mover of the uni-verse, and who not only first created matter,and gave it it’s original impulse, but likewiseby a continued exertion of omnipotence, sup-ports its existence, and successively bestows onit all those motions, and configurations, and

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qualities, with which it is endowed.

This opinion is certainly very curious, andwell worth our attention; but it will appearsuperfluous to examine it in this place, if wereflect a moment on our present purpose intaking notice of it. We have established it asa principle, that as all ideas are derived fromimpressions, or some precedent perceptions, itis impossible we can have any idea of powerand efficacy, unless some instances can be pro-duced, wherein this power is perceived to ex-ert itself. Now, as these instances can never bediscovered in body, the Cartesians, proceedingupon their principle of innate ideas, have hadrecourse to a supreme spirit or deity, whomthey consider as the only active being in theuniverse, and as the immediate cause of everyalteration in matter. But the principle of in-

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nate ideas being allowed to be false, it follows,that the supposition of a deity can serve us inno stead, in accounting for that idea of agency,which we search for in vain in all the objects,which are presented to our senses, or which weare internally conscious of in our own minds.For if every idea be derived from an impres-sion, the idea of a deity proceeds from the sameorigin; and if no impression, either of sensationor reflection, implies any force or efficacy, it isequally impossible to discover or even imag-ine any such active principle in the deity. Sincethese philosophers, therefore, have concluded,that matter cannot be endowed with any effica-cious principle, because it is impossible to dis-cover in it such a principle; the same course ofreasoning should determine them to exclude itfrom the supreme being. Or if they esteem thatopinion absurd and impious, as it really is, I

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shall tell them how they may avoid it; and thatis, by concluding from the very first, that theyhave no adequate idea of power or efficacy inany object; since neither in body nor spirit, nei-ther in superior nor inferior natures, are theyable to discover one single instance of it.

The same conclusion is unavoidable uponthe hypothesis of those, who maintain the ef-ficacy of second causes, and attribute a deriva-tive, but a real power and energy to matter. Foras they confess, that this energy lies not in anyof the known qualities of matter, the difficultystill remains concerning the origin of its idea.If we have really an idea of power, we may at-tribute power to an unknown quality: But asit is impossible, that that idea can be derivedfrom such a quality, and as there is nothing inknown qualities, which can produce it; it fol-

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lows that we deceive ourselves, when we imag-ine we are possest of any idea of this kind, afterthe manner we commonly understand it. Allideas are derived from, and represent impres-sions. We never have any impression, that con-tains any power or efficacy. We never thereforehave any idea of power.

Some have asserted, that we feel an energy,or power, in our own mind; and that havingin this manner acquired the idea of power, wetransfer that quality to matter, where we arenot able immediately to discover it. The mo-tions of our body, and the thoughts and sen-timents of our mind, (say they) obey the will;nor do we seek any farther to acquire a justnotion of force or power. But to convince ushow fallacious this reasoning is, we need onlyconsider, that the will being here considered as

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a cause, has no more a discoverable connex-ion with its effects, than any material cause haswith its proper effect. So far from perceivingthe connexion betwixt an act of volition, anda motion of the body; it is allowed that no ef-fect is more inexplicable from the powers andessence of thought and matter. Nor is the em-pire of the will over our mind more intelligible.The effect is there distinguishable and separa-ble from the cause, and coued not be foreseenwithout the experience of their constant con-junction. We have command over our mind toa certain degree, but beyond that, lose all em-pire over it: And it is evidently impossible tofix any precise bounds to our authority, wherewe consult not experience. In short, the actionsof the mind are, in this respect, the same withthose of matter. We perceive only their constantconjunction; nor can we ever reason beyond it.

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No internal impression has an apparent energy,more than external objects have. Since, there-fore, matter is confessed by philosophers to op-erate by an unknown force, we should in vainhope to attain an idea of force by consulting ourown minds.8

It has been established as a certain princi-ple, that general or abstract ideas are nothingbut individual ones taken in a certain light, andthat, in reflecting on any object, it is as impos-

8The same imperfection attends our ideas of the De-ity; but this can have no effect either on religion ormorals. The order of the universe proves an omnipo-tent mind; that is, a mind whose will is constantly at-tended with the obedience of every creature and being.Nothing more is requisite to give a foundation to all thearticles of religion, nor is It necessary we shoud forma distinct idea of the force and energy of the supremeBeing.

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sible to exclude from our thought all particulardegrees of quantity and quality as from the realnature of things. If we be possest, therefore, ofany idea of power in general, we must also beable to conceive some particular species of it;and as power cannot subsist alone, but is al-ways regarded as an attribute of some being orexistence, we must be able to place this powerin some particular being, and conceive that be-ing as endowed with a real force and energy,by which such a particular effect necessarily re-sults from its operation. We must distinctly andparticularly conceive the connexion betwixt thecause and effect, and be able to pronounce,from a simple view of the one, that it must befollowed or preceded by the other. This is thetrue manner of conceiving a particular powerin a particular body: and a general idea be-ing impossible without an individual; where

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the latter is impossible, it is certain the for-mer can never exist. Now nothing is more ev-ident, than that the human mind cannot formsuch an idea of two objects, as to conceive anyconnexion betwixt them, or comprehend dis-tinctly that power or efficacy, by which they areunited. Such a connexion would amount to ademonstration, and would imply the absoluteimpossibility for the one object not to follow, orto be conceived not to follow upon the other:Which kind of connexion has already been re-jected in all cases. If any one is of a contraryopinion, and thinks he has attained a notion ofpower in any particular object, I desire he maypoint out to me that object. But till I meet withsuch-a-one, which I despair of, I cannot forbearconcluding, that since we can never distinctlyconceive how any particular power can possi-bly reside in any particular object, we deceive

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ourselves in imagining we can form any suchgeneral idea.

Thus upon the whole we may infer, thatwhen we talk of any being, whether of a su-perior or inferior nature, as endowed with apower or force, proportioned to any effect;when we speak of a necessary connexion be-twixt objects, and suppose, that this connex-ion depends upon an efficacy or energy, withwhich any of these objects are endowed; inall these expressions, so applied, we have re-ally no distinct meaning, and make use only ofcommon words, without any clear and deter-minate ideas. But as it is more probable, thatthese expressions do here lose their true mean-ing by being wrong applied, than that theynever have any meaning; it will be proper tobestow another consideration on this subject,

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to see if possibly we can discover the natureand origin of those ideas, we annex to them.

Suppose two objects to be presented to us, ofwhich the one is the cause and the other the ef-fect; it is plain, that from the simple considera-tion of one, or both these objects we never shallperceive the tie by which they are united, or beable certainly to pronounce, that there is a con-nexion betwixt them. It is not, therefore, fromany one instance, that we arrive at the idea ofcause and effect, of a necessary connexion ofpower, of force, of energy, and of efficacy. Didwe never see any but particular conjunctions ofobjects, entirely different from each other, weshould never be able to form any such ideas.

But again; suppose we observe several in-stances, in which the same objects are alwaysconjoined together, we immediately conceive a

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connexion betwixt them, and begin to draw aninference from one to another. This multiplicityof resembling instances, therefore, constitutesthe very essence of power or connexion, andis the source from which the idea of it arises.In order, then, to understand the idea of power,we must consider that multiplicity; nor do I askmore to give a solution of that difficulty, whichhas so long perplexed us. For thus I reason.The repetition of perfectly similar instances cannever alone give rise to an original idea, differ-ent from what is to be found in any particu-lar instance, as has been observed, and as ev-idently follows from our fundamental princi-ple, that all ideas are copyed from impressions.Since therefore the idea of power is a new orig-inal idea, not to be found in any one instance,and which yet arises from the repetition of sev-eral instances, it follows, that the repetition

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alone has not that effect, but must either dis-cover or produce something new, which is thesource of that idea. Did the repetition neitherdiscover nor produce anything new, our ideasmight be multiplyed by it, but would not be en-larged above what they are upon the observa-tion of one single instance. Every enlargement,therefore, (such as the idea of power or con-nexion) which arises from the multiplicity ofsimilar instances, is copyed from some effectsof the multiplicity, and will be perfectly under-stood by understanding these effects. Wher-ever we find anything new to be discoveredor produced by the repetition, there we mustplace the power, and must never look for it inany other object.

But it is evident, in the first place, that therepetition of like objects in like relations of suc-

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cession and contiguity discovers nothing newin any one of them: since we can draw no infer-ence from it, nor make it a subject either of ourdemonstrative or probable reasonings;(Sect. 6.)as has been already proved. Nay suppose wecoued draw an inference, it would be of noconsequence in the present case; since no kindof reasoning can give rise to a new idea, suchas this of power is; but wherever we reason,we must antecedently be possest of clear ideas,which may be the objects of our reasoning. Theconception always precedes the understand-ing; and where the one is obscure, the other isuncertain; where the one fails, the other mustfail also.

Secondly, It is certain that this repetition ofsimilar objects in similar situations producesnothing new either in these objects, or in any

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external body. For it will readily be allowed,that the several instances we have of the con-junction of resembling causes and effects arein themselves entirely independent, and thatthe communication of motion, which I see re-sult at present from the shock of two billiard-balls, is totally distinct from that which I sawresult from such an impulse a twelve-monthago. These impulses have no influence on eachother. They are entirely divided by time andplace; and the one might have existed and com-municated motion, though the other never hadbeen in being.

There is, then, nothing new either discov-ered or produced in any objects by their con-stant conjunction, and by the uninterrupted re-semblance of their relations of succession andcontiguity. But it is from this resemblance, that

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the ideas of necessity, of power, and of efficacy,are derived. These ideas, therefore, representnot anything, that does or can belong to theobjects, which are constantly conjoined. Thisis an argument, which, in every view we canexamine it, will be found perfectly unanswer-able. Similar instances are still the first sourceof our idea of power or necessity; at the sametime that they have no influence by their sim-ilarity either on each other, or on any externalobject. We must, therefore, turn ourselves tosome other quarter to seek the origin of thatidea.

Though the several resembling instances,which give rise to the idea of power, have noinfluence on each other, and can never produceany new quality in the object, which can be themodel of that idea, yet the observation of this

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resemblance produces a new impression in themind, which is its real model. For after wehave observed the resemblance in a sufficientnumber of instances, we immediately feel a de-termination of the mind to pass from one ob-ject to its usual attendant, and to conceive itin a stronger light upon account of that rela-tion. This determination is the only effect of theresemblance; and therefore must be the samewith power or efficacy, whose idea is derivedfrom the resemblance. The several instances ofresembling conjunctions lead us into the notionof power and necessity. These instances are inthemselves totally distinct from each other, andhave no union but in the mind, which observesthem, and collects their ideas. Necessity, then,is the effect of this observation, and is nothingbut an internal impression of the mind, or a de-termination to carry our thoughts from one ob-

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ject to another. Without considering it in thisview, we can never arrive at the most distantnotion of it, or be able to attribute it either toexternal or internal objects, to spirit or body, tocauses or effects.

The necessary connexion betwixt causes andeffects is the foundation of our inference fromone to the other. The foundation of our infer-ence is the transition arising from the accus-tomed union. These are, therefore, the same.

The idea of necessity arises from some im-pression. There is no impression conveyed byour senses, which can give rise to that idea. Itmust, therefore, be derived from some internalimpression, or impression of reflection. Thereis no internal impression, which has any rela-tion to the present business, but that propen-sity, which custom produces, to pass from an

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object to the idea of its usual attendant. Thistherefore is the essence of necessity. Upon thewhole, necessity is something, that exists in themind, not in objects; nor is it possible for usever to form the most distant idea of it, con-sidered as a quality in bodies. Either we haveno idea of necessity, or necessity is nothing butthat determination of the thought to pass fromcauses to effects, and from effects to causes, ac-cording to their experienced union.

Thus as the necessity, which makes twotimes two equal to four, or three angles of a tri-angle equal to two right ones, lies only in theact of the understanding, by which we considerand compare these ideas; in like manner the ne-cessity or power, which unites causes and ef-fects, lies in the determination of the mind topass from the one to the other. The efficacy or

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energy of causes is neither placed in the causesthemselves, nor in the deity, nor in the concur-rence of these two principles; but belongs en-tirely to the soul, which considers the unionof two or more objects in all past instances. Itis here that the real power of causes is placedalong with their connexion and necessity.

I am sensible, that of all the paradoxes,which I, have had, or shall hereafter have oc-casion to advance in the course of this treatise,the present one is the most violent, and that itis merely by dint of solid proof and reasoning Ican ever hope it will have admission, and over-come the inveterate prejudices of mankind. Be-fore we are reconciled to this doctrine, how of-ten must we repeat to ourselves, that the sim-ple view of any two objects or actions, howeverrelated, can never give us any idea, of power,

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or of a connexion betwixt them: that this ideaarises from the repetition of their union: thatthe repetition neither discovers nor causes anything in the objects, but has an influence onlyon the mind, by that customary transition itproduces: that this customary transition is,therefore, the same with the power and neces-sity; which are consequently qualities of per-ceptions, not of objects, and are internally feltby the soul, and not perceivd externally in bod-ies? There is commonly an astonishment at-tending every thing extraordinary; and this as-tonishment changes immediately into the high-est degree of esteem or contempt, according aswe approve or disapprove of the subject. I ammuch afraid, that though the foregoing reason-ing appears to me the shortest and most de-cisive imaginable; yet with the generality ofreaders the biass of the mind will prevail, and

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give them a prejudice against the present doc-trine.

This contrary biass is easily accounted for. Itis a common observation, that the mind has agreat propensity to spread itself on external ob-jects, and to conjoin with them any internal im-pressions, which they occasion, and which al-ways make their appearance at the same timethat these objects discover themselves to thesenses. Thus as certain sounds and smells arealways found to attend certain visible objects,we naturally imagine a conjunction, even inplace, betwixt the objects and qualities, thoughthe qualities be of such a nature as to admit ofno such conjunction, and really exist no where.But of this more fully hereafter (Part IV, Sect.5.). Mean while it is sufficient to observe, thatthe same propensity is the reason, why we sup-

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pose necessity and power to lie in the objectswe consider, not in our mind that considersthem; notwithstanding it is not possible for usto form the most distant idea of that quality,when it is not taken for the determination ofthe mind, to pass from the idea of an object tothat of its usual attendant.

But though this be the only reasonable ac-count we can give of necessity, the contrary no-tion if; so riveted in the mind from the prin-ciples above-mentioned, that I doubt not butmy sentiments will be treated by many as ex-travagant and ridiculous. What! the efficacy ofcauses lie in the determination of the mind! Asif causes did not operate entirely independentof the mind, and would not continue their op-eration, even though there was no mind exis-tent to contemplate them, or reason concerning

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them. Thought may well depend on causes forits operation, but not causes on thought. Thisis to reverse the order of nature, and make thatsecondary, which is really primary, To everyoperation there is a power proportioned; andthis power must be placed on the body, that op-erates. If we remove the power from one cause,we must ascribe it to another: But to remove itfrom all causes, and bestow it on a being, thatis no ways related to the cause or effect, but byperceiving them, is a gross absurdity, and con-trary to the most certain principles of humanreason.

I can only reply to all these arguments, thatthe case is here much the same, as if a blindman should pretend to find a great many ab-surdities in the supposition, that the colour ofscarlet is not the same with the sound of a

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trumpet, nor light the same with solidity. Ifwe have really no idea of a power or efficacyin any object, or of any real connexion betwixtcauses and effects, it will be to little purpose toprove, that an efficacy is necessary in all opera-tions. We do not understand our own meaningin talking so, but ignorantly confound ideas,which are entirely distinct from each other. Iam, indeed, ready to allow, that there may beseveral qualities both in material and immate-rial objects, with which we are utterly unac-quainted; and if we please to call these poweror efficacy, it will be of little consequence to theworld. But when, instead of meaning these un-known qualities, we make the terms of powerand efficacy signify something, of which wehave a clear idea, and which is incompatiblewith those objects, to which we apply it, obscu-rity and error begin then to take place, and we

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are led astray by a false philosophy. This is thecase, when we transfer the determination of thethought to external objects, and suppose anyreal intelligible connexion betwixt them; thatbeing a quality, which can only belong to themind that considers them.

As to what may be said, that the operationsof nature are independent of our thought andreasoning, I allow it; and accordingly have ob-served, that objects bear to each other the re-lations of contiguity and succession: that likeobjects may be observed in several instancesto have like relations; and that all this is inde-pendent of, and antecedent to the operations ofthe understanding. But if we go any farther,and ascribe a power or necessary connexion tothese objects; this is what we can never observein them, but must draw the idea of it from what

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we feel internally in contemplating them. Andthis I carry so far, that I am ready to convertmy present reasoning into an instance of it, bya subtility, which it will not be difficult to com-prehend.

When any object is presented to us, it imme-diately conveys to the mind a lively idea of thatobject, which is usually found to attend it; andthis determination of the mind forms the neces-sary connexion of these objects. But when wechange the point of view, from the objects tothe perceptions; in that case the impression is tobe considered as the cause, and the lively ideaas the effect; and their necessary connexion isthat new determination, which we feel to passfrom the idea of the one to that of the other.The uniting principle among our internal per-ceptions is as unintelligible as that among ex-

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ternal objects, and is not known to us any otherway than by experience. Now the nature andeffects of experience have been already suffi-ciently examined and explained. It never givesus any insight into the internal structure or op-erating principle of objects, but only accustomsthe mind to pass from one to another.

It is now time to collect all the differentparts of this reasoning, and by joining them to-gether form an exact definition of the relationof cause and effect, which makes the subject ofthe present enquiry. This order would not havebeen excusable, of first examining our infer-ence from the relation before we had explainedthe relation itself, had it been possible to pro-ceed in a different method. But as the natureof the relation depends so much on that of theinference, we have been obliged to advance in

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this seemingly preposterous manner, and makeuse of terms before we were able exactly to de-fine them, or fix their meaning. We shall nowcorrect this fault by giving a precise definitionof cause and effect.

There may two definitions be given of thisrelation, which are only different, by their pre-senting a different view of the same object, andmaking us consider it either as a philosophi-cal or as a natural relation; either as a com-parison of two ideas, or as an association be-twixt them. We may define a cause to be An ob-ject precedent and contiguous to another, andwhere all the objects resembling the former areplaced in like relations of precedency and con-tiguity to those objects that resemble the latter.I If this definition be esteemed defective, be-cause drawn from objects foreign to the cause,

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we may substitute this other definition in itsplace, viz. A cause is an object precedent andcontiguous to another, and so united with it,that the idea, of the one determines the mindto form the idea of the other, and the impres-sion of the one to form a more lively idea of theother. 2 should this definition also be rejectedfor the same reason, I know no other remedy,than that the persons, who express this deli-cacy, should substitute a juster definition in itsplace. But for my part I must own my incapac-ity for such an undertaking. When I examinewith the utmost accuracy those objects, whichare commonly denominated causes and effects,I find, in considering a single instance, that theone object is precedent and contiguous to theother; and in inlarging my view to considerseveral instances, I find only, that like objectsare constantly placed in like relations of suc-

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cession and contiguity. Again, when I considerthe influence of this constant conjunction, I per-ceive, that such a relation can never be an ob-ject of reasoning, and can never operate uponthe mind, but by means of custom, which de-termines the imagination to make a transitionfrom the idea of one object to that of its usualattendant, and from the impression of one to amore lively idea of the other. However extraor-dinary these sentiments may appear, I think itfruitless to trouble myself with any farther en-quiry or reasoning upon the subject, but shallrepose myself on them as on established max-ims.

It will only be proper, before we leave thissubject, to draw some corrollaries from it,by which we may remove several prejudicesand popular errors, that have very much pre-

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vailed in philosophy. First, We may learn fromthe foregoing, doctrine, that all causes are ofthe same kind, and that in particular there isno foundation for that distinction, which wesometimes make betwixt efficient causes andcauses sine qua non; or betwixt efficient causes,and formal, and material, and exemplary, andfinal causes. For as our idea of efficiency is de-rived from the constant conjunction of two ob-jects, wherever this is observed, the cause is ef-ficient; and where it is not, there can never bea cause of any kind. For the same reason wemust reject the distinction betwixt cause andoccasion, when supposed to signify any thingessentially different from each other. If con-stant conjunction be implyed in what we calloccasion, it is a real cause. If not, it is no rela-tion at all, and cannot give rise to any argumentor reasoning.

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Secondly, The same course of reasoning willmake us conclude, that there is but one kind ofnecessity, as there is but one kind of cause, andthat the common distinction betwixt moral andphysical necessity is without any foundation innature. This clearly appears from the prece-dent explication of necessity. It is the constantconjunction of objects, along with the determi-nation of the mind, which constitutes a physi-cal necessity: And the removal of these is thesame thing with chance. As objects must eitherbe conjoined or not, and as the mind must ei-ther be determined or not to pass from one ob-ject to another, it is impossible to admit of anymedium betwixt chance and an absolute neces-sity. In weakening this conjunction and deter-mination you do not change the nature of thenecessity; since even in the operation of bodies,these have different degrees of constancy and

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force, without producing a different species ofthat relation.

The distinction, which we often make be-twixt owner and the exercise of it, is equallywithout foundation.

Thirdly, We may now be able fully to over-come all that repugnance, which it is so naturalfor us to entertain against the foregoing reason-ing, by which we endeavoured to prove, thatthe necessity of a cause to every beginning ofexistence is not founded on any arguments ei-ther demonstrative or intuitive. Such an opin-ion will not appear strange after the foregoingdefinitions. If we define a cause to be an ob-ject precedent and contiguous to another, andwhere all the objects resembling the farmer areplaced in a like relation of priority and conti-guity to those objects, that resemble the latter;

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we may easily conceive, that there is no abso-lute nor metaphysical necessity, that every be-ginning of existence should be attended withsuch an object. If we define a cause to be, _anobject precedent and contiguous to anothe, andso united with it in the imagination, that theidea of the one determines the mind to formthe idea of the other, and the impression of theone to form a more lively idea of the other; weshall make still less difficulty of assenting tothis opinion. Such an influence on the mind isin itself perfectly extraordinary and incompre-hensible; nor can we be certain of its reality, butfrom experience and observation.

I shall add as a fourth corrollary that we cannever have reason to believe that any objectexists, of which we cannot form an idea. Foras all our reasonings concerning existence are

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derived from causation, and as all our reason-ings concerning causation are derived from theexperienced conjunction of objects, not fromany reasoning or reflection, the same experi-ence must give us a notion of these objects,and must remove all mystery from our conclu-sions. This is so evident, that it would scarcehave merited our attention, were it not to obvi-ate certain objections of this kind, which mightarise against the following reasonings concern-ing matter and substance. I need not observe,that a full knowledge of the object is not requi-site, but only of those qualities of it, which webelieve to exist.

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SECTION XV. RULES BY WHICH TO JUDGEOF CAUSES AND EFFECTS

According to the precedent doctrine, thereare no objects which by the mere survey, with-out consulting experience, we can determineto be the causes of any other; and no objects,which we can certainly determine in the samemanner not to be the causes. Any thing mayproduce any thing. Creation, annihilation, mo-tion, reason, volition; all these may arise fromone another, or from any other object we canimagine. Nor will this appear strange, if wecompare two principles explained above, thatthe constant conjunction of objects determines theircausation, and (Part I, Sect. 5) that, properly speak-ing, no objects are contrary to each other but exis-tence and non-existence. Where objects are notcontrary, nothing hinders them from having

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that constant conjunction, on which the rela-tion of cause and effect totally depends.

Since therefore it is possible for all objects tobecome causes or effects to each other, it maybe proper to fix some general rules, by whichwe may know when they really are so.

(1) The cause and effect must be contiguousin space and time.

(2) The cause must be prior to the effect.

(3) There must be a constant union betwixtthe cause and effect. It is chiefly this quality,that constitutes the relation.

(4) The same cause always produces thesame effect, and the same effect never arisesbut from the same cause. This principle we de-rive from experience, and is the source of mostof our philosophical reasonings. For when by

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any clear experiment we have discovered thecauses or effects of any phaenomenon, we im-mediately extend our observation to every phe-nomenon of the same kind, without waiting forthat constant repetition, from which the firstidea of this relation is derived.

(5) There is another principle, which hangsupon this, viz. that where several different ob-jects produce the same effect, it must be bymeans of some quality, which we discover tobe common amongst them. For as like effectsimply like causes, we must always ascribe thecausation to the circumstance, wherein we dis-cover the resemblance.

(6) The following principle is founded onthe same reason. The difference in the effectsof two resembling objects must proceed fromthat particular, in which they differ. For as

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like causes always produce like effects, whenin any instance we find our expectation to bedisappointed, we must conclude that this ir-regularity proceeds from some difference in thecauses.

(7) When any object encreases or diminisheswith the encrease or diminution of its cause, itis to be regarded as a compounded effect, de-rived from the union of the several differenteffects, which arise from the several differentparts of the cause. The absence or presence ofone part of the cause is here supposed to be al-ways attended with the absence or presence ofa proportionable part of the effect. This con-stant conjunction sufficiently proves, that theone part is the cause of the other. We must,however, beware not to draw such a conclusionfrom a few experiments. A certain degree of

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heat gives pleasure; if you diminish that heat,the pleasure diminishes; but it does not follow,that if you augment it beyond a certain degree,the pleasure will likewise augment; for we findthat it degenerates into pain.

(8) The eighth and last rule I shall take no-tice of is, that an object, which exists for anytime in its full perfection without any effect, isnot the sole cause of that effect, but requires tobe assisted by some other principle, which mayforward its influence and operation. For as likeeffects necessarily follow from like causes, andin a contiguous time and place, their separationfor a moment shews, that these causes are notcompleat ones.

Here is all the logic I think proper to em-ploy in my reasoning; and perhaps even thiswas not very necessary, but might have been

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supplyd by the natural principles of our un-derstanding. Our scholastic head-pieces andlogicians shew no such superiority above themere vulgar in their reason and ability, as togive us any inclination to imitate them in de-livering a long system of rules and preceptsto direct our judgment, in philosophy. All therules of this nature are very easy in their in-vention, but extremely difficult in their applica-tion; and even experimental philosophy, whichseems the most natural and simple of any, re-quires the utmost stretch of human judgment.There is no phaenomenon in nature, but whatis compounded and modifyd by so many dif-ferent circumstances, that in order to arriveat the decisive point, we must carefully sepa-rate whatever is superfluous, and enquire bynew experiments, if every particular circum-stance of the first experiment was essential to it.

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These new experiments are liable to a discus-sion of the same kind; so that the utmost con-stancy is requird to make us persevere in ourenquiry, and the utmost sagacity to choose theright way among so many that present them-selves. If this be the case even in natural philos-ophy, how much more in moral, where there isa much greater complication of circumstances,and where those views and sentiments, whichare essential to any action of the mind, are soimplicit and obscure, that they often escape ourstrictest attention, and are not only unaccount-able in their causes, but even unknown in theirexistence? I am much afraid lest the small suc-cess I meet with in my enquiries will make thisobservation bear the air of an apology ratherthan of boasting.

If any thing can give me security in this par-

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ticular, it will be the enlarging of the sphere ofmy experiments as much as possible; for whichreason it may be proper in this place to exam-ine the reasoning faculty of brutes, as well asthat of human creatures.

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SECTION XVI. OF THE REASON OFANIMALS

Next to the ridicule of denying an evidenttruth, is that of taking much pains to defendit; and no truth appears to me more evident,than that beasts are endowd with thought andreason as well as men. The arguments are inthis case so obvious, that they never escape themost stupid and ignorant.

We are conscious, that we ourselves, inadapting means to ends, are guided by rea-son and design, and that it is not ignorantlynor casually we perform those actions, whichtend to self-preservation, to the obtaining plea-sure, and avoiding pain. When therefore wesee other creatures, in millions of instances,perform like actions, and direct them to the

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ends, all our principles of reason and proba-bility carry us with an invincible force to be-lieve the existence of a like cause. It is need-less in my opinion to illustrate this argumentby the enumeration of particulars. The small-est attention will supply us with more than arerequisite. The resemblance betwixt the actionsof animals and those of men is so entire in thisrespect, that the very first action of the first an-imal we shall please to pitch on, will afford usan incontestable argument for the present doc-trine.

This doctrine is as useful as it is obvious,and furnishes us with a kind of touchstone, bywhich we may try every system in this speciesof philosophy. It is from the resemblance ofthe external actions of animals to those weourselves perform, that we judge their inter-

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nal likewise to resemble ours; and the sameprinciple of reasoning, carryd one step farther,will make us conclude that since our internalactions resemble each other, the causes, fromwhich they are derivd, must also be resem-bling. When any hypothesis, therefore, is ad-vancd to explain a mental operation, which iscommon to men and beasts, we must applythe same hypothesis to both; and as every truehypothesis will abide this trial, so I may ven-ture to affirm, that no false one will ever beable to endure it. The common defect of thosesystems, which philosophers have employd toaccount for the actions of the mind, is, thatthey suppose such a subtility and refinementof thought, as not only exceeds the capacityof mere animals, but even of children and thecommon people in our own species; who arenotwithstanding susceptible of the same emo-

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tions and affections as persons of the most ac-complishd genius and understanding. Such asubtility is a dear proof of the falshood, as thecontrary simplicity of the truth, of any system.

Let us therefore put our present system con-cerning the nature of the understanding to thisdecisive trial, and see whether it will equallyaccount for the reasonings of beasts as for theseof the human species.

Here we must make a distinction betwixtthose actions of animals, which are of a vul-gar nature, and seem to be on a level with theircommon capacities, and those more extraordi-nary instances of sagacity, which they some-times discover for their own preservation, andthe propagation of their species. A dog, thatavoids fire and precipices, that shuns strangers,and caresses his master, affords us an instance

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of the first kind. A bird, that chooses with suchcare and nicety the place and materials of hernest, and sits upon her eggs for a due time, andin suitable season, with all the precaution thata chymist is capable of in the most delicate pro-jection, furnishes us with a lively instance ofthe second.

As to the former actions, I assert they pro-ceed from a reasoning, that is not in itself differ-ent, nor founded on different principles, fromthat which appears in human nature. It is nec-essary in the first place, that there be some im-pression immediately present to their memoryor senses, in order to be the foundation of theirjudgment. From the tone of voice the dog infershis masters anger, and foresees his own pun-ishment. From a certain sensation affecting hissmell, he judges his game not to be far distant

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from him.

Secondly, The inference he draws from thepresent impression is built on experience, andon his observation of the conjunction of objectsin past instances. As you vary this experience,he varies his reasoning. Make a beating followupon one sign or motion for some time, andafterwards upon another; and he will succes-sively draw different conclusions, according tohis most recent experience.

Now let any philosopher make a trial, andendeavour to explain that act of the mind,which we call belief, and give an account of theprinciples, from which it is derivd, indepen-dent of the influence of custom on the imagina-tion, and let his hypothesis be equally applica-ble to beasts as to the human species; and afterhe has done this, I promise to embrace his opin-

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ion. But at the same time I demand as an eq-uitable condition, that if my system be the onlyone, which can answer to all these terms, it maybe received as entirely satisfactory and con-vincing. And that it is the only one, is evidentalmost without any reasoning. Beasts certainlynever perceive any real connexion among ob-jects. It is therefore by experience they inferone from another. They can never by any ar-guments form a general conclusion, that thoseobjects, of which they have had no experience,resemble those of which they have. It is there-fore by means of custom alone, that experienceoperates upon them. All this was sufficientlyevident with respect to man. But with respectto beasts there cannot be the least suspicion ofmistake; which must be ownd to be a strongconfirmation, or rather an invincible proof ofmy system.

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Nothing shews more the force of habit in rec-onciling us to any phaenomenoun, than this,that men are not astonished at the operationsof their own reason, at the same time, that theyadmire the instinct of animals, and find a diffi-culty in explaining it, merely because it cannotbe reducd tothe very same principles. To con-sider the matter aright, reason is nothing buta wonderful and unintelligible instinct in oursouls, which carries us along a certain train ofideas, and endows them with particular quali-ties, according to their particular situations andrelations. This instinct, it is true, arises frompast observation and experience; but can anyone give the ultimate reason, why past experi-ence and observation produces such an effect,any more than why nature alone shoud pro-duce it? Nature may certainly produce what-ever can arise from habit: Nay, habit is nothing

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but one of the principles of nature, and derivesall its force from that origin.

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PART IV

OF THE SCEPTICAL AND OTHER SYSTEMSOF PHILISOPHY

SECTION I. OF SCEPTICISM WITH REGARDTO REASON

In all demonstrative sciences the rules arecertain and infallible; but when we apply them,our fallible said uncertain faculties are veryapt to depart from them, and fall into error.We must, therefore, in every reasoning form anew judgment, as a check or controul on ourfirst judgment or belief; and must enlarge ourview to comprehend a kind of history of allthe instances, wherein our understanding hasdeceived us, compared with those, wherein its

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testimony was just and true. Our reason mustbe considered as a kind of cause, of which truthis the natural effect; but such-a-one as by the ir-ruption of other causes, and by the inconstancyof our mental powers, may frequently be pre-vented. By this means all knowledge degen-erates into probability; and this probability isgreater or less, according to our experience ofthe veracity or deceitfulness of our understand-ing, and according to the simplicity or intricacyof the question.

There is no Algebraist nor Mathematician soexpert in his science, as to place entire confi-dence in any truth immediately upon his dis-covery of it, or regard it as any thing, but a wereprobability. Every time he runs over his proofs,his confidence encreases; but still more by theapprobation of his friends; and is raised to its

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utmost perfection by the universal assent andapplauses of the learned world. Now it is ev-ident, that this gradual encrease of assuranceis nothing but the addition of new probabili-ties, and is derived from the constant union ofcauses and effects, according to past experienceand observation.

In accompts of any length or importance,Merchants seldom trust to the infallible cer-tainty of numbers for their security; but by theartificial structure of the accompts, produce aprobability beyond what is derived from theskill and experience of the accomptant. Forthat is plainly of itself some degree of proba-bility; though uncertain and variable, accord-ing to the degrees of his experience and lengthof the accompt. Now as none will maintain,that our assurance in a long numeration ex-

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ceeds probability, I may safely affirm, that therescarce is any proposition concerning numbers,of which we can have a fuller security. For itis easily possible, by gradually diminishing thenumbers, to reduce the longest series of addi-tion to the most simple question, which can beformed, to an addition of two single numbers;and upon this supposition we shall find it im-practicable to shew the precise limits of knowl-edge and of probability, or discover that par-ticular number, at which the one ends and theother begins. But knowledge and probabilityare of such contrary and disagreeing natures,that they cannot well run insensibly into eachother, and that because they will not divide, butmust be either entirely present, or entirely ab-sent. Besides, if any single addition were cer-tain, every one would be so, and consequentlythe whole or total sum; unless the whole can be

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different from all its parts. I had almost said,that this was certain; but I reflect that it mustreduce itself, as well as every other reasoning,and from knowledge degenerate into probabil-ity.

Since therefore all knowledge resolves itselfinto probability, and becomes at last of thesame nature with that evidence, which we em-ploy in common life, we must now examinethis latter species of reasoning, and see on whatfoundation it stands.

In every judgment, which we can formconcerning probability, as well as concerningknowledge, we ought always to correct the firstjudgment, derived from the nature of the ob-ject, by another judgment, derived from the na-ture of the understanding. It is certain a manof solid sense and long experience ought to

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have, and usually has, a greater assurance inhis opinions, than one that is foolish and igno-rant, and that our sentiments have different de-grees of authority, even with ourselves, in pro-portion to the degrees of our reason and expe-rience. In the man of the best sense and longestexperience, this authority is never entire; sinceeven such-a-one must be conscious of many er-rors in the past, and must still dread the likefor the future. Here then arises a new species ofprobability to correct and regulate the first, andfix its just standard and proportion. As demon-stration is subject to the controul of probability,so is probability liable to a new correction bya reflex act of the mind, wherein the nature ofour understanding, and our reasoning from thefirst probability become our objects.

Having thus found in every probability, be-

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side the original uncertainty inherent in thesubject, a new uncertainty derived from theweakness of that faculty, which judges, andhaving adjusted these two together, we areobliged by our reason to add a new doubt de-rived from the possibility of error in the esti-mation we make of the truth and fidelity of ourfaculties. This is a doubt, which immediatelyoccurs to us, and of which, if we would closelypursue our reason, we cannot avoid giving adecision. But this decision, though it shouldbe favourable to our preceding judgment, be-ing founded only on probability, must weakenstill further our first evidence, and must itselfbe weakened by a fourth doubt of the samekind, and so on in infinitum: till at last there re-main nothing of the original probability, how-ever great we may suppose it to have been, andhowever small the diminution by every new

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uncertainty. No finite object can subsist un-der a decrease repeated infinitum; and even thevastest quantity, which can enter into humanimagination, must in this manner be reduced tonothing. Let our first belief be never so strong,it must infallibly perish by passing through somany new examinations, of which each dimin-ishes somewhat of its force and vigour. WhenI reflect on the natural fallibility of my judg-ment, I have less confidence in my opinions,than when I only consider the objects concern-ing which I reason; and when I proceed still far-ther, to turn the scrutiny against every succes-sive estimation I make of my faculties, all therules of logic require a continual diminution,and at last a total extinction of belief and evi-dence.

Should it here be asked me, whether I sin-

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cerely assent to this argument, which I seemto take such pains to inculcate, and whether Ibe really one of those sceptics, who hold thatall is uncertain, and that our judgment is notin any thing possest of any measures of truthand falshood; I should reply, that this questionis entirely superfluous, and that neither I, norany other person was ever sincerely and con-stantly of that opinion. Nature, by an absoluteand uncontroulable necessity has determinedus to judge as well as to breathe and feel; norcan we any more forbear viewing certain ob-jects in a stronger and fuller light, upon accountof their customary connexion with a presentimpression, than we can hinder ourselves fromthinking as long, as we are awake, or seeing thesurrounding bodies, when we turn our eyes to-wards them in broad sunshine. Whoever hastaken the pains to refute the cavils of this total

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scepticism, has really disputed without an an-tagonist, and endeavoured by arguments to es-tablish a faculty, which nature has antecedentlyimplanted in the mind, and rendered unavoid-able.

My intention then in displaying so carefullythe arguments of that fantastic sect, is only tomake the reader sensible of the truth of myhypothesis, that all our reasonings concerningcauses and effects are derived from nothing butcustom; and that belief is more properly an actof the sensitive, than of the cogitative part ofour natures. I have here proved, that the verysame principles, which make us form a deci-sion upon any subject, and correct that deci-sion by the consideration of our genius and ca-pacity, and of the situation of our mind, whenwe examined that subject; I say, I have proved,

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that these same principles, when carryed far-ther, and applied to every new reflex judgment,must, by continually diminishing the originalevidence, at last reduce it to nothing, and ut-terly subvert all belief and opinion. If belief,therefore, were a simple act of the thought,without any peculiar manner of conception, orthe addition of a force and vivacity, it must in-fallibly destroy itself, and in every case termi-nate in a total suspense of judgment. But asexperience will sufficiently convince any one,who thinks it worth while to try, that though hecan find no error in the foregoing arguments,yet he still continues to believe, and think, andreason as usual, he may safely conclude, thathis reasoning and belief is some sensation orpeculiar manner of conception, which it is im-possible for mere ideas and reflections to de-stroy.

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But here, perhaps, it may be demanded, howit happens, even upon my hypothesis, thatthese arguments above-explained produce nota total suspense of judgment, and after whatmanner the mind ever retains a degree of as-surance in any subject? For as these new prob-abilities, which by their repetition perpetuallydiminish the original evidence, are founded onthe very same principles, whether of thoughtor sensation, as the primary judgment, it mayseem unavoidable, that in either case they mustequally subvert it, and by the opposition, ei-ther of contrary thoughts or sensations, reducethe mind to a total uncertainty. I suppose, thereis some question proposed to me, and that af-ter revolving over the impressions of my mem-ory and senses, and carrying my thoughts fromthem to such objects, as are commonly con-joined with them, I feel a stronger and more

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forcible conception on the one side, than on theother. This strong conception forms my firstdecision. I suppose, that afterwards I exam-ine my judgment itself, and observing from ex-perience, that it is sometimes just and some-times erroneous, I consider it as regulated bycontrary principles or causes, of which somelead to truth, and some to error; and in bal-lancing these contrary causes, I diminish by anew probability the assurance of my first deci-sion. This new probability is liable to the samediminution as the foregoing, and so on, in in-finitum. It is therefore demanded, how it hap-pens, that even after all we retain a degree ofbelief, which is sufficient for our purpose, ei-ther in philosophy or common life.

I answer, that after the first and second deci-sion; as the action of the mind becomes forced

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and unnatural, and the ideas faint and obscure;though the principles of judgment, and the bal-lancing of opposite causes be the same as at thevery beginning; yet their influence on the imag-ination, and the vigour they add to, or diminishfrom the thought, is by no means equal. Wherethe mind reaches not its objects with easinessand facility, the same principles have not thesame effect as in a more natural conception ofthe ideas; nor does the imagination feel a sen-sation, which holds any proportion with thatwhich arises from its common judgments andopinions. The attention is on the stretch: Theposture of the mind is uneasy; and the spiritsbeing diverted from their natural course, arenot governed in their movements by the samelaws, at least not to the same degree, as whenthey flow in their usual channel.

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If we desire similar instances, it will not bevery difficult to find them. The present sub-ject of metaphysics will supply us abundantly.The same argument, which would have beenesteemed convincing in a reasoning concerninghistory or politics, has little or no influence inthese abstruser subjects, even though it be per-fectly comprehended; and that because there isrequired a study and an effort of thought, inorder to its being comprehended: And this ef-fort of thought disturbs the operation of oursentiments, on which the belief depends. Thecase is the same in other subjects. The strain-ing of the imagination always hinders the reg-ular flowing of the passions and sentiments. Atragic poet, that would represent his heroes asvery ingenious and witty in their misfortunes,would never touch the passions. As the emo-tions of the soul prevent any subtile reason-

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ing and reflection, so these latter actions of themind are equally prejudicial to the former. Themind, as well as the body, seems to be endowedwith a certain precise degree of force and activ-ity, which it never employs in one action, butat the expense of all the rest. This is more evi-dently true, where the actions are of quite dif-ferent natures; since in that case the force of themind is not only diverted, but even the dispo-sition changed, so as to render us incapable of asudden transition from one action to the other,and still more of performing both at once. Nowonder, then, the conviction, which arises froma subtile reasoning, diminishes in proportionto the efforts, which the imagination makes toenter into the reasoning, and to conceive it inall its parts. Belief, being a lively conception,can never be entire, where it is not founded onsomething natural and easy.

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This I take to be the true state of the ques-tion, and cannot approve of that expeditiousway, which some take with the sceptics, to re-ject at once all their arguments without enquiryor examination. If the sceptical reasonings bestrong, say they, it is a proof, that reason mayhave some force and authority: if weak, theycan never be sufficient to invalidate all the con-clusions of our understanding. This argumentis not just; because the sceptical reasonings,were it possible for them to exist, and were theynot destroyed by their subtility, would be suc-cessively both strong and weak, according tothe successive dispositions of the mind. Rea-son first appears in possession of the throne,prescribing laws, and imposing maxims, withan absolute sway and authority. Her enemy,therefore, is obliged to take shelter under herprotection, and by making use of rational ar-

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guments to prove the fallaciousness and imbe-cility of reason, produces, in a manner, a patentunder her band and seal. This patent has at firstan authority, proportioned to the present andimmediate authority of reason, from which itis derived. But as it is supposed to be contra-dictory to reason, it gradually diminishes theforce of that governing power and its own atthe same time; till at last they both vanish awayinto nothing, by a regulax and just diminu-tion. The sceptical and dogmatical reasons areof the same kind, though contrary in their op-eration and tendency; so that where the latteris strong, it has an enemy of equal force in theformer to encounter; and as their forces wereat first equal, they still continue so, as long aseither of them subsists; nor does one of themlose any force in the contest, without taking asmuch from its antagonist. It is happy, there-

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fore, that nature breaks the force of all scepti-cal arguments in time, and keeps them fromhaving any considerable influence on the un-derstanding. Were we to trust entirely to theirself-destruction, that can never take place, un-til they have first subverted all conviction, andhave totally destroyed human reason.

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SECTION II. OF SCEPTICISM WITH REGARDTO THE SENSES

Thus the sceptic still continues to reason andbelieve, even though be asserts, that he cannotdefend his reason by reason; and by the samerule he must assent to the principle concerningthe existence of body, though he cannot pre-tend by any arguments of philosophy to main-tain its veracity. Nature has not left this to hischoice, and has doubtless, esteemed it an affairof too great importance to be trusted to our un-certain reasonings and speculations. We maywell ask, What causes induce us to believe inthe existence of body? but it is in vain to ask,Whether there be body or not? That is a point,which we must take for granted in all our rea-sonings.

The subject, then, of our present enquiry is

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concerning the causes which induce us to be-lieve in the existence of body: And my reason-ings on this head I shall begin with a distinc-tion, which at first sight may seem superfluous,but which will contribute very much to the per-fect understanding of what follows. We oughtto examine apart those two questions, whichare commonly confounded together, viz. Whywe attribute a continued existence to objects,even when they are not present to the senses;and why we suppose them to have an existencedistinct from the mind and perception. Underthis last head I comprehend their situation aswell as relations, their external position as wellas the independence of their existence and op-eration. These two questions concerning thecontinued and distinct existence of body are in-timately connected together. For if the objectsof our senses continue to exist, even when they

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are not perceived, their existence is of courseindependent of and distinct from the percep-tion: and vice versa, if their existence be in-dependent of the perception and distinct fromit, they must continue to exist, even thoughthey be not perceived. But though the deci-sion of the one question decides the other; yetthat we may the more easily discover the prin-ciples of human nature, from whence the deci-sion arises, we shall carry along with us thisdistinction, and shall consider, whether it bethe senses, reason, or the imagination, that pro-duces the opinion of a continued or of a distinctexistence. These are the only questions, thatare intelligible on the present subject. For as tothe notion of external existence, when taken forsomething specially different from our percep-tions (Part. II. Sect. 6.), we have already shewnits absurdity.

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To begin with the senses, it is evident thesefaculties are incapable of giving rise to the no-tion of the continued existence of their objects,after they no longer appear to the senses. Forthat is a contradiction in terms, and supposethat the senses continue to operate, even af-ter they have ceased all manner of operation.These faculties, therefore, if they have any in-fluence in the present case, must produce theopinion of a distinct, not of a continued exis-tence; and in order to that, must present theirimpressions either as images and representa-tions, or as these very distinct and external ex-istences.

That our senses offer not their impressionsas the images of something distinct, or inde-pendent, and external, is evident; because theyconvey to us nothing but a single perception,

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and never give us the least intimation of anything beyond. A single perception can neverproduce the idea of a double existence, but bysome inference either of the reason or imagina-tion. When the mind looks farther than whatimmediately appears to it, its conclusions cannever be put to the account of the senses; and itcertainly looks farther, when from a single per-ception it infers a double existence, and sup-poses the relations of resemblance and causa-tion betwixt them.

If our senses, therefore, suggest any idea ofdistinct existences, they must convey the im-pressions as those very existences, by a kindof fallacy and illusion. Upon this bead wemay observe, that all sensations are felt by themind, such as they really are, and that whenwe doubt, whether they present themselves as

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distinct objects, or as mere impressions, the dif-ficulty is not concerning their nature, but con-cerning their relations and situation. Now ifthe senses presented our impressions as exter-nal to, and independent of ourselves, both theobjects and ourselves must be obvious to oursenses, otherwise they coued not be comparedby these faculties. The difficulty, then, is howfax we are ourselves the objects of our senses.

It is certain there is no question in philoso-phy more abstruse than that concerning iden-tity, and the nature of the uniting principle,which constitutes a person. So far from be-ing able by our senses merely to determine thisquestion, we must have recourse to the mostprofound metaphysics to give a satisfactory an-swer to it; and in common life it is evidentthese ideas of self and person are never very

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fixed nor determinate. It is absurd, therefore,to imagine the senses can ever distinguish be-twixt ourselves and external objects.

Add to this, that every impression, externaland internal, passions, affections, sensations,pains and pleasures, are originally on the samefooting; and that whatever other differences wemay observe among them, they appear, all ofthem, in their true colours, as impressions orperceptions. And indeed, if we consider thematter aright, it is scarce possible it should beotherwise, nor is it conceivable that our sensesshould be more capable of deceiving us in thesituation and relations, than in the nature ofour impressions. For since all actions and sen-sations of the mind are known to us by con-sciousness, they must necessarily appear in ev-ery particular what they are, and be what they

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appear. Every thing that enters the mind, be-ing in reality a perception, it is impossible anything should to feeling appear different. Thiswere to suppose, that even where we are mostintimately conscious, we might be mistaken.

But not to lose time in examining, whetherit is possible for our senses to deceive us, andrepresent our perceptions as distinct from our-selves, that is as external to and independentof us; let us consider whether they really do so,and whether this error proceeds from an imme-diate sensation, or from some other causes.

To begin with the question concerning ex-ternal existence, it may perhaps be said, thatsetting aside the metaphysical question of theidentity of a thinking substance, our own bodyevidently belongs to us; and as several im-pressions appear exterior to the body, we sup-

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pose them also exterior to ourselves. The pa-per, on which I write at present, is beyond myhand. The table is beyond the paper. Thewalls of the chamber beyond the table. Andin casting my eye towards the window, I per-ceive a great extent of fields and buildings be-yond my chamber. From all this it may be in-fered, that no other faculty is required, besidethe senses, to convince us of the external ex-istence of body. But to prevent this inference,we need only weigh the three following con-siderations. First, That, properly speaking, it isnot our body we perceive, when we regard ourlimbs and members, but certain impressions,which enter by the senses; so that the ascribinga real and corporeal existence to these impres-sions, or to their objects, is an act of the mindas difficult to explain, as that which we exam-ine at present. Secondly, Sounds, and tastes,

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and smelts, though commonly regarded by themind as continued independent qualities, ap-pear not to have any existence in extension, andconsequently cannot appear to the senses as sit-uated externally to the body. The reason, whywe ascribe a place to them, shall be: consideredafterwards. Thirdly, Even our sight informs usnot of distance or outness (so to speak) imme-diately and without a certain reasoning and ex-perience, as is acknowledged by the most ratio-nal philosophers.

As to the independency of our perceptionson ourselves, this can never be an object of thesenses; but any opinion we form concerningit, must be derived from experience and obser-vation: And we shall see afterwards, that ourconclusions from experience are far from be-ing favourable to the doctrine of the indepen-

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dency of our perceptions. Mean while we mayobserve that when we talk of real distinct ex-istences, we have commonly more in our eyetheir independency than external situation inplace, and think an object has a sufficient real-ity, when its Being is uninterrupted, and inde-pendent of the incessant revolutions, which weare conscious of in ourselves.

Thus to resume what I have said concerningthe senses; they give us no notion of continuedexistence, because they cannot operate beyondthe extent, in which they really operate. Theyas little produce the opinion of a distinct exis-tence, because they neither can offer it to themind as represented, nor as original. To offer itas represented, they must present both an ob-ject and an image. To make it appear as origi-nal, they must convey a falshood; and this fals-

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hood must lie in the relations and situation: Inorder to which they must be able to comparethe object with ourselves; and even in that casethey do not, nor is it possible they should, de-ceive us. We may, therefore, conclude with cer-tainty, that the opinion of a continued and of adistinct existence never arises from the senses.

To confirm this we may observe, that thereare three different kinds of impressions con-veyed by the senses. The first are those ofthe figure, bulk, motion and solidity of bod-ies. The second those of colours, tastes, smells,sounds, heat and cold. The third are the painsand pleasures, that arise from the applicationof objects to our bodies, as by the cutting of ourflesh with steel, and such like. Both philoso-phers and the vulgar suppose the first of theseto have a distinct continued existence. The vul-

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gar only regard the second as on the same foot-ing. Both philosophers and the vulgar, again,esteem the third to be merely perceptions andconsequently interrupted and dependent be-ings.

Now it is evident, that, whatever may be ourphilosophical opinion, colours, Sounds, heatand cold, as far as appears to the senses, ex-ist after the same manner with motion andsolidity, and that the difference we make be-twixt them in this respect, arises not from themere perception. So strong the prejudice forthe distinct continued existence Of the formerqualities, that when the contrary opinion is ad-vanced by modern philosophers, people imag-ine they can almost refute it from their feelingand experience, and that their very senses con-tradict this philosophy. It is also evident, that

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colours, sounds, &c. are originally on the samefooting with the pain that arises from steel, andpleasure that proceeds from a fire; and that thedifference betwixt them is founded neither onperception nor reason, but on the imagination.For as they are confest to be, both of them,nothing but perceptions arising from the par-ticular configurations and motions of the partsof body, wherein possibly can their differenceconsist? Upon the whole, then, we may con-clude, that as far as the senses are judges, allperceptions are the same in the manner of theirexistence.

We may also observe in this instance ofsounds and colours, that we can attribute adistinct continued existence to objects withoutever consulting reason, or weighing our opin-ions by any philosophical principles. And in-

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deed, whatever convincing arguments philoso-phers may fancy they can produce to estab-lish the belief of objects independent of themind, it is obvious these arguments are knownbut to very few, and that it is not by them,that children, peasants, and the greatest partof mankind are induced to attribute objects tosome impressions, and deny them to others.Accordingly we find, that all the conclusions,which the vulgar form on this head, are directlycontrary to those, which are confirmed by phi-losophy. For philosophy informs us, that everything, which appears to the mind, is nothingbut a perception, and is interrupted, and de-pendent on the mind: whereas the vulgar con-found perceptions and objects, and attribute adistinct continued existence to the very thingsthey feel or see. This sentiment, then, as it is en-tirely unreasonable, must proceed from some

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other faculty than the understanding. To whichwe may add, that as long as we take our per-ceptions and objects to be the same, we cannever infer the existence of the one from thatof the other, nor form any argument from therelation of cause and effect; which is the onlyone that earl assure us of matter of fact. Evenafter we distinguish our perceptions from ourobjects, it will appear presently, that we arestill incapable of reasoning from the existenceof one to that of the other: So that upon thewhole our reason neither does, nor is it possibleit ever should, upon any supposition, give usan assurance of the continued and distinct ex-istence of body. That opinion must be entirelyowing to the imagination: which must now bethe subject of our enquiry.

Since all impressions are internal and perish-

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ing existences, and appear as such, the notionof their distinct and continued existence mustarise from a concurrence of some of their qual-ities with the qualities of the imagination, andsince this notion does not extend to all of them,it must arise from certain qualities peculiar tosome impressions. It will therefore be easy forus to discover these qualities by a compari-son of the impressions, to which we attributea distinct and continued existence, with those,which we regard as internal and perishing.

We may observe, then, that it is neither uponaccount of the involuntariness of certain im-pressions, as is commonly supposed, nor oftheir superior force and violence, that we at-tribute to them a reality, and continued exis-tence, which we refuse to others, that are vol-untary or feeble. For it is evident our pains and

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pleasures, our passions and affections, whichwe never suppose to have any existence be-yond our perception, operate with greater vi-olence, and are equally involuntary, as the im-pressions of figure and extension, colour andsound, which we suppose to be permanent be-ings. The heat of a fire, when moderate, is sup-posed to exist in the fire; but the pain, whichit causes upon a near approach, is not taken tohave any being, except in the perception.

These vulgar opinions, then, being rejected,we must search for some other hypothesis, bywhich we may discover those peculiar qualitiesin our impressions, which makes us attribute tothem a distinct and continued existence.

After a little examination, we shall find, thatall those objects, to which we attribute a con-tinued existence, have a peculiar constancy,

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which distinguishes them from the impres-sions, whose existence depends upon our per-ception. Those mountains, and houses, andtrees, which lie at present under my eye, havealways appeared to me in the same order; andwhen I lose sight of them by shutting my eyesor turning my head, I soon after find them re-turn upon me without the least alteration. Mybed and table, my books and papers, presentthemselves in the same uniform manner, andchange not upon account of any interruption inmy seeing or perceivilng them. This is the casewith all the impressions, whose objects are sup-posed to have an external existence; and is thecase with no other impressions, whether gentleor violent, voluntary or involuntary.

This constancy, however, is not so perfect asnot to admit of very considerable exceptions.

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Bodies often change their position and quali-ties, and after a little absence or interruptionmay become hardly knowable. But here it isobservable, that even in these changes theypreserve a coherence, and have a regular de-pendence on each other; which is the founda-tion of a kind of reasoning from causation, andproduces the opinion of their continued exis-tence. When I return to my chamber after anhour’s absence, I find not my fire in the samesituation, in which I left it: But then I am ac-customed in other instances to see a like alter-ation produced in a like time, whether I ampresent or absent, near or remote. This co-herence, therefore, in their changes is one ofthe characteristics of external objects, as well astheir constancy.

Having found that the opinion of the con-

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tinued existence of body depends on the co-herence, and constancy of certain impressions,I now proceed to examine after what man-ner these qualities give rise to so extraordinaryan opinion. To begin with the coherence; wemay observe, that though those internal im-pressions, which we regard as fleeting and per-ishing, have also a certain coherence or regular-ity in their appearances, yet it is of somewhat adifferent nature, from that which we discoverin bodies. Our passions are found by experi-ence to have a mutual connexion with and de-pendence on each other; but on no occasion isit necessary to suppose, that they have existedand operated, when they were not perceived,in order to preserve the same dependence andconnexion, of which we have had experience.The case is not the same with relation to ex-ternal objects. Those require a continued exis-

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tence, or otherwise lose, in a great measure, theregularity of their operation. I am here seatedin my chamber with my face to the fire; and allthe objects, that strike my senses, are containedin a few yards around me. My memory, indeed,informs me of the existence of many objects;but then this information extends not beyondtheir past existence, nor do either my sensesor memory give any testimony to the contin-uance of their being. When therefore I am thusseated, and revolve over these thoughts, I hearon a sudden a noise as of a door turning uponits hinges; and a little after see a porter, whoadvances towards me. This gives occasion tomany new reflections and reasonings. First,I never have observed, that this noise couedproceed from any thing but the motion of adoor; and therefore conclude, that the presentphaenomenon is a contradiction to all past ex-

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perience, unless the door, which I rememberon the other side the chamber, be still in be-ing. Again, I have always found, that a humanbody was possest of a quality, which I call grav-ity, and which hinders it from mounting in theair, as this porter must have done to arrive atmy chamber, unless the stairs I remember benot annihilated by my absence. But this is notall. I receive a letter, which upon, opening itI perceive by the hand-writing and subscrip-tion to have come from a friend, who says heis two hundred leagues distant. It is evident Ican never account for this phenomenon, con-formable to my experience in other instances,without spreading out in my mind the wholesea and continent between us, and supposingthe effects and continued existence of posts andferries, according to my Memory and obser-vation. To consider these phaenomena of the

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porter and letter in a certain light, they are con-tradictions to common experience, and may beregarded as objections to those maxims, whichwe form concerning the connexions of causesand effects. I am accustomed to hear such asound, and see such an object in motion at thesame time. I have not received in this particularinstance both these perceptions. These obser-vations are contrary, unless I suppose that thedoor still remains, and that it was opened with-out my perceiving it: And this supposition,which was at first entirely arbitrary and hypo-thetical, acquires a force and evidence by its be-ing the only one, upon which I can reconcilethese contradictions. There is scarce a momentof my life, wherein there is not a similar in-stance presented to me, and I have not occasionto suppose the continued existence of objects,in order to connect their past and present ap-

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pearances, and give them such an union witheach other, as I have found by experience to besuitable to their particular natures and circum-stances. Here then I am naturally led to regardthe world, as something real and durable, andas preserving its existence, even when it is nolonger present to my perception.

But though this conclusion from the coher-ence of appearances may seem to be of thesame nature with our reasonings concerningcauses and effects; as being derived from cus-tom, and regulated by past experience; weshall find upon examination, that they are atthe bottom considerably different from eachother, and that this inference arises from theunderstanding, and from custom in an indirectand oblique manner. For it will readily be al-lowed, that since nothing is ever really present

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to the mind, besides its own perceptions, itis not only impossible, that any habit shouldever be acquired otherwise than by the reg-ular succession of these perceptions, but alsothat any habit should ever exceed that degreeof regularity. Any degree, therefore, of regu-larity in our perceptions, can never be a foun-dation for us to infer a greater degree of regu-larity in some objects, which are not perceived;since this supposes a contradiction, viz. a habitacquired by what was never present to themind. But it is evident, that whenever we inferthe continued existence of the objects of sensefrom their coherence, and the frequency of theirunion, it is in order to bestow on the objects agreater regularity than what is observed in ourmere perceptions. We remark a connexion be-twixt two kinds of objects in their past appear-ance to the senses, but are not able to observe

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this connexion to be perfectly constant, sincethe turning about of our head or the shuttingof our eyes is able to break it. What then do wesuppose in this case, but that these objects stillcontinue their usual connexion, notwithstand-ing their apparent interruption, and that the ir-regular appearances are joined by something,of which we are insensible? But as all rea-soning concerning matters of fact arises onlyfrom custom, and custom can only be the effectof repeated perceptions, the extending of cus-tom and reasoning beyond the perceptions cannever be the direct and natural effect of the con-stant repetition and connexion, but must arisefrom the co-operation of some other principles.

I have already observed (Part II, Sect. 4.),in examining the foundation of mathematics,that the imagination, when set into any train

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of thinking, is apt to continue, even when itsobject fails it, and like a galley put in motionby the oars, carries on its course without anynew impulse. This I have assigned for the rea-son, why, after considering several loose stan-dards of equality, and correcting them by eachother, we proceed to imagine so correct and ex-act a standard of that relation, as is not liableto the least error or variation. The same prin-ciple makes us easily entertain this opinion ofthe continued existence of body. Objects havea certain coherence even as they appear to oursenses; but this coherence is much greater andmore uniform, if we suppose the object.

But whatever force we may ascribe to thisprinciple, I am afraid it is too weak to sup-port alone so vast an edifice, as is that of thecontinued existence of all external bodies; and

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that we must join the constancy of their appear-ance to the coherence, in order to give a satis-factory account of that opinion. As the expli-cation of this will lead me into a considerablecompass of very profound reasoning; I think itproper, in order to avoid confusion, to give ashort sketch or abridgment of my system, andafterwards draw out all its parts in their fullcompass. This inference from the constancy ofour perceptions, like the precedent from theircoherence, gives rise to the opinion of the con-tinued existence of body, which is prior to thatof its distinct existence, and produces that lat-ter principle.

When we have been accustomed to observea constancy in certain impressions, and havefound, that the perception of the sun or ocean,for instance, returns upon us after an absence

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or annihilation with like parts and in a like or-der, as at its first appearance, we are not apt toregard these interrupted perceptions as differ-ent, (which they really are) but on the contraryconsider them as individually the same, uponaccount of their resemblance. But as this inter-ruption of their existence is contrary to theirperfect identity, and makes us regard the firstimpression as annihilated, and the second asnewly created, we find ourselves somewhat ata loss, and are involved in a kind of contradic-tion. In order to free ourselves from this diffi-culty, we disguise, as much as possible, the in-terruption, or rather remove it entirely, by sup-posing that these interrupted perceptions areconnected by a real existence, of which we areinsensible. This supposition, or idea of con-tinued existence, acquires a force and vivacityfrom the memory of these broken impressions,

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and from that propensity, which they give us,to suppose them the same; and according to theprecedent reasoning, the very essence of beliefconsists in the force and vivacity of the concep-tion.

In order to justify this system, there arefour things requisite. First, To explain theprincipium individuationis, or principle of iden-tity. Secondly, Give a reason, why the re-semblance of our broken and interrupted per-ceptions induces us to attribute an identityto them. Thirdly, Account for that propen-sity, which this illusion gives, to unite thesebroken appearances by a continued existence.Fourthly and lastly, Explain that force and vi-vacity of conception, which arises from thepropensity.

First, As to the principle of individuation; we

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may observe, that the view of any one object isnot sufficient to convey the idea of identity. Forin that proposition, an object is the same withitself, if the idea expressed by the word, object,were no ways distinguished from that meantby itself; we really should mean nothing, norwould the proposition contain a predicate anda subject, which however are implyed in thisaffirmation. One single object conveys the ideaof unity, not that of identity.

On the other hand, a multiplicity of objectscan never convey this idea, however resem-bling they may be supposed. The mind al-ways pronounces the one not to be the other,and considers them as forming two, three, orany determinate number of objects, whose ex-istences are entirely distinct and independent.

Since then both number and unity are incom-

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patible with the relation of identity, it must liein something that is neither of them. But totell the truth, at first sight this seems utterlyimpossible. Betwixt unity and number therecan be no medium; no more than betwixt ex-istence and nonexistence. After one object issupposed to exist, we must either suppose an-other also to exist; in which case we have theidea of number: Or we must suppose it not toexist; in which case the first object remains atunity.

To remove this difficulty, let us have recourseto the idea of time or duration. I have alreadyobservd (Part II, Sect. 5.), that time, in a strictsense, implies succession, and that when weapply its idea to any unchangeable object, it isonly by a fiction of the imagination, by whichthe unchangeable object is supposd to partic-

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ipate of the changes of the co-existent objects,and in particular of that of our perceptions.This fiction of the imagination almost univer-sally takes place; and it is by means of it, that asingle object, placd before us, and surveyd forany time without our discovering in it any in-terruption or variation, is able to give us a no-tion of identity. For when we consider any twopoints of this time, we may place them in dif-ferent lights: We may either survey them at thevery same instant; in which case they give usthe idea of number, both by themselves and bythe object; which must be multiplyd, in orderto be conceivd at once, as existent in these twodifferent points of time: Or on the other hand,we may trace the succession of time by a likesuccession of ideas, and conceiving first onemoment, along with the object then existent,imagine afterwards a change in the time with-

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out any variation or interruption in the object; inwhich case it gives us the idea of unity. Herethen is an idea, which is a medium betwixtunity and number; or more properly speak-ing, is either of them, according to the view, inwhich we take it: And this idea we call that ofidentity. We cannot, in any propriety of speech,say, that an object is the same with itself, unlesswe mean, that the object existent at one time isthe same with itself existent at another. By thismeans we make a difference, betwixt the ideameant by the word, object, and that meant byitself, without going the length of number, andat the same time without restraining ourselvesto a strict and absolute unity.

Thus the principle of individuation is noth-ing but the invariableness and uninterruptednessof any object, thro a supposd variation of time,

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by which the mind can trace it in the differentperiods of its existence, without any break ofthe view, and without being obliged to form theidea of multiplicity or number.

I now proceed to explain the second part ofmy system, and shew why the constancy of ourperceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfectnumerical identity, tho there be very long inter-vals betwixt their appearance, and they haveonly one of the essential qualities of identity,viz., invariableness. That I may avoid all am-biguity and confusion on this head, I shall ob-serve, that I here account for the opinions andbelief of the vulgar with regard to the existenceof body; and therefore must entirely conformmyself to their manner of thinking and of ex-pressing themselves. Now we have already ob-servd, that however philosophers may distin-

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guish betwixt the objects and perceptions of thesenses; which they suppose co-existent and re-sembling; yet this is a distinction, which is notcomprehended by the generality of mankind,who as they perceive only one being, can neverassent to the opinion of a double existence andrepresentation. Those very sensations, whichenter by the eye or ear, are with them the trueobjects, nor can they readily conceive that thispen or paper, which is immediately perceivd,represents another, which is different from, butresembling it. In order, therefore, to accommo-date myself to their notions, I shall at first sup-pose; that there is only a single existence, whichI shall call indifferently object or perception, ac-cording as it shall seem best to suit my purpose,understanding by both of them what any com-mon man means by a hat, or shoe, or stone, orany other impression, conveyd to him by his

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senses. I shall be sure to give warning, when Ireturn to a more philosophical way of speakingand thinking.

To enter, therefore, upon the question con-cerning the source of the error and deceptionwith regard to identity, when we attribute itto our resembling perceptions, notwithstand-ing their interruption; I must here recal an ob-servation, which I have already provd and ex-plaind (Part II. Sect. 5.). Nothing is more apt tomake us mistake one idea for another, than anyrelation betwixt them, which associates themtogether in the imagination, and makes it passwith facility from one to the other. Of all re-lations, that of resemblance is in this respectthe most efficacious; and that because it notonly causes an association of ideas, but also ofdispositions, and makes us conceive the one

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idea by an act or operation of the mind, sim-ilar to that by which we conceive the other.This circumstance I have observd to be of greatmoment; and we may establish it for a gen-eral rule, that whatever ideas place the mindin the same disposition or in similar ones, arevery apt to be confounded. The mind readilypasses from one to the other, and perceives notthe change without a strict attention, of which,generally speaking, it is wholly incapable.

In order to apply this general maxim, wemust first examine the disposition of the mindin viewing any object which preserves a per-fect identity, and then find some other object,that is confounded with it, by causing a similardisposition. When we fix our thought on anyobject, and suppose it to continue the same forsome time; it is evident we suppose the change

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to lie only in the time, and never exert our-selves to produce any new image or idea of theobject. The faculties of the mind repose them-selves in a manner, and take no more exercise,than what is necessary to continue that idea,of which we were formerly possest, and whichsubsists without variation or interruption. Thepassage from one moment to another is scarcefelt, and distinguishes not itself by a differentperception or idea, which may require a differ-ent direction of the spirits, in order to its con-ception.

Now what other objects, beside identicalones, are capable of placing the mind in thesame disposition, when it considers them, andof causing the same uninterrupted passage ofthe imagination from one idea to another? Thisquestion is of the last importance. For if we can

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find any such objects, we may certainly con-clude, from the foregoing principle, that theyare very naturally confounded with identicalones, and are taken for them in most of ourreasonings. But though this question be veryimportant, it is not very difficult nor doubtful.For I immediately reply, that a succession of re-lated objects places the mind in this disposi-tion, and is considered with the same smoothand uninterrupted progress of the imagination,as attends the view of the same invariable ob-ject. The very nature and essence of relation isto connect our ideas with each other, and uponthe appearance of one, to facilitate the transi-tion to its correlative. The passage betwixt re-lated ideas is, therefore, so smooth and easy,that it produces little alteration on the mind,and seems like the continuation of the same ac-tion; and as the continuation of the same ac-

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tion is an effect of the continued view of thesame object, it is for this reason we attributesameness to every succession of related objects.The thought slides along the succession withequal facility, as if it considered only one object;and therefore confounds the succession withthe identity.

We shall afterwards see many instances ofthis tendency of relation to make us ascribe anidentity to different objects; but shall here con-fine ourselves to the present subject. We find byexperience, that there is such a constancy in al-most all the impressions of the senses, that theirinterruption produces no alteration on them,and hinders them not from returning the samein appearance and in situation as at their firstexistence. I survey the furniture of my cham-ber; I shut my eyes, and afterwards open them;

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and find the new perceptions to resemble per-fectly those, which formerly struck my senses.This resemblance is observed in a thousand in-stances, and naturally connects together ourideas of these interrupted perceptions by thestrongest relation, and conveys the mind withan easy transition from one to another. Aneasy transition or passage of the imagination,along the ideas of these different and inter-rupted perceptions, is almost the same dispo-sition of mind with that in which we considerone constant and uninterrupted perception. Itis therefore very natural for us to mistake theone for the other.9

9This reasoning, it must be confest, is somewhat ab-struse, and difficult to be comprehended; but it is re-markable, that this very difficulty may be converted intoa proof of the reasoning. We may observe, that thereare two relations, and both of them resemblances, which

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The persons, who entertain this opinion con-cerning the identity of our resembling percep-tions, are in general an the unthinking and un-philosophical part of mankind, (that is, all ofus, at one time or other) and consequently suchas suppose their perceptions to be their onlyobjects, and never think of a double existenceinternal and external, representing and repre-sented. The very image, which is present tothe senses, is with us the real body; and it is to

contribute to our mistaking the succession of our inter-rupted perceptions for an identical object. The first is,the resemblance of the perceptions: The second is theresemblance, which the act of the mind in surveying asuccession of resembling objects bears to that in survey-ing an identical object. Now these resemblances we areapt to confound with each other; and it is natural weshoud, according to this very reasoning. But let us keepthem distinct, and we shall find no difficulty in conceiv-ing the precedent argument.

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these interrupted images we ascribe a perfectidentity. But as the interruption of the appear-ance seems contrary to the identity, and natu-rally leads us to regard these resembling per-ceptions as different from each other, we herefind ourselves at a loss how to reconcile suchopposite opinions. The smooth passage of theimagination along the ideas of the resemblingperceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfectidentity. The interrupted manner of their ap-pearance makes us consider them as so manyresembling, but still distinct beings, which ap-pear after certain intervals. The perplexity aris-ing from this contradiction produces a propen-sion to unite these broken appearances by thefiction of a continued existence, which is thethird part of that hypothesis I proposed to ex-plain.

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Nothing is more certain from experience,than that any contradiction either to the sen-timents or passions gives a sensible uneasi-ness, whether it proceeds from without or fromwithin; from the opposition of external ob-jects, or from the combat of internal principles.On the contrary, whatever strikes in with thenatural propensities, and either externally for-wards their satisfaction, or internally concurswith their movements, is sure to give a sen-sible pleasure. Now there being here an op-position betwixt the notion of the identity ofresembling perceptions, and the interruptionof their appearance, the mind must be uneasyin that situation, and will naturally seek re-lief from the uneasiness. Since the uneasinessarises from the opposition of two contrary prin-ciples, it must look for relief by sacrificing theone to the other. But as the smooth passage of

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our thought along our resembling perceptionsmakes us ascribe to them an identity, we cannever without reluctance yield up that opinion.We must, therefore, turn to the other side, andsuppose that our perceptions are no longer in-terrupted, but preserve a continued as well asan invariable existence, and are by that meansentirely the same. But here the interruptions inthe appearance of these perceptions are so longand frequent, that it is impossible to overlookthem; and as the appearance of a perception inthe mind and its existence seem at first sightentirely the same, it may be doubted, whetherwe can ever assent to so palpable a contradic-tion, and suppose a perception to exist with-out being present to the mind. In order to clearup this matter, and learn how the interruptionin the appearance of a perception implies notnecessarily an interruption in its existence, it

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will be proper to touch upon some principles,which we shall have occasion to explain morefully afterwards. (Sect. 6.)

We may begin with observing, that the dif-ficulty in the present case is not concerningthe matter of fact, or whether the mind formssuch a conclusion concerning the continued ex-istence of its perceptions, but only concerningthe manner in which the conclusion is formed,and principles from which it is derived. Itis certain, that almost all mankind, and evenphilosophers themselves, for the greatest partof their lives, take their perceptions to be theironly objects, and suppose, that the very being,which is intimately present to the mind, is thereal body or material existence. It is also cer-tain, that this very perception or object is sup-posed to have a continued uninterrupted be-

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ing, and neither to be annihilated by our ab-sence, nor to be brought into existence by ourpresence. When we are absent from it, we sayit still exists, but that we do not feel, we do notsee it. When we are present, we say we feel, orsee it. Here then may arise two questions; First,How we can satisfy ourselves in supposing aperception to be absent from the mind withoutbeing annihilated. Secondly, After what man-ner we conceive an object to become present tothe mind, without some new creation of a per-ception or image; and what we mean by thisseeing, and feeling, and perceiving.

As to the first question; we may observe, thatwhat we call a mind, is nothing but a heapor collection of different perceptions, unitedtogether by certain relations, and supposed,though falsely, to be endowed with a perfect

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simplicity and identity. Now as every per-ception is distinguishable from another, andmay be considered as separately existent; it ev-idently follows, that there is no absurdity inseparating any particular perception from themind; that is, in breaking off all its relations,with that connected mass of perceptions, whichconstitute a thinking being.

The same reasoning affords us an answer tothe second question. If the name of percep-tion renders not this separation from a mindabsurd and contradictory, the name of object,standing for the very same thing, can neverrender their conjunction impossible. Externalobjects are seen, and felt, and become presentto the mind; that is, they acquire such a relationto a connected heap of perceptions, as to in-fluence them very considerably in augmenting

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their number by present reflections and pas-sions, and in storing the memory with ideas.The same continued and uninterrupted Beingmay, therefore, be sometimes present to themind, and sometimes absent from it, withoutany real or essential change in the Being it-self. An interrupted appearance to the sensesimplies not necessarily an interruption in theexistence. The supposition of the continuedexistence of sensible objects or perceptions in-volves no contradiction. We may easily indulgeour inclination to that supposition. When theexact resemblance of our perceptions makes usascribe to them an identity, we may remove theseeming interruption by feigning a continuedbeing, which may fill those intervals, and pre-serve a perfect and entire identity to our per-ceptions.

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But as we here not only feign but believethis continued existence, the question is, fromwhence arises such a belief; and this questionleads us to the fourth member of this system.It has been proved already, that belief in gen-eral consists in nothing, but the vivacity of anidea; and that an idea may acquire this vivac-ity by its relation to some present impression.Impressions are naturally the most vivid per-ceptions of the mind; and this quality is in partconveyed by the relation to every connectedidea. The relation causes a smooth passagefrom the impression to the idea, and even givesa propensity to that passage. The mind fallsso easily from the one perception to the other,that it scarce perceives the change, but retainsin the second a considerable share of the vivac-ity of the first. It is excited by the lively im-pression; and this vivacity is conveyed to the

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related idea, without any great diminution inthe passage, by reason of the smooth transitionand the propensity of the imagination.

But suppose, that this propensity arises fromsome other principle, besides that of relation;it is evident it must still have the same effect,and convey the vivacity from the impressionto the idea. Now this is exactly the presentcase. Our memory presents us with a vastnumber of instances of perceptions perfectlyresembling each other, that return at differentdistances of time, and after considerable inter-ruptions. This resemblance gives us a propen-sion to consider these interrupted perceptionsas the same; and also a propension to con-nect them by a continued existence, in orderto justify this identity, and avoid the contra-diction, in which the interrupted appearance

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of these perceptions seems necessarily to in-volve us. Here then we have a propensity tofeign the continued existence of all sensible ob-jects; and as this propensity arises from somelively impressions of the memory, it bestowsa vivacity on that fiction: or in other words,makes us believe the continued existence ofbody. If sometimes we ascribe a continued ex-istence to objects, which are perfectly new tous, and of whose constancy and coherence wehave no experience, it is because the manner,in which they present themselves to our senses,resembles that of constant and coherent objects;and this resemblance is a source of reasoningand analogy, and leads us to attribute the samequalities to similar objects.

I believe an intelligent reader will find lessdifficulty to assent to this system, than to com-

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prehend it fully and distinctly, and will allow,after a little reflection, that every part carriesits own proof along with it. It is indeed evi-dent, that as the vulgar suppose their percep-tions to be their only objects, and at the sametime believe the continued existence of mat-ter, we must account for the origin of the be-lief upon that supposition. Now upon thatsupposition, it is a false opinion that any ofour objects, or perceptions, are identically thesame after an interruption; and consequentlythe opinion of their identity can never arisefrom reason, but must arise from the imagina-tion. The imagination is seduced into such anopinion only by means of the resemblance ofcertain perceptions; since we find they are onlyour resembling perceptions, which we have apropension to suppose the same. This propen-sion to bestow an identity on our resembling

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perceptions, produces the fiction of a contin-ued existence; since that fiction, as well as theidentity, is really false, as is acknowledged byall philosophers, and has no other effect thanto remedy the interruption of our perceptions,which is the only circumstance that is contraryto their identity. In the last place this propen-sion causes belief by means of the present im-pressions of the memory; since without the re-membrance of former sensations, it is plain wenever should have any belief of the continuedexistence of body. Thus in examining all theseparts, we find that each of them is supportedby the strongest proofs: and that all of them to-gether form a consistent system, which is per-fectly convincing. A strong propensity or incli-nation alone, without any present impression,will sometimes cause a belief or opinion. Howmuch more when aided by that circumstance?

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But though we are led after this manner, bythe natural propensity of the imagination, toascribe a continued existence to those sensibleobjects or perceptions, which we find to resem-ble each other in their interrupted appearance;yet a very little reflection and philosophy is suf-ficient to make us perceive the fallacy of thatopinion. I have already observed, that there isan intimate connexion betwixt those two prin-ciples, of a continued and of a distinct or inde-pendent existence, and that we no sooner es-tablish the one than the other follows, as a nec-essary consequence. It is the opinion of a con-tinued existence, which first takes place, andwithout much study or reflection draws theother along with it, wherever the mind followsits first and most natural tendency. But whenwe compare experiments, and reason a littleupon them, we quickly perceive, that the doc-

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trine of the independent existence of our sensi-ble perceptions is contrary to the plainest expe-rience. This leads us backward upon our foot-steps to perceive our error in attributing a con-tinued existence to our perceptions, and is theorigin of many very curious opinions, whichwe shall here endeavour to account for.

It will first be proper to observe a few ofthose experiments, which convince us, that ourperceptions are not possest of any independentexistence. When we press one eye with a fin-ger, we immediately perceive all the objects tobecome double, and one half of them to be re-moved from their common and natural posi-tion. But as we do not attribute to continuedexistence to both these perceptions, and as theyare both of the same nature, we clearly per-ceive, that all our perceptions are dependent on

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our organs, and the disposition of our nervesand animal spirits. This opinion is confirmedby the seeming encrease and diminution of ob-jects, according to their distance; by the appar-ent alterations in their figure; by the changes intheir colour and other qualities from our sick-ness and distempers: and by an infinite num-ber of other experiments of the same kind; fromall which we learn, that our sensible percep-tions are not possest of any distinct or indepen-dent existence.

The natural consequence of this reasoningshould be, that our perceptions have no more acontinued than an independent existence; andindeed philosophers have so far run into thisopinion, that they change their system, and dis-tinguish, (as we shall do for the future) betwixtperceptions and objects, of which the former

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are supposed to be interrupted, and perishing,and different at every different return; the latterto be uninterrupted, and to preserve a contin-ued existence and identity. But however philo-sophical this new system may be esteemed, Iassert that it is only a palliative remedy, andthat it contains all the difficulties of the vul-gar system, with some others, that are pecu-liar to itself. There are no principles either ofthe understanding or fancy, which lead us di-rectly to embrace this opinion of the double ex-istence of perceptions and objects, nor can wearrive at it but by passing through the commonhypothesis of the identity and continuance ofour interrupted perceptions. Were we not firstperswaded, that our perceptions are our onlyobjects, and continue to exist even when theyno longer make their appearance to the senses,we should never be led to think, that our per-

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ceptions and objects are different, and that ourobjects alone preserve a continued existence.The latter hypothesis has no primary recom-mendation either to reason or the imagination,but acquires all its influence on the imaginationfrom the former. This proposition contains twoparts, which we shall endeavour to prove asdistinctly and clearly, as such abstruse subjectswill permit.

As to the first part of the proposition, thatthis philosophical hypothesis has no primaryrecommendation, either to reason, or the imag-ination, we may soon satisfy ourselves with re-gard to reason by the following reflections. Theonly existences, of which we are certain, areperceptions, which being immediately presentto us by consciousness, command our strongestassent, and are the first foundation of all our

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conclusions. The only conclusion we can drawfrom the existence of one thing to that of an-other, is by means of the relation of cause andeffect, which shews, that there is a connexionbetwixt them, and that the existence of one isdependent on that of the other. The idea ofthis relation is derived from past experience, bywhich we find, that two beings are constantlyconjoined together, and are always present atonce to the mind. But as no beings are everpresent to the mind but perceptions; it followsthat we may observe a conjunction or a rela-tion of cause and effect between different per-ceptions, but can never observe it between per-ceptions and objects. It is impossible, therefore,that from the existence or any of the qualitiesof the former, we can ever form any conclusionconcerning the existence of the latter, or eversatisfy our reason in this particular.

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It is no less certain, that this philosophicalsystem has no primary recommendation to theimagination, and that that faculty would never,of itself, and by its original tendency, havefallen upon such a principle. I confess it willbe somewhat difficult to prove this to the fallsatisfaction of the reader; because it implies anegative, which in many cases will not admitof any positive proof. If any one would takethe pains to examine this question, and wouldinvent a system, to account for the direct ori-gin of this opinion from the imagination, weshould be able, by the examination of that sys-tem, to pronounce a certain judgment in thepresent subject. Let it be taken for granted, thatour perceptions are broken, and interrupted,and however like, are still different from eachother; and let any one upon this suppositionshew why the fancy, directly and immediately,

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proceeds to the belief of another existence, re-sembling these perceptions in their nature, butyet continued, and uninterrupted, and identi-cal; and after he has done this to my satisfac-tion, I promise to renounce my present opinion.Mean while I cannot forbear concluding, fromthe very abstractedness and difficulty of thefirst supposition, that it is an improper subjectfor the fancy to work upon. Whoever wouldexplain the origin of the common opinion con-cerning the continued and distinct existence ofbody, must take the mind in its common situ-ation, and must proceed upon the supposition,that our perceptions are our only objects, andcontinue to exist even when they are not per-ceived. Though this opinion be false, it is themost natural of any, and has alone any primaryrecommendation to the fancy.

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As to the second part of the proposition, thatthe philosophical system acquires all its influ-ence on the imagination from the vulgar one;we may observe, that this is a natural and un-avoidable consequence of the foregoing con-clusion, that it has no primary recommenda-tion to reason or the imagination. For as thephilosophical system is found by experience totake hold of many minds, and in particular ofall those, who reflect ever so little on this sub-ject, it must derive all its authority from thevulgar system; since it has no original authorityof its own. The manner, in which these two sys-tems, though directly contrary, are connectedtogether, may be explains, as follows.

The imagination naturally runs on in thistrain of thinking. Our perceptions are our onlyobjects: Resembling perceptions are the same,

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however broken or uninterrupted in their ap-pearance: This appealing interruption is con-trary to the identity: The interruption conse-quently extends not beyond the appearance,and the perception or object really continuesto exist, even when absent from us: Our sen-sible perception s have, therefore, a continuedand uninterrupted existence. But as a little re-flection destroys this conclusion, that our per-ceptions have a continued existence, by shew-ing that they have a dependent one, it wouldnaturally be expected, that we must altogetherreject the opinion, that there is such a thingin nature as a continued existence, which ispreserved even when it no longer appears tothe senses. The case, however, is otherwise.Philosophers are so far from rejecting the opin-ion of a continued existence upon rejecting thatof the independence and continuance of our

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sensible perceptions, that though all sects agreein the latter sentiment, the former, which is, ina manner, its necessary consequence, has beenpeculiar to a few extravagant sceptics; who af-ter all maintained that opinion in words only,and were never able to bring themselves sin-cerely to believe it.

There is a great difference betwixt such opin-ions as we form after a calm and profound re-flection, and such as we embrace by a kindof instinct or natural impulse, on account oftheir suitableness and conformity to the mind.If these opinions become contrary, it is notdifficult to foresee which of them will havethe advantage. As long as our attention isbent upon the subject, the philosophical andstudyed principle may prevail; but the momentwe relax our thoughts, nature will display her-

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self, and draw us back to our former opinion.Nay she has sometimes such an influence, thatshe can stop our progress, even in the midstof our most profound reflections, and keep usfrom running on with all the consequences ofany philosophical opinion. Thus though weclearly perceive the dependence and interrup-tion of our perceptions, we stop short in ourcareer, and never upon that account reject thenotion of an independent and continued exis-tence. That opinion has taken such deep rootin the imagination, that it is impossible ever toeradicate it, nor will any strained metaphysi-cal conviction of the dependence of our percep-tions be sufficient for that purpose.

But though our natural and obvious princi-ples here prevail above our studied reflections,it is certain there must be sonic struggle and op-

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position in the case: at least so long as theserejections retain any force or vivacity. In or-der to set ourselves at ease in this particular,we contrive a new hypothesis, which seemsto comprehend both these principles of reasonand imagination. This hypothesis is the philo-sophical, one of the double existence of per-ceptions and objects; which pleases our rea-son, in allowing, that our dependent percep-tions are interrupted and different; and at thesame time is agreeable to the imagination, inattributing a continued existence to somethingelse, which we call objects. This philosophicalsystem, therefore, is the monstrous offspringof two principles, which are contrary to eachother, which are both at once embraced by themind, and which are unable mutually to de-stroy each other. The imagination tells us, thatour resembling perceptions have a continued

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and uninterrupted existence, and are not an-nihilated by their absence. Reflection tells us,that even our resembling perceptions are in-terrupted in their existence, and different fromeach other. The contradiction betwixt theseopinions we elude by a new fiction, whichis conformable to the hypotheses both of re-flection and fancy, by ascribing these contraryqualities to different existences; the interrup-tion to perceptions, and the continuance to ob-jects. Nature is obstinate, and will not quit thefield, however strongly attacked by reason; andat the same time reason is so clear in the point,that there is no possibility of disguising her.Not being able to reconcile these two enemies,we endeavour to set ourselves at ease as muchas possible, by successively granting to eachwhatever it demands, and by feigning a doubleexistence, where each may find something, that

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has all the conditions it desires. Were we fullyconvinced, that our resembling perceptions arecontinued, and identical, and independent, weshould never run into this opinion of a doubleexistence, since we should find satisfaction inour first supposition, and would not look be-yond. Again, were we fully convinced, that ourperceptions are dependent, and interrupted,and different, we should be as little inclinedto embrace the opinion of a double existence;since in that case we should clearly perceive theerror of our first supposition of a continued ex-istence, and would never regard it any farther.It is therefore from the intermediate situationof the mind, that this opinion arises, and fromsuch an adherence to these two contrary prin-ciples, as makes us seek some pretext to jus-tify our receiving both; which happily at lastis found in the system of a double existence.

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Another advantage of this philosophical sys-tem is its similarity to the vulgar one; by whichmeans we can humour our reason for a mo-ment, when it becomes troublesome and sol-licitous; and yet upon its least negligence orinattention, can easily return to our vulgar andnatural notions. Accordingly we find, thatphilosophers neglect not this advantage; butimmediately upon leaving their closets, min-gle with the rest of mankind in those explodedopinions, that our perceptions are our only ob-jects, and continue identically and uninterrupt-edly the same in all their interrupted appear-ances.

There are other particulars of this system,wherein we may remark its dependence on thefancy, in a very conspicuous manner. Of these,I shall observe the two following. First, We

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suppose external objects to resemble internalperceptions. I have already shewn, that the re-lation of cause and effect can never afford usany just conclusion from the existence or qual-ities of our perceptions to the existence of ex-ternal continued objects: And I shall fartheradd, that even though they coued afford sucha conclusion, we should never have any reasonto infer, that our objects resemble our percep-tions. That opinion, therefore, is derived fromnothing but the quality of the fancy above-explained, <that it borrows all its ideas fromsome precedent perception>. We never canconceive any thing but perceptions, and there-fore must make every thing resemble them.

Secondly, As we suppose our objects in gen-eral to resemble our perceptions, so we take itfor granted, that every particular object resem-

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bles that perception, which it causes. The re-lation of cause and effect determines us to jointhe other of resemblance; and the ideas of theseexistences being already united together in thefancy by the former relation, we naturally addthe latter to compleat the union. We have astrong propensity to compleat every union byjoining new relations to those which we havebefore observed betwixt any ideas, as we shallhave occasion to observe presently. (Sect. 5.)

Having thus given an account of all the sys-tems both popular and philosophical, with re-gard to external existences, I cannot forbeargiving vent to a certain sentiment, which arisesupon reviewing those systems. I begun thissubject with premising, that we ought to havean implicit faith in our senses, and that thiswould be the conclusion, I should draw from

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the whole of my reasoning. But to be ingenu-ous, I feel myself at present of a quite contrarysentiment, and am more inclined to repose nofaith at all in my senses, or rather imagina-tion, than to place in it such an implicit confi-dence. I cannot conceive how such trivial qual-ities of the fancy, conducted by such false sup-positions, can ever lead to any solid and ratio-nal system. They are the coherence and con-stancy of our perceptions, which produce theopinion of their continued existence; thoughthese qualities of perceptions have no perceiv-able connexion with such an existence. Theconstancy of our perceptions has the most con-siderable effect, and yet is attended with thegreatest difficulties. It is a gross illusion to sup-pose, that our resembling perceptions are nu-merically the same; and it is this illusion, whichleads us into the opinion, that these percep-

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tions are uninterrupted, and are still existent,even when they are not present to the senses.This is the case with our popular system. Andas to our philosophical one, it is liable to thesame difficulties; and is over-and-above loadedwith this absurdity, that it at once denies andestablishes the vulgar supposition. Philoso-phers deny our resembling perceptions to beidentically the same, and uninterrupted; andyet have so great a propensity to believe themsuch, that they arbitrarily invent a new set ofperceptions, to which they attribute these qual-ities. I say, a new set of perceptions: For wemay well suppose in general, but it is impos-sible for us distinctly to conceive, objects to bein their nature any thing but exactly the samewith perceptions. What then can we look forfrom this confusion of groundless and extraor-dinary opinions but error and falshood? And

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how can we justify to ourselves any belief werepose in them?

This sceptical doubt, both with respect toreason and the senses, is a malady, which cannever be radically cured, but must return uponus every moment, however we may chace itaway, and sometimes may seem entirely freefrom it. It is impossible upon any system to de-fend either our understanding or senses; andwe but expose them farther when we endeav-our to justify them in that manner. As the scep-tical doubt arises naturally from a profoundand intense reflection on those subjects, it al-ways encreases, the farther we carry our reflec-tions, whether in opposition or conformity toit. Carelessness and in-attention alone can af-ford us any remedy. For this reason I rely en-tirely upon them; and take it for granted, what-

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ever may be the reader’s opinion at this presentmoment, that an hour hence he will be per-suaded there is both an external and internalworld; and going upon that supposition, I in-tend to examine some general systems both an-cient and modern, which have been proposedof both, before I proceed to a more particularenquiry concerning our impressions. This willnot, perhaps, in the end be found foreign to ourpresent purpose.

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SECTION III. OF THE ANTIENT PHILOSOPHY

Several moralists have recommended it as anexcellent method of becoming acquainted withour own hearts, and knowing our progress invirtue, to recollect our dreams in a morning,and examine them with the same rigour, thatwe would our most serious and most deliber-ate actions. Our character is the same through-out, say they, and appears best where artifice,fear, and policy have no place, and men canneither be hypocrites with themselves nor oth-ers. The generosity, or baseness of our temper,our meekness or cruelty, our courage or pusila-nimity, influence the fictions of the imaginationwith the most unbounded liberty, and discoverthemselves in the most glaring colours. In likemanner, I am persuaded, there might be sev-eral useful discoveries made from a criticism

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of the fictions of the antient philosophy, con-cerning substances, and substantial form, andaccidents, and occult qualities; which, howeverunreasonable and capricious, have a very inti-mate connexion with the principles of humannature.

It is confest by the most judicious philoso-phers, that our ideas of bodies are nothing butcollections formed by the mind of the ideas ofthe several distinct sensible qualities, of whichobjects are composed, and which we find tohave a constant union with each other. Buthowever these qualities may in themselves beentirely distinct, it is certain we commonly re-gard the compound, which they form, as ONEthing, and as continuing the same under veryconsiderable alterations. The acknowledgedcomposition is evidently contrary to this sup-

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posed simplicity, and the variation to the iden-tity. It may, therefore, be worth while to con-sider the causes, which make us almost univer-sally fall into such evident contradictions, aswell as the means by which we endeavour toconceal them.

It is evident, that as the ideas of the sev-eral distinct, successive qualities of objects areunited together by a very close relation, themind, in looking along the succession, must becarryed from one part of it to another by aneasy transition, and will no more perceive thechange, than if it contemplated the same un-changeable object. This easy transition is theeffect, or rather essence of relation; I and as theimagination readily takes one idea for another,where their influence on the mind is similar;hence it proceeds, that any such succession of

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related qualities is readily considered as onecontinued object, existing without any varia-tion. The smooth and uninterrupted progressof the thought, being alike in both cases, read-ily deceives the mind, and makes us ascribe anidentity to the changeable succession of con-nected qualities.

But when we alter our method of consid-ering the succession, and instead of traceingit gradually through the successive points oftime, survey at once Any two distinct peri-ods of its duration, and compare the differ-ent conditions of the successive qualities; inthat case the variations, which were insensi-ble when they arose gradually, do now appearof consequence, and seem entirely to destroythe identity. By this means there arises a kindof contrariety in our method of thinking, from

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the different points of view, in which we sur-vey the object, and from the nearness or re-moteness of those instants of time, which wecompare together. When we gradually followan object in its successive changes, the smoothprogress of the thought makes us ascribe anidentity to the succession; because it is by asimilar act of the mind we consider an un-changeable object. When we compare its situa-tion after a considerable change the progress ofthe thought is broke; and consequently we arepresented with the idea of diversity: In order toreconcile which contradictions the imaginationis apt to feign something unknown and invisi-ble, which it supposes to continue the same un-der all these variations; and this unintelligiblesomething it calls a substance, or original andfirst matter.

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We entertain a like notion with regard to thesimplicity of substances, and from like causes.Suppose an object perfectly simple and indivis-ible to be presented, along with another object,whose co-existent parts are connected togetherby a strong relation, it is evident the actionsof the mind, in considering these two objects,are not very different. The imagination con-ceives the simple object at once, with facility,by a single effort of thought, without change orvariation. The connexion of parts in the com-pound object has almost the same effect, andso unites the object within itself, that the fancyfeels not the transition in passing from one partto another. Hence the colour, taste, figure, so-lidity, and other qualities, combined in a peachor melon, are conceived to form one thing; andthat on account of their close relation, whichmakes them affect the thought in the same

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manner, as if perfectly uncompounded. But themind rests not here. Whenever it views the ob-ject in another light, it finds that all these quali-ties are different, and distinguishable, and sep-arable from each other; which view of thingsbeing destructive of its primary and more nat-ural notions, obliges the imagination to feignan unknown something, or original substanceand matter, as a principle of union or cohesionamong these qualities, and as what may givethe compound object a title to be called onething, notwithstanding its diversity and com-position.

The peripatetic philosophy asserts the origi-nal matter to be perfectly homogeneous in allbodies, and considers fire, water, earth, andair, as of the very same substance; on accountof their gradual revolutions and changes into

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each other. At the same time it assigns to eachof these species of objects a distinct substan-tial form, which it supposes to be the source ofall those different qualities they possess, and tobe a new foundation of simplicity and identityto each particular species. All depends on ourmanner of viewing the objects. When we lookalong the insensible changes of bodies, we sup-pose all of them to be of the same substance oressence. When we consider their sensible dif-ferences, we attribute to each of them a sub-stantial and essential difference. And in or-der to indulge ourselves in both these ways ofconsidering our objects, we suppose all bodiesto have at once a substance and a substantialform.

The notion of accidents is an unavoidableconsequence of this method of thinking with

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regard to substances and substantial forms; norcan we forbear looking upon colours, sounds,tastes, figures, and other properties of bodies,as existences, which cannot subsist apart, butrequire a subject of inhesion to sustain and sup-port them. For having never discovered any ofthese sensible qualities, where, for the reasonsabove-mentioned, we did not likewise fancy asubstance to exist; the same habit, which makesus infer a connexion betwixt cause and effect,makes us here infer a dependence of everyquality on the unknown substance. The customof imagining a dependence has the same effectas the custom of observing it would have. Thisconceit, however, is no more reasonable thanany of the foregoing. Every quality being a dis-tinct thing from another, may be conceived toexist apart, and may exist apart, not only fromevery other quality, but from that unintelligible

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chimera of a substance.

But these philosophers carry their fictionsstill farther in their sentiments concerning oc-cult qualities, and both suppose a substancesupporting, which they do not understand,and an accident supported, of which they haveas imperfect an idea. The whole system, there-fore, is entirely incomprehensible, and yet isderived from principles as natural as any ofthese above-explained.

In considering this subject we may observea gradation of three opinions, that rise aboveeach other, according as the persons, whoform them, acquire new degrees of reason andknowledge. These opinions are that of the vul-gar, that of a false philosophy, and that of thetrue; where we shall find upon enquiry, that thetrue philosophy approaches nearer to the senti-

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ments of the vulgar, than to those of a mistakenknowledge. It is natural for men, in their com-mon and care, less way of thinking, to imag-ine they perceive a connexion betwixt such ob-jects as they have constantly found united to-gether; and because custom has rendered it dif-ficult to separate the ideas, they are apt to fancysuch a separation to be in itself impossible andabsurd. But philosophers, who abstract fromthe effects of custom, and compare the ideasof objects, immediately perceive the falshoodof these vulgar sentiments, and discover thatthere is no known connexion among objects.Every different object appears to them entirelydistinct and separate; and they perceive, that itis not from a view of the nature and qualitiesof objects we infer one from another, but onlywhen in several instances we observe themto have been constantly conjoined. But these

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philosophers, instead of drawing a just infer-ence from this observation, and concluding,that we have no idea of power or agency, sep-arate from the mind, and belonging to causes;I say, instead of drawing this conclusion, theyfrequently search for the qualities, in which thisagency consists, and are displeased with everysystem, which their reason suggests to them, inorder to explain it. They have sufficient force ofgenius to free them from the vulgar error, thatthere is a natural and perceivable connexionbetwixt the several sensible qualities and ac-tions of matter; but not sufficient to keep themfrom ever seeking for this connexion in matter,or causes. Had they fallen upon the just conclu-sion, they would have returned back to the sit-uation of the vulgar, and would have regardedall these disquisitions with indolence and indif-ference. At present they seem to be in a very

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lamentable condition, and such as the poetshave given us but a faint notion of in their de-scriptions of the punishment of Sisyphus andTantalus. For what can be imagined more tor-menting, than to seek with eagerness, what forever flies us; and seek for it in a place, where itis impossible it can ever exist?

But as nature seems to have observed a kindof justice and compensation in every thing, shehas not neglected philosophers more than therest of the creation; but has reserved them aconsolation amid all their disappointments andafflictions. This consolation principally con-sists in their invention of the words: facultyand occult quality. For it being usual, after thefrequent use of terms, which are really signif-icant and intelligible, to omit the idea, whichwe would express by them, and to preserve

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only the custom, by which we recal the ideaat pleasure; so it naturally happens, that afterthe frequent use of terms, which are wholly in-significant and unintelligible, we fancy themto be on the same footing with the prece-dent, and to have a secret meaning, which wemight discover by reflection. The resemblanceof their appearance deceives the mind, as isusual, and makes us imagine a thorough re-semblance and conformity. By this means thesephilosophers set themselves at ease, and ar-rive at last, by an illusion, at the same indif-ference, which the people attain by their stu-pidity, and true philosophers by their moderatescepticism. They need only say, that any phe-nomenon, which puzzles them, arises from afaculty or an occult quality, and there is an endof all dispute and enquiry upon the matter.

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But among all the instances, wherein thePeripatetics have shewn they were guided byevery trivial propensity of the imagination, noone is more-remarkable than their sympathies,antipathies, and horrors of a vacuum. There isa very remarkable inclination in human nature,to bestow on external objects the same emo-tions, which it observes in itself; and to find ev-ery where those ideas, which are most presentto it. This inclination, it is true, is suppressedby a little reflection, and only takes place inchildren, poets, and the antient philosophers.It appears in children, by their desire of beatingthe stones, which hurt them: In poets, by theirreadiness to personify every thing: And in theantient philosophers, by these fictions of sym-pathy and antipathy. We must pardon children,because of their age; poets, because they pro-fess to follow implicitly the suggestions of their

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fancy: But what excuse shall we find to justifyour philosophers in so signal a weakness?

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SECTION IV. OF THE MODERN PHILOSOPHY

But here it may be objected, that the imag-ination, according to my own confession, be-ing the ultimate judge of all systems of philoso-phy, I am unjust in blaming the antient philoso-phers for making use of that faculty, and al-lowing themselves to be entirely guided by itin their reasonings. In order to justify my-self, I must distinguish in the imagination be-twixt the principles which are permanent, irre-sistible, and universal; such as the customarytransition from causes to effects, and from ef-fects to causes: And the principles, which arechangeable, weak, and irregular; such as thoseI have just now taken notice of. The former arethe foundation of all our thoughts and actions,so that upon their removal human nature mustimmediately perish and go to ruin. The latter

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are neither unavoidable to mankind, nor nec-essary, or so much as useful in the conduct oflife; but on the contrary are observed only totake place in weak minds, and being oppositeto the other principles of custom and reason-ing, may easily be subverted by a due contrastand opposition. For this reason the former arereceived by philosophy, and the latter rejected.One who concludes somebody to be near him,when he hears an articulate voice in the dark,reasons justly and naturally; though that con-clusion be derived from nothing but custom,which infixes and inlivens the idea of a humancreature, on account of his usual conjunctionwith the present impression. But one, who istormented he knows not why, with the appre-hension of spectres in the dark, may, perhaps,be said to reason, and to reason naturally too:But then it must be in the same sense, that a

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malady is said to be natural; as arising fromnatural causes, though it be contrary to health,the most agreeable and most natural situationof man.

The opinions of the antient philosophers,their fictions of substance and accident, andtheir reasonings concerning substantial formsand occult qualities, are like the spectres in thedark, and are derived from principles, which,however common, are neither universal norunavoidable in human nature. The modernphilosophy pretends to be entirely free fromthis defect, and to arise only from the solid, per-manent, and consistent principles of the imag-ination. Upon what grounds this pretension isfounded must now be the subject of our en-quiry.

The fundamental principle of that philoso-

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phy is the opinion concerning colours, sounds,tastes, smells, heat and cold; which it assertsto be nothing but impressions in the mind, de-rived from the operation of external objects,and without any resemblance to the qualitiesof the objects. Upon examination, I find onlyone of the reasons commonly produced for thisopinion to be satisfactory, viz. that derivedfrom the variations of those impressions, evenwhile the external object, to all appearance,continues the same. These variations dependupon several circumstances. Upon the differ-ent situations of our health: A man in a mal-ady feels a disagreeable taste in meats, whichbefore pleased him the most. Upon the differ-ent complexions and constitutions of men Thatseems bitter to one, which is sweet to another.Upon the difference of their external situationand position: Colours reflected from the clouds

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change according to the distance of the clouds,and according to the angle they make with theeye and luminous body. Fire also communi-cates the sensation of pleasure at one distance,and that of pain at another. Instances of thiskind are very numerous and frequent.

The conclusion drawn from them, is likewiseas satisfactory as can possibly be imagined. It iscertain, that when different impressions of thesame sense arise from any object, every one ofthese impressions has not a resembling qualityexistent in the object. For as the same objectcannot, at the same time, be endowed with dif-ferent qualities of the same sense, and as thesame quality cannot resemble impressions en-tirely different; it evidently follows, that manyof our impressions have no external model orarchetype. Now from like effects we presume

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like causes. Many of the impressions of colour,sound, &c. are confest to be nothing but inter-nal existences, and to arise from causes, whichno ways resemble them. These impressions arein appearance nothing different from the otherimpressions of colour, sound, &c. We conclude,therefore, that they are, all of them, derivedfrom a like origin.

This principle being once admitted, all theother doctrines of that philosophy seem to fol-low by an easy consequence. For upon the re-moval of sounds, colours, beat, cold, and othersensible qualities, from the rank of continuedindependent existences, we are reduced merelyto what are called primary qualities, as the onlyreal ones, of which we have any adequate no-tion. These primary qualities are extension andsolidity, with their different mixtures and mod-

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ifications; figure, motion, gravity, and cohe-sion. The generation, encrease, decay, and cor-ruption of animals and vegetables, are nothingbut changes of figure and motion; as also theoperations of all bodies on each other; of fire,of light, water, air, earth, and of all the elementsand powers of nature. One figure and motionproduces another figure and motion; nor doesthere remain in the material universe any otherprinciple, either active or passive, of which wecan form the most distant idea.

I believe many objections might be made tothis system But at present I shall confine my-self to one, which is in my opinion very de-cisive. I assert, that instead of explaining theoperations of external objects by its means, weutterly annihilate all these objects, and reduceourselves to the opinions of the most extrav-

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agant scepticism concerning them. If colours,sounds, tastes, and smells be merely percep-tions, nothing we can conceive is possest of areal, continued, and independent existence; noteven motion, extension and solidity, which arethe primary qualities chiefly insisted on.

To begin with the examination of motion; itis evident this is a quality altogether inconceiv-able alone, and without a reference to someother object. The idea of motion necessarilysupposes that of a body moving. Now whatis our idea of the moving body, without whichmotion is incomprehensible? It must resolveitself into the idea of extension or of solid-ity; and consequently the reality of motion de-pends upon that of these other qualities.

This opinion, which is universally acknowl-edged concerning motion, I have proved to be

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true with regard to extension; and have shewnthat it is impossible to conceive extension, butas composed of parts, endowed with colour orsolidity. The idea of extension is a compoundidea; but as it is not compounded of an infi-nite number of parts or inferior ideas, it mustat last resolve itself into such as are perfectlysimple and indivisible. These simple and indi-visible parts, not being ideas of extension, mustbe non entities, unless conceived as coloured orsolid. Colour is excluded from any real exis-tence. The reality, therefore, of our idea of ex-tension depends upon the reality of that of so-lidity, nor can the former be just while the latteris chimerical. Let us, then, lend our attention tothe examination of the idea of solidity.

The idea of solidity is that of two objects,which being impelled by the utmost force, can-

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not penetrate each other; but still maintain aseparate and distinct existence. Solidity, there-fore, is perfectly incomprehensible alone, andwithout the conception of some bodies, whichare solid, and maintain this separate and dis-tinct existence. Now what idea have we ofthese bodies? The ideas of colours, sounds, andother secondary qualities are excluded. Theidea of motion depends on that of extension,and the idea of extension on that of solidity. Itis impossible, therefore, that the idea of soliditycan depend on either of them. For that wouldbe to run in a circle, and make one idea dependon another, while at the same time the latter de-pends on the former. Our modern philosophy,therefore, leaves us no just nor satisfactory ideaof solidity; nor consequently of matter.

This argument will appear entirely conclu-

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sive to every one that comprehends it; but be-cause it may seem abstruse and intricate to thegenerality of readers, I hope to be excused, if Iendeavour to render it more obvious by somevariation of the expression. In order to forman idea of solidity, we must conceive two bod-ies pressing on each other without any pene-tration; and it is impossible to arrive at thisidea, when we confine ourselves to one object,much more without conceiving any. Two non-entities cannot exclude each other from theirplaces; because they never possess any place,nor can be endowed with any quality. NowI ask, what idea do we form of these bodiesor objects, to which we suppose solidity to be-long? To say, that we conceive them merely assolid, is to run on in infinitum. To affirm, thatwe paint them out to ourselves as extended, ei-ther resolves all into a false idea, or returns in

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a circle. Extension must necessarily be consid-ered either as coloured, which is a false idea;I or as solid, which brings us back to the firstquestion. We may make the same observationconcerning mobility and figure; and upon thewhole must conclude, that after the exclusionof colours, sounds, heat and cold from the rankof external existences, there remains nothing,which can afford us a just and constituent ideaof body.

Add to this, that, properly speaking, solidityor impenetrability is nothing, but an impossi-bility of annihilation, as (Part II. Sect. 4.) hasbeen already observed: For which reason it isthe more necessary for us to form some dis-tinct idea of that object, whose annihilation wesuppose impossible. An impossibility of be-ing annihilated cannot exist, and can never be

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conceived to exist, by itself: but necessarily re-quires some object or real existence, to which itmay belong. Now the difficulty still remains,how to form an idea of this object or existence,without having recourse to the secondary andsensible qualities.

Nor must we omit on this occasion our ac-customed method of examining ideas by con-sidering those impressions, from which theyare derived. The impressions, which enter bythe sight and hearing, the smell and taste, areaffirmed by modern philosophy to be withoutany resembling objects; and consequently theidea of solidity, which is supposed to be real,can never be derived from any of these senses.There remains, therefore, the feeling as the onlysense, that can convey the impression, whichis original to the idea of solidity; and indeed

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we naturally imagine, that we feel the solidityof bodies, and need but touch any object in or-der to perceive this quality. But this method ofthinking is more popular than philosophical; aswill appear from the following reflections.

First, It is easy to observe, that though bodiesare felt by means of their solidity, yet the feel-ing is a quite different thing from the solidity;and that they have not the least resemblance toeach other. A man, who has the palsey in onehand, has as perfect an idea of impenetrability,when he observes that hand to be supported bythe table, as when he feels the same table withthe other hand. An object, that presses uponany of our members, meets with resistance; andthat resistance, by the motion it gives to thenerves and animal spirits, conveys a certainsensation to the mind; but it does not follow,

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that the sensation, motion, and resistance areany ways resembling.

Secondly, The impressions of touch are sim-ple impressions, except when considered withregard to their extension; which makes nothingto the present purpose: And from this simplic-ity I infer, that they neither represent solidity,nor any real object. For let us put two cases,viz. that of a man, who presses a stone, orany solid body, with his hand, and that of twostones, which press each other; it will readilybe allowed, that these two cases are not in ev-ery respect alike, but that in the former there isconjoined with the solidity, a feeling or sensa-tion, of which there is no appearance in the lat-ter. In order, therefore, to make these two casesalike, it is necessary to remove some part of theimpression, which the man feels by his hand, or

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organ of sensation; and that being impossiblein a simple impression, obliges us to removethe whole, and proves that this whole impres-sion has no archetype or model in external ob-jects. To which we may add, that solidity nec-essarily supposes two bodies, along with con-tiguity and impulse; which being a compoundobject, can never be represented by a simpleimpression. Not to mention, that though so-lidity continues always invariably the same,the impressions of touch change every momentupon us; which is a clear proof that the latterare not representations of the former.

Thus there is a direct and total oppositionbetwixt our reason and our senses; or moreproperly speaking, betwixt those conclusionswe form from cause and effect, and those thatpersuade us of the continued and independent

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existence of body. When we reason from causeand effect, we conclude, that neither colour,sound, taste, nor smell have a continued andindependent existence. When we exclude thesesensible qualities there remains nothing in theuniverse, which has such an existence.

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SECTION V. OF THE IMMATERIALITY OF THESOUL

Having found such contradictions and diffi-culties in every system concerning external ob-jects, and in the idea of matter, which we fancyso clear and determinate, We shall naturally ex-pect still greater difficulties and contradictionsin every hypothesis concerning our internalperceptions, and the nature of the mind, whichwe are apt to imagine so much more obscure,and uncertain. But in this we should deceiveourselves. The intellectual world, though in-volved in infinite obscurities, is not perplexedwith any such contradictions, as those we havediscovered in the natural. What is known con-cerning it, agrees with itself; and what is un-known, we must be contented to leave so.

It is true, would we hearken to certain

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philosophers, they promise to diminish our ig-norance; but I am afraid it is at the hazard ofrunning us into contradictions, from which thesubject is of itself exempted. These philoso-phers are the curious reasoners concerning thematerial or immaterial substances, in whichthey suppose our perceptions to inhere. In or-der to put a stop to these endless cavils on bothsides, I know no better method, than to askthese philosophers in a few words, What theymean by substance and inhesion? And afterthey have answered this question, it will thenbe reasonable, and not till then, to enter seri-ously into the dispute.

This question we have found impossible tobe answered with regard to matter and body:But besides that in the case of the mind, itlabours under all the same difficulties, it is bur-

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thened with some additional ones, which arepeculiar to that subject. As every idea is de-rived from a precedent impression, had we anyidea of the substance of our minds, we mustalso have an impression of it; which is very dif-ficult, if not impossible, to be conceived. Forhow can an impression represent a substance,otherwise than by resembling it? And how canan impression resemble a substance, since, ac-cording to this philosophy, it is not a substance,and has none of the peculiar qualities or char-acteristics of a substance?

But leaving the question of what may or maynot be, for that other what actually is, I desirethose philosophers, who pretend that we havean idea of the substance of our minds, to pointout the impression that produces it, and telldistinctly after what manner that impression

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operates, and from what object it is derived. Isit an impression of sensation or of reflection?Is it pleasant, or painful, or indifferent? I Doesit attend us at all times, or does it only returnat intervals? If at intervals, at what times prin-cipally does it return, and by what causes is itproduced?

If instead of answering these questions, anyone should evade the difficulty, by saying,that the definition of a substance is somethingwhich may exist by itself; and that this defini-tion ought to satisfy us: should this be said, Ishould observe, that this definition agrees toevery thing, that can possibly be conceived;and never will serve to distinguish substancefrom accident, or the soul from its perceptions.For thus I reason. Whatever is clearly con-ceived may exist; and whatever is clearly con-

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ceived, after any manner, may exist after thesame manner. This is one principle, whichhas been already acknowledged. Again, ev-ery thing, which is different, is distinguish-able, and every thing which is distinguishable,is separable by the imagination. This is an-other principle. My conclusion from both is,that since all our perceptions are different fromeach other, and from every thing else in the uni-verse, they are also distinct and separable, andmay be considered as separately existent, andmay exist separately, and have no need of anything else to support their existence. They are,therefore, substances, as far as this definitionexplains a substance.

Thus neither by considering the first originof ideas, nor by means of a definition are weable to arrive at any satisfactory notion of sub-

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stance; which seems to me a sufficient reasonfor abandoning utterly that dispute concerningthe materiality and immateriality of the soul,and makes me absolutely condemn even thequestion itself. We have no perfect idea of anything but of a perception. A substance is en-tirely different from a perception. We have,therefore, no idea of a substance. Inhesion insomething is supposed to be requisite to sup-port the existence of our perceptions. Noth-ing appears requisite to support the existenceof a perception. We have, therefore, no idea ofinhesion. What possibility then of answeringthat question, Whether perceptions inhere in amaterial or immaterial substance, when we donot so much as understand the meaning of thequestion?

There is one argument commonly employed

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for the immateriality of the soul, which seemsto me remarkable. Whatever is extended con-sists of parts; and whatever consists of parts isdivisible, if not in reality, at least in the imagi-nation. But it is impossible anything divisiblecan be conjoined to a thought or perception,which is a being altogether inseparable and in-divisible. For supposing such a conjunction,would the indivisible thought exist on the leftor on the right hand of this extended divisiblebody? On the surface or in the middle? On theback or fore side of it? If it be conjoined withthe extension, it must exist somewhere withinits dimensions. If it exist within its dimensions,it must either exist in one particular part; andthen that particular part is indivisible, and theperception is conjoined only with it, not withthe extension: Or if the thought exists in ev-ery part, it must also be extended, and separa-

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ble, and divisible, as well as the body; whichis utterly absurd and contradictory. For canany one conceive a passion of a yard in length,a foot in breadth, and an inch in thickness?Thought, therefore, and extension are qualitieswholly incompatible, and never can incorpo-rate together into one subject.

This argument affects not the question con-cerning the substance of the soul, but only thatconcerning its local conjunction with matter;and therefore it may not be improper to con-sider in general what objects are, or are not sus-ceptible of a local conjunction. This is a curiousquestion, and may lead us to some discoveriesof considerable moment.

The first notion of space and extension is de-rived solely from the senses of sight and feel-ing; nor is there any thing, but what is coloured

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or tangible, that has parts disposed after sucha manner, as to convey that idea. When wediminish or encrease a relish, it is not afterthe same manner that we diminish or encreaseany visible object; and when several soundsstrike our hearing at once, custom and reflec-tion alone make us form an idea of the degreesof the distance and contiguity of those bodies,from which they are derived. Whatever marksthe place of its existence either must be ex-tended, or must be a mathematical point, with-out parts or composition. What is extendedmust have a particular figure, as square, round,triangular; none of which will agree to a desire,or indeed to any impression or idea, exceptto these two senses above-mentioned. Neitherought a desire, though indivisible, to be consid-ered as a mathematical point. For in that caseit would be possible, by the addition of oth-

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ers, to make two, three, four desires, and thesedisposed and situated in such a manner, as tohave a determinate length, breadth and thick-ness; which is evidently absurd.

It will not be surprising after this, if I de-liver a maxim, which is condemned by sev-eral metaphysicians, and is esteemed contraryto the most certain principles of hum reason.This maxim is that an object may exist, andyet be no where: and I assert, that this is notonly possible, but that the greatest part of be-ings do and must exist after this manner. Anobject may be said to be no where, when itsparts are not so situated with respect to eachother, as to form any figure or quantity; northe whole with respect to other bodies so asto answer to our notions of contiguity or dis-tance. Now this is evidently the case with all

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our perceptions and objects, except those of thesight and feeling. A moral reflection cannot beplaced on the right or on the left hand of a pas-sion, nor can a smell or sound be either of acircular or a square figure. These objects andperceptions, so far from requiring any partic-ular place, are absolutely incompatible with it,and even the imagination cannot attribute it tothem. And as to the absurdity of supposingthem to be no where, we may consider, that ifthe passions and sentiments appear to the per-ception to have any particular place, the idea ofextension might be derived from them, as wellas from the sight and touch; contrary to whatwe have already established. If they APPEARnot to have any particular place, they may pos-sibly exist in the same manner; since whateverwe conceive is possible.

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It will not now be necessary to prove, thatthose perceptions, which are simple, and existno where, are incapable of any conjunction inplace with matter or body, which is extendedand divisible; since it is impossible to found arelation but on some common quality. It maybe better worth our while to remark, that thisquestion of the local conjunction of objects doesnot only occur in metaphysical disputes con-cerning the nature of the soul, but that even incommon life we have every moment occasionto examine it. Thus supposing we consider afig at one end of the table, and an olive at theother, it is evident, that in forming the complexideas of these substances, one of the most obvi-ous is that of their different relishes; and it is asevident, that we incorporate and conjoin thesequalities with such as are coloured and tangi-ble. The bitter taste of the one, and sweet of

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the other are supposed to lie in the very visi-ble body, and to be separated from each otherby the whole length of the table. This is so no-table and so natural an illusion, that it may beproper to consider the principles, from which itis derived.

Though an extended object be incapable ofa conjunction in place with another, that ex-ists without any place or extension, yet arethey susceptible of many other relations. Thusthe taste and smell of any fruit are insepara-ble from its other qualities of colour and tan-gibility; and whichever of them be the cause oreffect, it is certain they are always co-existent.Nor are they only co-existent in general, butalso co-temporary in their appearance in themind; and it is upon the application of the ex-tended body to our senses we perceive its par-

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ticular taste and smell. These relations, then, ofcausation, and contiguity in the time of theirappearance, betwixt the extended object andthe quality, which exists without any particu-lar place, must have such an effect on the mind,that upon the appearance of one it will imme-diately turn its thought to the conception ofthe other. Nor is this all. We not only turnour thought from one to the other upon ac-count of their relation, but likewise endeavourto give them a new relation, viz. that of a con-junction in place, that we may render the transi-tion more easy and natural. For it is a quality,which I shall often have occasion to remark inhuman nature, and shall explain more fully inits proper place, that when objects are unitedby any relation, we have a strong propensityto add some new relation to them, in orderto compleat the union. In our arrangement of

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bodies we never fail to place such as are resem-bling, in contiguity to each other, or at least incorrespondent points of view: Why? but be-cause we feel a satisfaction in joining the re-lation of contiguity to that of resemblance, orthe resemblance of situation to that of quali-ties. The effects this propensity have been (Sect.2, towards the end.) already observed in thatresemblance, which we so readily suppose be-twixt particular impressions and their externalcauses. But we shall not find a more evident ef-fect of it, than in the present instance, wherefrom the relations of causation and contigu-ity in time betwixt two objects, we feign like-wise that of a conjunction in place, in order tostrengthen the connexion.

But whatever confused notions we may formof an union in place betwixt an extended body,

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as a fig, and its particular taste, it is certain thatupon reflection we must observe this unionsomething altogether unintelligible and contra-dictory. For should we ask ourselves one obvi-ous question, viz. if the taste, which we con-ceive to be contained in the circumference ofthe body, is in every part of it or in one only,we must quickly find ourselves at a loss, andperceive the impossibility of ever giving a sat-isfactory answer. We cannot rely, that it is onlyin one part: For experience convinces us, thatevery part has the same relish. We can as littlereply, that it exists in every part: For then wemust suppose it figured and extended; whichis absurd and incomprehensible. Here then weare influenced by two principles directly con-trary to each other, viz. that inclination of ourfancy by which we are determined to incor-porate the taste with the extended object, and

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our reason, which shows us the impossibility ofsuch an union. Being divided betwixt these op-posite principles, we renounce neither one northe other, but involve the subject in such confu-sion and obscurity, that we no longer perceivethe opposition. We suppose, that the taste ex-ists within the circumference of the body, butin such a manner, that it fills the whole withoutextension, and exists entire in every part with-out separation. In short, we use in our mostfamiliar way of thinking, that scholastic prin-ciple, which, when crudely proposed, appearsso shocking, of Totum in Toto & Tolum in qualibetParte: Which is much the same, as if we shouldsay, that a thing is in a certain place, and yet isnot there.

All this absurdity proceeds from our endeav-ouring to bestow a place on what is utterly in-

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capable of it; and that endeavour again arisesfrom our inclination to compleat an union,which is founded on causation, and a conti-guity of time, by attributing to the objects aconjunction in place. But if ever reason be ofsufficient force to overcome prejudice, it is cer-tain, that in the present case it must prevail.For we have only this choice left, either to sup-pose that some beings exist without any place;or that they are figured and extended; or thatwhen they are incorporated with extended ob-jects, the whole is in the whole, and the wholein every part. The absurdity of the two last sup-positions proves sufficiently the veracity of thefirst. Nor is there any fourth opinion. For as tothe supposition of their existence in the mannerof mathematical points, it resolves itself intothe second opinion, and supposes, that severalpassions may be placed in a circular figure, and

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that a certain number of smells, conjoined witha certain number of sounds, may make a bodyof twelve cubic inches; which appears ridicu-lous upon the bare mentioning of it.

But though in this view of things we cannotrefuse to condemn the materialists, who con-join all thought with extension; yet a little re-flection will show us equal reason for blamingtheir antagonists, who conjoin all thought witha simple and indivisible substance. The mostvulgar philosophy informs us, that no exter-nal object can make itself known to the mindimmediately, and without the interposition ofan image or perception. That table, which justnow appears to me, is only a perception, and allits qualities are qualities of a perception. Nowthe most obvious of all its qualities is exten-sion. The perception consists of parts. These

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parts are so situated, as to afford us the notionof distance and contiguity; of length, breadth,and thickness. The termination of these threedimensions is what we call figure. This figureis moveable, separable, and divisible. Mobility,and separability are the distinguishing proper-ties of extended objects. And to cut short alldisputes, the very idea of extension is copyedfrom nothing but an impression, and conse-quently must perfectly agree to it. To say theidea of extension agrees to any thing, is to sayit is extended.

The free-thinker may now triumph in histurn; and having found there are impressionsand ideas really extended, may ask his antago-nists, how they can incorporate a simple andindivisible subject with an extended percep-tion? All the arguments of Theologians may

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here be retorted upon them. Is the indivisiblesubject, or immaterial substance, if you will, onthe left or on the right hand of the perception?Is it in this particular part, or in that other? Isit in every part without being extended? Oris it entire in any one part without desertingthe rest? It is impossible to give any answer tothese questions, but what will both be absurdin itself, and will account for the union of ourindivisible perceptions with an extended sub-stance.

This gives me an occasion to take a-new intoconsideration the question concerning the sub-stance of the soul; and though I have con-demned that question as utterly unintelligible,yet I cannot forbear proposing some farther re-flections concerning it. I assert, that the doc-trine of the immateriality, simplicity, and indi-

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visibility of a thinking substance is a true athe-ism, and will serve to justify all those senti-ments, for which Spinoza is so universally in-famous. From this topic, I hope at least to reapone advantage, that my adversaries will nothave any pretext to render the present doctrineodious by their declamations, when they seethat they can be so easily retorted on them.

The fundamental principle of the atheism ofSpinoza is the doctrine of the simplicity of theuniverse, and the unity of that substance, inwhich he supposes both thought and matterto inhere. There is only one substance, sayshe, in the world; and that substance is per-fectly simple and indivisible, and exists everywhere, without any local presence. Whateverwe discover externally by sensation; whateverwe feel internally by reflection; all these are

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nothing but modifications of that one, simple,and necessarily existent being, and are not pos-sest of any separate or distinct existence. Ev-ery passion of the soul; every configuration ofmatter, however different and various, inherein the same substance, and preserve in them-selves their characters of distinction, withoutcommunicating them to that subject, in whichthey inhere. The same substratum, if I mayso speak, supports the most different modifi-cations, without any difference in itself; andvaries them, without any variation. Neithertime, nor place, nor all the diversity of natureare able to produce any composition or changein its perfect simplicity and identity.

I believe this brief exposition of the princi-ples of that famous atheist will be sufficient forthe present purpose, and that without enter-

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ing farther into these gloomy and obscure re-gions, I shall be able to shew, that this hideoushypothesis is almost the same with that of theimmateriality of the soul, which has become sopopular. To make this evident, let us (Part II,Sect. 6.) remember, that as every idea is de-rived from a preceding perception, it is impos-sible our idea of a perception, and that of anobject or external existence can ever representwhat are specifically different from each other.Whatever difference we may suppose betwixtthem, it is still incomprehensible to us; and weare obliged either to conceive an external ob-ject merely as a relation without a relative, orto make it the very same with a perception orimpression.

The consequence I shall draw from this may,at first sight, appear a mere sophism; but upon

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the least examination will be found solid andsatisfactory. I say then, that since we may sup-pose, but never can conceive a specific def-erence betwixt an object and impression; anyconclusion we form concerning the connexionand repugnance of impressions, will not beknown certainly to be applicable to objects; butthat on the other hand, whatever conclusions ofthis kind we form concerning objects, will mostcertainly be applicable to impressions. The rea-son is not difficult. As an object is supposedto be different from an impression, we cannotbe sure, that the circumstance, upon which wefound our reasoning, is common to both, sup-posing we form the reasoning upon the impres-sion. It is still possible, that the object may dif-fer from it in that particular. But when we firstform our reasoning concerning the object, it isbeyond doubt, that the same reasoning must

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extend to the impression: And that because thequality of the object, upon which the argumentis founded, must at least be conceived by themind; and coued not be conceived, unless itwere common to an impression; since we haveno idea but what is derived from that origin.Thus we may establish it as a certain maxim,that we can never, by any principle, but by anirregular kind (Such as that of Sect. 2, formthe coherence of our perceptions.) of reason-ing from experience, discover a connexion orrepugnance betwixt objects, which extends notto impressions; though the inverse propositionmay not be equally true, that all the discov-erable relations of impressions are common toobjects.

To apply this to the present case; there aretwo different systems of being presented, to

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which I suppose myself under necessity of as-signing some substance, or ground of inhesion.I observe first the universe of objects or of body:The sun, moon and stars; the earth, seas, plants,animals, men, ships, houses, and other produc-tions either of art or nature. Here Spinoza ap-pears, and tells me, that these are only mod-ifications; and that the subject, in which theyinhere, is simple, incompounded, and indivis-ible. After this I consider the other systemof beings, viz. the universe of thought, ormy impressions and ideas. There I observeanother sun, moon and stars; an earth, andseas, covered and inhabited by plants and ani-mals; towns, houses, mountains, rivers; and inshort every thing I can discover or conceive inthe first system. Upon my enquiring concern-ing these, Theologians present themselves, andtell me, that these also are modifications, and

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modifications of one simple, uncompounded,and indivisible substance. Immediately uponwhich I am deafened with the noise of a hun-dred voices, that treat the first hypothesis withdetestation and scorn, and the second with ap-plause and veneration. I turn my attention tothese hypotheses to see what may be the rea-son of so great a partiality; and find that theyhave the same fault of being unintelligible, andthat as far as we can understand them, they areso much alike, that it is impossible to discoverany absurdity in one, which is not common toboth of them. We have no idea of any quality inan object, which does not agree to, and may notrepresent a quality in an impression; and thatbecause all our ideas are derived from our im-pressions. We can never, therefore, find any re-pugnance betwixt an extended object as a mod-ification, and a simple uncompounded essence,

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as its substance, unless that repugnance takesplace equally betwixt the perception or impres-sion of that extended object, and the same un-compounded essence. Every idea of a qualityin an object passes through an impression; andtherefore every perceivable relation, whetherof connexion or repugnance, must be commonboth to objects and impressions.

But though this argument, considered ingeneral, seems evident beyond all doubt andcontradiction, yet to make it more clear andsensible, let us survey it in detail; and seewhether all the absurdities, which have beenfound in the system of Spinoza, may not like-wise be discovered in that of Theologians. (SeeBayle’s dictionary, article of Spinoza.)

First, It has been said against Spinoza, ac-cording to the scholastic way of talking, rather

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than thinking, that a mode, not being any dis-tinct or separate existence, must be the verysame with its substance, and consequently theextension of the universe, must be in a manneridentifyed with that, simple, uncompoundedessence, in which the universe is supposed toinhere. But this, it may be pretended, is utterlyimpossible and inconceivable unless the indi-visible substance expand itself, so as to corre-spond to the extension, or the extension con-tract itself, so as to answer to the indivisiblesubstance. This argument seems just, as far aswe can understand it; and it is plain nothingis required, but a change in the terms, to ap-ply the same argument to our extended percep-tions, and the simple essence of the soul; theideas of objects and perceptions being in everyrespect the same, only attended with the sup-position of a difference, that is unknown and

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incomprehensible.

Secondly, It has been said, that we have noidea of substance, which is not applicable tomatter; nor any idea of a distinct substance,which is not applicable to every distinct por-tion of matter. Matter, therefore, is not a modebut a substance, and each part of matter is not adistinct mode, but a distinct substance. I havealready proved, that we have no perfect idea ofsubstance; but that taking it for something, thatcan exist by itself, it is evident every perceptionis a substance, and every distinct part of a per-ception a distinct substance: And consequentlythe one hypothesis labours under the same dif-ficulties in this respect with the other.

Thirdly, It has been objected to the system ofone simple substance in the universe, that thissubstance being the support or substratum of

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every thing, must at the very same instant bemodifyed into forms, which are contrary andincompatible. The round and square figuresare incompatible in the same substance at thesame time. How then is it possible, that thesame substance can at once be modifyed intothat square table, and into this round one? Iask the same question concerning the impres-sions of these tables; and find that the answeris no more satisfactory in one case than in theother.

It appears, then, that to whatever side weturn, the same difficulties follow us, and thatwe cannot advance one step towards the estab-lishing the simplicity and immateriality o thesoul, without preparing the way for a danger-ous and irrecoverable atheism. It is the samecase, if instead o calling thought a modification

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of the soul, we should give it the more antient,and yet more modish name of an action. Byan action we mean much the same thing, aswhat is commonly called an abstract mode;that is, something, which, properly speaking, isneither distinguishable, nor separable from itssubstance, and is only conceived by a distinc-tion of reason, or an abstraction. But nothing isgained by this change of the term of modifica-tion, for that of action; nor do we free ourselvesfrom one single difficulty by its means; as willappear from the two following reflexions.

First, I observe, that the word, action, accord-ing to this explication of it, can never justly beapplied to any perception, as derived from amind or thinking substance. Our perceptionsare all really different, and separable, and dis-tinguishable from each other, and from every-

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thing else, which we can imagine: and there-fore it is impossible to conceive, how they canbe the action or abstract mode of any substance.The instance of motion, which is commonlymade use of to shew after what manner percep-tion depends, as an action, upon its substance,rather confounds than instructs us. Motion toall appearance induces no real nor essentialchange on the body, but only varies its rela-tion to other objects. But betwixt a person inthe morning walking a garden with company,agreeable to him; and a person in the afternooninclosed in a dungeon, and full of terror, de-spair, and resentment, there seems to be a rad-ical difference, and of quite another kind, thanwhat is produced on a body by the change ofits situation. As we conclude from the distinc-tion and separability of their ideas, that exter-nal objects have a separate existence from each

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other; so when we make these ideas themselvesour objects, we must draw the same conclu-sion concerning them, according to the prece-dent reasoning. At least it must be confest, thathaving idea of the substance of the soul, it isimpossible for us to tell how it can admit ofsuch differences, and even contrarieties of per-ception without any fundamental change; andconsequently can never tell in what sense per-ceptions are actions of that substance. The use,therefore, of the word, action, unaccompanyedwith any meaning, instead of that of modifica-tion, makes no addition to our knowledge, noris of any advantage to the doctrine of the im-materiality of the soul.

I add in the second place, that if it bringsany advantage to that cause, it must bring anequal to the cause of atheism. For do our The-

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ologians pretend to make a monopoly of theword, action, and may not the atheists likewisetake possession of it, and affirm that plants, an-imals, men, &c. are nothing but particular ac-tions of one simple universal substance, whichexerts itself from a blind and absolute neces-sity? This you’ll say is utterly absurd. I own itis unintelligible; but at the same time assert, ac-cording to the principles above-explained, thatit is impossible to discover any absurdity in thesupposition, that all the various objects in na-ture are actions of one simple substance, whichabsurdity will not be applicable to a like sup-position concerning impressions and ideas.

From these hypotheses concerning the sub-stance and local conjunction of our perceptions,we may pass to another, which is more intelli-gible than the former, and more important than

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the latter, viz. concerning the cause of our per-ceptions. Matter and motion, it is commonlysaid in the schools, however varyed, are stillmatter and motion, and produce only a differ-ence in the position and situation of objects. Di-vide a body as often as you please, it is stillbody. Place it in any figure, nothing ever resultsbut figure, or the relation of parts. Move it inany manner, you still find motion or a changeof relation. It is absurd to imagine, that motionin a circle, for instance, should be nothing butmerely motion in a circle; while motion in an-other direction, as in an ellipse, should also bea passion or moral reflection: That the shock-ing of two globular particles should become asensation of pain, and that the meeting of twotriangular ones should afford a pleasure. Nowas these different shocks, and variations, andmixtures are the only changes, of which matter

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is susceptible, and as these never afford us anyidea of thought or perception, it is concluded tobe impossible, that thought can ever be causedby matter.

Few have been able to withstand the seem-ing evidence of this argument; and yet noth-ing in the world is more easy than to refute it.We need only reflect on what has been provedat large, that we are never sensible of any con-nexion betwixt causes and effects, and that it isonly by our experience of their constant con-junction, we can arrive at any knowledge ofthis relation. Now as all objects, which are notcontrary, are susceptible of a constant conjunc-tion, and as no real objects are contrary (PartIII. Sect. 15.); I have inferred from these prin-ciples, that to consider the matter a priori, anything may produce any thing, and that we shall

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never discover a reason, why any object mayor may not be the cause of any other, how-ever great, or however little the resemblancemay be betwixt them. This evidently destroysthe precedent reasoning concerning the causeof thought or perception. For though there ap-pear no manner of connexion betwixt motionor thought, the case is the same with all othercauses and effects. Place one body of a poundweight on one end of a lever, and anotherbody of the same weight on another end; youwill never find in these bodies any principleof motion dependent on their distances fromthe center, more than of thought and percep-tion. If you pretend, therefore, to prove a priori,that such a position of bodies can never causethought; because turn it which way you will, itis nothing but a position of bodies; you mustby the same course of reasoning conclude, that

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it can never produce motion; since there is nomore apparent connexion in the one case thanin the other. But as this latter conclusion is con-trary to evident experience, and as it is possi-ble we may have a like experience in the opera-tions of the mind, and may perceive a constantconjunction of thought and motion; you reasontoo hastily, when from the mere considerationof the ideas, you conclude that it is impossiblemotion can ever produce thought, or a differ-ent position of parts give rise to a different pas-sion or reflection. Nay it is not only possible wemay have such an experience, but it is certainwe have it; since every one may perceive, thatthe different dispositions of his body changehis thoughts and sentiments. And should itbe said, that this depends on the union of souland body; I would answer, that we must sep-arate the question concerning the substance of

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the mind from that concerning the cause of itsthought; and that confining ourselves to the lat-ter question we find by the comparing theirideas, that thought and motion are differentfrom each other, and by experience, that theyare constantly united; which being all the cir-cumstances, that enter into the idea of causeand effect, when applied to the operations ofmatter, we may certainly conclude, that motionmay be, and actually is, the cause of thoughtand perception.

There seems only this dilemma left us in thepresent case; either to assert, that nothing canbe the cause of another, but where the mindcan perceive the connexion in its idea of theobjects: Or to maintain, that all objects, whichwe find constantly conjoined, are upon that ac-count to be regarded as causes and effects. If

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we choose the first part of the dilemma, theseare the consequences. First, We in reality af-firm, that there is no such thing in the universeas a cause or productive principle, not even thedeity himself; since our idea of that supremeBeing is derived from particular impressions,none of which contain any efficacy, nor seem tohave any connexion with any other existence.As to what may be said, that the connexion be-twixt the idea of an infinitely powerful being,and that of any effect, which he wills, is neces-sary and unavoidable; I answer, that we haveno idea of a being endowed with any power,much less of one endowed with infinite power.But if we will change expressions, we can onlydefine power by connexion; and then in saying,that the idea, of an infinitely powerful being isconnected with that of every effect, which hewills, we really do no more than assert, that

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a being, whose volition is connected with ev-ery effect, is connected with every effect: whichis an identical proposition, and gives us no in-sight into the nature of this power or connex-ion. But, secondly, supposing, that the deitywere the great and efficacious principle, whichsupplies the deficiency of all causes, this leadsus into the grossest impieties and absurdities.For upon the same account, that we have re-course to him in natural operations, and assertthat matter cannot of itself communicate mo-tion, or produce thought, viz. because there isno apparent connexion betwixt these objects; Isay, upon the very same account, we must ac-knowledge that the deity is the author of all ourvolitions and perceptions; since they have nomore apparent connexion either with one an-other, or with the supposed but unknown sub-stance of the soul. This agency of the supreme

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Being we know to have been asserted by (Asfather Malebranche and other Cartesians.) sev-eral philosophers with relation to all the actionsof the mind, except volition, or rather an incon-siderable part of volition; though it is easy toperceive, that this exception is a mere pretext,to avoid the dangerous consequences of thatdoctrine. If nothing be active but what has anapparent power, thought is in no case any moreactive than matter; and if this inactivity mustmake us have recourse to a deity, the supremebeing is the real cause of all our actions, bad aswell as good, vicious as well as virtuous.

Thus we are necessarily reduced to the otherside of the dilemma, viz.. that all objects, whichare found to be constantly conjoined, are uponthat account only to be regarded as causes andeffects. Now as all objects, which are not con-

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trary, are susceptible of a constant conjunction,and as no real objects are contrary: it follows,that for ought we can determine by the mereideas, any thing may be the cause or effect ofany thing; which evidently gives the advantageto the materialists above their antagonists.

To pronounce, then, the final decision uponthe whole; the question concerning the sub-stance of the soul is absolutely unintelligible:All our perceptions are not susceptible of a lo-cal union, either with what is extended or un-extended: there being some of them of the onekind, and some of the other: And as the con-stant conjunction of objects constitutes the veryessence of cause and effect, matter and motionmay often be regarded as the causes of thought,as far as we have any notion of that relation.

It is certainly a kind of indignity to philos-

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ophy, whose sovereign authority ought everywhere to be acknowledged, to oblige her onevery occasion to make apologies for her con-clusions, and justify herself to every particu-lar art and science, which may be offended ather. This puts one in mind of a king arraingedfor high-treason against his subjects. There isonly one occasion, when philosophy will thinkit necessary and even honourable to justify her-self, and that is, when religion may seem to bein the least offended; whose rights are as dearto her as her own, and are indeed the same.If any one, therefore, should imagine that theforegoing arguments are any ways dangerousto religion, I hope the following apology willremove his apprehensions.

There is no foundation for any conclusion apriori, either concerning the operations or du-

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ration of any object, of which it is possible forthe human mind to form a conception. Any ob-ject may be imagined to become entirely inac-tive, or to be annihilated in a moment; and itis an evident principle, that whatever we canimagine, is possible. Now this is no more trueof matter, than of spirit; of an extended com-pounded substance, than of a simple and un-extended. In both cases the metaphysical ar-guments for the immortality of the soul areequally inconclusive: and in both cases themoral arguments and those derived from theanalogy of nature are equally strong and con-vincing. If my philosophy, therefore, makes noaddition to the arguments for religion, I haveat least the satisfaction to think it takes nothingfrom them, but that every thing remains pre-cisely as before.

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SECTION VI. OF PERSONAL IDENTITY

There are some philosophers who imaginewe are every moment intimately conscious ofwhat we call our self ; that we feel its exis-tence and its continuance in existence; and arecertain, beyond the evidence of a demonstra-tion, both o its perfect identity and simplicity.The strongest sensation, the most violent pas-sion, say they, instead of distracting us fromthis view, only fix it the more intensely, andmake us consider their influence on self eitherby their pain or pleasure. To attempt a fartherproof of this were to weaken its evidence; sinceno proof can be derived from any fact, of whichwe are so intimately conscious; nor is there anything, of which we can be certain, if we doubtof this.

Unluckily all these positive assertions are

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contrary to that very experience, which ispleaded for them, nor have we any idea ofself, after the manner it is here explained. Forfrom what impression coued this idea be de-rived? This question it is impossible to an-swer without a manifest contradiction and ab-surdity; and yet it is a question, which mustnecessarily be answered, if we would have theidea of self pass for clear and intelligible, Itmust be some one impression, that gives riseto every real idea. But self or person is not anyone impression, but that to which our severalimpressions and ideas are supposed to have areference. If any impression gives rise to theidea of self, that impression must continue in-variably the same, through the whole course ofour lives; since self is supposed to exist afterthat manner. But there is no impression con-stant and invariable. Pain and pleasure, grief

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and joy, passions and sensations succeed eachother, and never all exist at the same time. Itcannot, therefore, be from any of these impres-sions, or from any other, that the idea of selfis derived; and consequently there is no suchidea.

But farther, what must become of all our par-ticular perceptions upon this hypothesis? Allthese are different, and distinguishable, andseparable from each other, and may be sep-arately considered, and may exist separately,and have no Deed of tiny thing to support theirexistence. After what manner, therefore, dothey belong to self; and how are they connectedwith it? For my part, when I enter most inti-mately into what I call myself, I always stumbleon some particular perception or other, of heator cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or

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pleasure. I never can catch myself at any timewithout a perception, and never can observeany thing but the perception. When my per-ceptions are removed for any time, as by soundsleep; so long am I insensible of myself, andmay truly be said not to exist. And were allmy perceptions removed by death, and couedI neither think, nor feel, nor see, nor love, norhate after the dissolution of my body, I shouldbe entirely annihilated, nor do I conceive whatis farther requisite to make me a perfect non-entity. If any one, upon serious and unprej-udiced reflection thinks he has a different no-tion of himself, I must confess I call reason nolonger with him. All I can allow him is, thathe may be in the right as well as I, and that weare essentially different in this particular. Hemay, perhaps, perceive something simple andcontinued, which he calls himself; though I am

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certain there is no such principle in me.

But setting aside some metaphysicians ofthis kind, I may venture to affirm of the rest ofmankind, that they are nothing but a bundle orcollection of different perceptions, which suc-ceed each other with an inconceivable rapid-ity, and are in a perpetual flux and movement.Our eyes cannot turn in their sockets withoutvarying our perceptions. Our thought is stillmore variable than our sight; and all our othersenses and faculties contribute to this change;nor is there any single power of the soul, whichremains unalterably the same, perhaps for onemoment. The mind is a kind of theatre, whereseveral perceptions successively make their ap-pearance; pass, re-pass, glide away, and min-gle in an infinite variety of postures and sit-uations. There is properly no simplicity in it

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at one time, nor identity in different; whatevernatural propension we may have to imaginethat simplicity and identity. The comparison ofthe theatre must not mislead us. They are thesuccessive perceptions only, that constitute themind; nor have we the most distant notion ofthe place, where these scenes are represented,or of the materials, of which it is composed.

What then gives us so great a propensionto ascribe an identity to these successive per-ceptions, and to suppose ourselves possestof an invariable and uninterrupted existencethrough the whole course of our lives? In or-der to answer this question, we must distin-guish betwixt personal identity, as it regardsour thought or imagination, and as it regardsour passions or the concern we take in our-selves. The first is our present subject; and

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to explain it perfectly we must take the mat-ter pretty deep, and account for that identity,which we attribute to plants and animals; therebeing a great analogy betwixt it, and the iden-tity of a self or person.

We have a distinct idea of an object, that re-mains invariable and uninterrupted through asupposed variation of time; and this idea wecall that of identity or sameness. We have alsoa distinct idea of several different objects exist-ing in succession, and connected together by aclose relation; and this to an accurate view af-fords as perfect a notion of diversity, as if therewas no manner of relation among the objects.But though these two ideas of identity, and asuccession of related objects be in themselvesperfectly distinct, and even contrary, yet it iscertain, that in our common way of thinking

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they are generally confounded with each other.That action of the imagination, by which weconsider the uninterrupted and invariable ob-ject, and that by which we reflect on the suc-cession of related objects, are almost the sameto the feeling, nor is there much more effort ofthought required in the latter case than in theformer. The relation facilitates the transitionof the mind from one object to another, andrenders its passage as smooth as if it contem-plated one continued object. This resemblanceis the cause of the confusion and mistake, andmakes us substitute the notion of identity, in-stead of that of related objects. However atone instant we may consider the related suc-cession as variable or interrupted, we are surethe next to ascribe to it a perfect identity, andregard it as enviable and uninterrupted. Ourpropensity to this mistake is so great from the

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resemblance above-mentioned, that we fall intoit before we are aware; and though we inces-santly correct ourselves by reflection, and re-turn to a more accurate method of thinking,yet we cannot long sustain our philosophy, ortake off this biass from the imagination. Ourlast resource is to yield to it, and boldly assertthat these different related objects are in effectthe same, however interrupted and variable. Inorder to justify to ourselves this absurdity, weoften feign some new and unintelligible prin-ciple, that connects the objects together, andprevents their interruption or variation. Thuswe feign the continued existence of the percep-tions of our senses, to remove the interruption:and run into the notion of a soul, and self, andsubstance, to disguise the variation. But wemay farther observe, that where we do not giverise to such a fiction, our propension to con-

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found identity with relation is so great, that weare apt to imagine10 something unknown andmysterious, connecting the parts, beside theirrelation; and this I take to be the case with re-gard to the identity we ascribe to plants andvegetables. And even when this does not takeplace, we still feel a propensity to confoundthese ideas, though we a-re not able fully to sat-isfy ourselves in that particular, nor find anything invariable and uninterrupted to justifyour notion of identity.

Thus the controversy concerning identity is

10If the reader is desirous to see how a great geniusmay be influencd by these seemingly trivial principlesof the imagination, as well as the mere vulgar, let himread my Lord SHAFTSBURYS reasonings concerningthe uniting principle of the universe, and the identityof plants and animals. See his Moralists: or, PhilosophicalRhapsody.

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not merely a dispute of words. For when weattribute identity, in an improper sense, to vari-able or interrupted objects, our mistake is notconfined to the expression, but is commonly at-tended with a fiction, either of something in-variable and uninterrupted, or of somethingmysterious and inexplicable, or at least witha propensity to such fictions. What will suf-fice to prove this hypothesis to the satisfactionof every fair enquirer, is to shew from dailyexperience and observation, that the objects,which are variable or interrupted, and yet aresupposed to continue the same, are such onlyas consist of a succession of parts, connectedtogether by resemblance, contiguity, or causa-tion. For as such a succession answers evi-dently to our notion of diversity, it can onlybe by mistake we ascribe to it an identity; andas the relation of parts, which leads us into

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this mistake, is really nothing but a quality,which produces an association of ideas, and aneasy transition of the imagination from one toanother, it can only be from the resemblance,which this act of the mind bears to that, bywhich we contemplate one continued object,that the error arises. Our chief business, then,must be to prove, that all objects, to which weascribe identity, without observing their invari-ableness and uninterruptedness, are such asconsist of a succession of related objects.

In order to this, suppose any mass of mat-ter, of which the parts are contiguous and con-nected, to be placed before us; it is plain wemust attribute a perfect identity to this mass,provided all the parts continue uninterrupt-edly and invariably the same, whatever mo-tion or change of place we may observe either

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in the whole or in any of the parts. But sup-posing some very small or inconsiderable partto be added to the mass, or subtracted fromit; though this absolutely destroys the identityof the whole, strictly speaking; yet as we sel-dom think so accurately, we scruple not to pro-nounce a mass of matter the same, where wefind so trivial an alteration. The passage of thethought from the object before the change tothe object after it, is so smooth and easy, thatwe scarce perceive the transition, and are aptto imagine, that it is nothing but a continuedsurvey of the same object.

There is a very remarkable circumstance,that attends this experiment; which is, thatthough the change of any considerable part ina mass of matter destroys the identity of thewhole, let we must measure the greatness of

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the part, not absolutely, but by its proportionto the whole. The addition or diminution of amountain would not be sufficient to produce adiversity in a planet: though the change of avery few inches would be able to destroy theidentity of some bodies. It will be impossibleto account for this, but by reflecting that objectsoperate upon the mind, and break or interruptthe continuity of its actions not according totheir real greatness, but according to their pro-portion to each other: And therefore, since thisinterruption makes an object cease to appearthe same, it must be the uninterrupted progresso the thought, which constitutes the imperfectidentity.

This may be confirmed by another phe-nomenon. A change in any considerable partof a body destroys its identity; but it is remark-

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able, that where the change is produced grad-ually and insensibly we are less apt to ascribeto it the same effect. The reason can plainly beno other, than that the mind, in following thesuccessive changes of the body, feels an easypassage from the surveying its condition in onemoment to the viewing of it in another, and atno particular time perceives any interruption inits actions. From which continued perception,it ascribes a continued existence and identity tothe object.

But whatever precaution we may use in in-troducing the changes gradually, and makingthem proportionable to the whole, it is certain,that where the changes are at last observed tobecome considerable, we make a scruple of as-cribing identity to such different objects. Thereis, however, another artifice, by which we may

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induce the imagination to advance a step far-ther; and that is, by producing a reference ofthe parts to each other, and a combination tosome common end or purpose. A ship, ofwhich a considerable part has been changed byfrequent reparations, is still considered as thesame; nor does the difference of the materialshinder us from ascribing an identity to it. Thecommon end, in which the parts conspire, isthe same under all their variations, and affordsan easy transition of the imagination from onesituation of the body to another.

But this is still more remarkable, when weadd a sympathy of parts to their common end,and suppose that they bear to each other, the re-ciprocal relation of cause and effect in all theiractions and operations. This is the case withall animals and vegetables; where not only the

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several parts have a reference to some gen-eral purpose, but also a mutual dependence on,and connexion with each other. The effect ofso strong a relation is, that though every onemust allow, that in a very few years both veg-etables and animals endure a total change, yetwe still attribute identity to them, while theirform, size, and substance are entirely altered.An oak, that grows from a small plant to a largetree, is still the same oak; though there be notone particle of matter, or figure of its parts thesame. An infant becomes a man-, and is some-times fat, sometimes lean, without any changein his identity.

We may also consider the two followingphaenomena, which are remarkable in theirkind. The first is, that though we commonly beable to distinguish pretty exactly betwixt nu-

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merical and specific identity, yet it sometimeshappens, that we confound them, and in ourthinking and reasoning employ the one for theother. Thus a man, who bears a noise, that isfrequently interrupted and renewed, says, it isstill the same noise; though it is evident thesounds have only a specific identity or resem-blance, and there is nothing numerically thesame, but the cause, which produced them. Inlike manner it may be said without breach ofthe propriety of language, that such a church,which was formerly of brick, fell to ruin, andthat the parish rebuilt the same church of free-stone, and according to modern architecture.Here neither the form nor materials are thesame, nor is there any thing common to thetwo objects, but their relation to the inhabitantsof the parish; and yet this alone is sufficient tomake us denominate them the same. But we

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must observe, that in these cases the first objectis in a manner annihilated before the secondcomes into existence; by which means, we arenever presented in any one point of time withthe idea of difference and multiplicity: and forthat reason are less scrupulous in calling themthe same.

Secondly, We may remark, that though in asuccession of related objects, it be in a mannerrequisite, that the change of parts be not sud-den nor entire, in order to preserve the iden-tity, yet where the objects are in their naturechangeable and inconstant, we admit of a moresudden transition, than would otherwise beconsistent with that relation. Thus as the natureof a river consists in the motion and changeof parts; though in less than four and twentyhours these be totally altered; this hinders not

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the river from continuing the same during sev-eral ages. What is natural and essential to anything is, in a manner, expected; and what is ex-pected makes less impression, and appears ofless moment, than what is unusual and extraor-dinary. A considerable change of the formerkind seems really less to the imagination, thanthe most trivial alteration of the latter; and bybreaking less the continuity of the thought, hasless influence in destroying the identity.

We now proceed to explain the nature of per-sonal identity, which has become so great aquestion ill philosophy, especially of late yearsin England, where all the abstruser sciences arestudyed with a peculiar ardour and applica-tion. And here it is evident, the same method ofreasoning must be continued which has so suc-cessfully explained the identity of plants, and

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animals, and ships, and houses, and of all thecompounded and changeable productions ei-ther of art or nature. The identity, which weascribe to the mind of man, is only a fictitiousone, and of a like kind with that which we as-cribe to vegetables and animal bodies. It can-not, therefore, have a different origin, but mustproceed from a like operation of the imagina-tion upon like objects.

But lest this argument should not convincethe reader; though in my opinion perfectly de-cisive; let him weigh the following reasoning,which is still closer and more immediate. It isevident, that the identity, which we attributeto the human mind, however perfect we mayimagine it to be, is not able to run the severaldifferent perceptions into one, and make themlose their characters of distinction and differ-

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ence, which are essential to them. It is still true,that every distinct perception, which entersinto the composition of the mind, is a distinctexistence, and is different, and distinguish-able, and separable from every other percep-tion, either contemporary or successive. But,as, notwithstanding this distinction and sepa-rability, we suppose the whole train of percep-tions to be united by identity, a question natu-rally arises concerning this relation of identity;whether it be something that really binds ourseveral perceptions together, or only associatestheir ideas in the imagination. That is, in otherwords, whether in pronouncing concerning theidentity of a person, we observe some realbond among his perceptions, or only feel oneamong the ideas we form of them. This ques-tion we might easily decide, if we would recol-lect what has been already proud at large, that

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the understanding never observes any real con-nexion among objects, and that even the unionof cause and effect, when strictly examined,resolves itself into a customary association ofideas. For from thence it evidently follows, thatidentity is nothing really belonging to these dif-ferent perceptions, and uniting them together;but is merely a quality, which we attribute tothem, because of the union of their ideas inthe imagination, when we reflect upon them.Now the only qualities, which can give ideasan union in the imagination, are these three re-lations above-mentioned. There are the unitingprinciples in the ideal world, and without themevery distinct object is separable by the mind,and may be separately considered, and appearsnot to have any more connexion with any otherobject, than if disjoined by the greatest differ-ence and remoteness. It is, therefore, on some

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of these three relations of resemblance, conti-guity and causation, that identity depends; andas the very essence of these relations consistsin their producing an easy transition of ideas;it follows, that our notions of personal identity,proceed entirely from the smooth and uninter-rupted progress of the thought along a trainof connected ideas, according to the principlesabove-explained.

The only question, therefore, which re-mains, is, by what relations this uninterruptedprogress of our thought is produced, when weconsider the successive existence of a mindor thinking person. And here it is evidentwe must confine ourselves to resemblance andcausation, and must drop contiguity, which haslittle or no influence in the present case.

To begin with resemblance; suppose we

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coued see clearly into the breast of another, andobserve that succession of perceptions, whichconstitutes his mind or thinking principle, andsuppose that he always preserves the memoryof a considerable part of past perceptions; itis evident that nothing coued more contributeto the bestowing a relation on this successionamidst all its variations. For what is the mem-ory but a faculty, by which we raise up the im-ages of past perceptions? And as an image nec-essarily resembles its object, must not. The fre-quent placing of these resembling perceptionsin the chain of thought, convey the imaginationmore easily from one link to another, and makethe whole seem like the continuance of one ob-ject? In this particular, then, the memory notonly discovers the identity, but also contributesto its production, by producing the relation ofresemblance among the perceptions. The case

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is the same whether we consider ourselves orothers.

As to causation; we may observe, that thetrue idea of the human mind, is to considerit as a system of different perceptions or dif-ferent existences, which are linked together bythe relation of cause and effect, and mutu-ally produce, destroy, influence, and modifyeach other. Our impressions give rise to theircorrespondent ideas; said these ideas in theirturn produce other impressions. One thoughtchaces another, and draws after it a third, bywhich it is expelled in its turn. In this respect, Icannot compare the soul more properly to anything than to a republic or commonwealth, inwhich the several members are united by thereciprocal ties of government and subordina-tion, and give rise to other persons, who propa-

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gate the same republic in the incessant changesof its parts. And as the same individual repub-lic may not only change its members, but alsoits laws and constitutions; in like manner thesame person may vary his character and dis-position, as well as his impressions and ideas,without losing his identity. Whatever changeshe endures, his several parts are still connectedby the relation of causation. And in this viewour identity with regard to the passions servesto corroborate that with regard to the imagina-tion, by the making our distant perceptions in-fluence each other, and by giving us a presentconcern for our past or future pains or plea-sures.

As a memory alone acquaints us with thecontinuance and extent of this succession ofperceptions, it is to be considered, upon that ac-

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count chiefly, as the source of personal identity.Had we no memory, we never should have anynotion of causation, nor consequently of thatchain of causes and effects, which constituteour self or person. But having once acquiredthis notion of causation from the memory, wecan extend the same chain of causes, and con-sequently the identity of car persons beyondour memory, and can comprehend times, andcircumstances, and actions, which we have en-tirely forgot, but suppose in general to have ex-isted. For how few of our past actions are there,of which we have any memory? Who can tellme, for instance, what were his thoughts andactions on the 1st of January 1715, the 11th ofMarch 1719, and the 3rd of August 1733? Orwill he affirm, because he has entirely forgotthe incidents of these days, that the present selfis not the same person with the self of that time;

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and by that means overturn all the most es-tablished notions of personal identity? In thisview, therefore, memory does not so much pro-duce as discover personal identity, by shewingus the relation of cause and effect among ourdifferent perceptions. It will be incumbent onthose, who affirm that memory produces en-tirely our personal identity, to give a reasonwhy we cm thus extend our identity beyondour memory.

The whole of this doctrine leads us to a con-clusion, which is of great importance in thepresent affair, viz. that all the nice and sub-tile questions concerning personal identity cannever possibly be decided, and are to be re-garded rather as gramatical than as philosoph-ical difficulties. Identity depends on the re-lations of ideas; and these relations produce

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identity, by means of that easy transition theyoccasion. But as the relations, and the easinessof the transition may diminish by insensibledegrees, we have no just standard, by whichwe can decide any dispute concerning the time,when they acquire or lose a title to the name ofidentity. All the disputes concerning the iden-tity of connected objects are merely verbal, ex-cept so fax as the relation of parts gives rise tosome fiction or imaginary principle of union, aswe have already observed.

What I have said concerning the first originand uncertainty of our notion of identity, asapplied to the human mind, may be extendedwith little or no variation to that of simplic-ity. An object, whose different co-existent partsare bound together by a close relation, oper-ates upon the imagination after much the same

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manner as one perfectly simple and indivisi-ble and requires not a much greater stretch ofthought in order to its conception. From thissimilarity of operation we attribute a simplic-ity to it, and feign a principle of union as thesupport of this simplicity, and the center of allthe different parts and qualities of the object.

Thus we have finished our examination ofthe several systems of philosophy, both of theintellectual and natural world; and in our mis-cellaneous way of reasoning have been led intoseveral topics; which will either illustrate andconfirm some preceding part of this discourse,or prepare the way for our following opinions.It is now time to return to a more close exami-nation of our subject, and to proceed in the ac-curate anatomy of human nature, having fullyexplained the nature of our judgment and un-

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derstandings.

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SECTION VII. CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK

But before I launch out into those immensedepths of philosophy, which lie before me, Ifind myself inclined to stop a moment in mypresent station, and to ponder that voyage,which I have undertaken, and which undoubt-edly requires the utmost art and industry to bebrought to a happy conclusion. Methinks I amlike a man, who having struck on many shoals,and having narrowly escaped shipwreck inpassing a small frith, has yet the temerity toput out to sea in the same leaky weather-beatenvessel, and even carries his ambition so far asto think of compassing the globe under thesedisadvantageous circumstances. My memoryof past errors and perplexities, makes me dif-fident for the future. The wretched condition,weakness, and disorder of the faculties, I must

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employ in my enquiries, encrease my appre-hensions. And the impossibility of amend-ing or correcting these faculties, reduces mealmost to despair, and makes me resolve toperish on the barren rock, on which I am atpresent, rather than venture myself upon thatboundless ocean, which runs out into immen-sity. This sudden view of my danger strikes mewith melancholy; and as it is usual for that pas-sion, above all others, to indulge itself; I cannotforbear feeding my despair, with all those de-sponding reflections, which the present subjectfurnishes me with in such abundance.

I am first affrighted and confounded withthat forelorn solitude, in which I am placed inmy philosophy, and fancy myself some strangeuncouth monster, who not being able to min-gle and unite in society, has been expelled all

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human commerce, and left utterly abandonedand disconsolate. Fain would I run into thecrowd for shelter and warmth; but cannot pre-vail with myself to mix with such deformity. Icall upon others to join me, in order to makea company apart; but no one will hearken tome. Every one keeps at a distance, and dreadsthat storm, which beats upon me from everyside. I have exposed myself to the enmity ofall metaphysicians, logicians, mathematicians,and even theologians; and can I wonder at theinsults I must suffer? I have declared my dis-approbation of their systems; and can I be sur-prized, if they should express a hatred of mineand of my person? When I look abroad, Iforesee on every side, dispute, contradiction,anger, calumny and detraction. When I turnmy eye inward, I find nothing but doubt andignorance. All the world conspires to oppose

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and contradict me; though such is my weak-ness, that I feel all my opinions loosen and fallof themselves, when unsupported by the ap-probation of others. Every step I take is withhesitation, and every new reflection makes medread an error and absurdity in my reasoning.

For with what confidence can I venture uponsuch bold enterprises, when beside those num-berless infirmities peculiar to myself, I find somany which are common to human nature?Can I be sure, that in leaving all establishedopinions I am following truth; and by what cri-terion shall I distinguish her, even if fortuneshould at last guide me on her foot-steps? Af-ter the most accurate and exact of my reason-ings, I can give no reason why I should as-sent to it; and feel nothing but a strong propen-sity to consider objects strongly in that view,

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under which they appear to me. Experienceis a principle, which instructs me in the sev-eral conjunctions of objects for the past. Habitis another principle, which determines me toexpect the same for the future; and both ofthem conspiring to operate upon the imagina-tion, make me form certain ideas in a more in-tense and lively manner, than others, which arenot attended with the same advantages. With-out this quality, by which the mind enlivenssome ideas beyond others (which seemingly isso trivial, and so little founded on reason) wecoued never assent to any argument, nor carryour view beyond those few objects, which arepresent to our senses. Nay, even to these ob-jects we coued never attribute any existence,but what was dependent on the senses; andmust comprehend them entirely in that succes-sion of perceptions, which constitutes our self

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or person. Nay farther, even with relation tothat succession, we coued only admit of thoseperceptions, which are immediately present toour consciousness, nor coued those lively im-ages, with which the memory presents us, beever received as true pictures of past percep-tions. The memory, senses, and understandingare, therefore, all of them founded on the imag-ination, or the vivacity of our ideas.

No wonder a principle so inconstant and fal-lacious should lead us into errors, when im-plicitly followed (as it must be) in all its vari-ations. It is this principle, which makes us rea-son from causes and effects; and it is the sameprinciple, which convinces us of the continuedexistence of external objects, when absent fromthe senses. But though these two operationsbe equally natural and necessary in the human

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mind, yet in some circumstances they are (Sect.4.) directly contrary, nor is it possible for usto reason justly and regularly from causes andeffects, and at the same time believe the contin-ued existence of matter. How then shall we ad-just those principles together? Which of themshall we prefer? Or in case we prefer neitherof them, but successively assent to both, as isusual among philosophers, with what confi-dence can we afterwards usurp that glorioustitle, when we thus knowingly embrace a man-ifest contradiction?

This contradiction (Part III. Sect. 14.) wouldbe more excusable, were it compensated by anydegree of solidity and satisfaction in the otherparts of our reasoning. But the case is quitecontrary. When we trace up the human under-standing to its first principles, we find it to lead

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us into such sentiments, as seem to turn intoridicule all our past pains and industry, and todiscourage us from future enquiries. Nothingis more curiously enquired after by the mindof man, than the causes of every phenomenon;nor are we content with knowing the imme-diate causes, but push on our enquiries, tillwe arrive at the original and ultimate princi-ple. We would not willingly stop before we areacquainted with that energy in the cause, bywhich it operates on its effect; that tie, whichconnects them together; and that efficaciousquality, on which the tie depends. This is ouraim in all our studies and reflections: And howmust we be disappointed, when we learn, thatthis connexion, tie, or energy lies merely in our-selves, and is nothing but that determinationof the mind, which is acquired by custom, andcauses us to make a transition from an object

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to its usual attendant, and from the impressionof one to the lively idea of the other? Such adiscovery not only cuts off all hope of ever at-taining satisfaction, but even prevents our verywishes; since it appears, that when we say wedesire to know the ultimate and operating prin-ciple, as something, which resides in the ex-ternal object, we either contradict ourselves, ortalk without a meaning.

This deficiency in our ideas is not, indeed,perceived in common life, nor are we sensible,that in the most usual conjunctions of causeand effect we are as ignorant of the ultimateprinciple, which binds them together, as in themost unusual and extraordinary. But this pro-ceeds merely from an illusion of the imagina-tion; and the question is, how far we oughtto yield to these illusions. This question is

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very difficult, and reduces us to a very dan-gerous dilemma, whichever way we answerit. For if we assent to every trivial sugges-tion of the fancy; beside that these suggestionsare often contrary to each other; they lead usinto such errors, absurdities, and obscurities,that we must at last become ashamed of ourcredulity. Nothing is more dangerous to reasonthan the flights of the imagination, and nothinghas been the occasion of more mistakes amongphilosophers. Men of bright fancies may in thisrespect be compared to those angels, whom thescripture represents as covering their eyes withtheir wings. This has already appeared in somany instances, that we may spare ourselvesthe trouble of enlarging upon it any farther.

But on the other hand, if the considerationof these instances makes us take a resolution

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to reject all the trivial suggestions of the fancy,and adhere to the understanding, that is, to thegeneral and more established properties of theimagination; even this resolution, if steadilyexecuted, would be dangerous, and attendedwith the most fatal consequences. For I havealready shewn (Sect. 1.), that the understand-ing, when it acts alone, and according to itsmost general principles, entirely subverts it-self, and leaves not the lowest degree of evi-dence in any proposition, either in philosophyor common life. We save ourselves from thistotal scepticism only by means of that singu-lar and seemingly trivial property of the fancy,by which we enter with difficulty into remoteviews of things, and are not able to accompanythem with so sensible an impression, as we dothose, which are more easy and natural. Shallwe, then, establish it for a general maxim, that

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no refined or elaborate reasoning is ever to bereceived? Consider well the consequences ofsuch a principle. By this means you cut off en-tirely all science and philosophy: You proceedupon one singular quality of the imagination,and by a parity of reason must embrace all ofthem: And you expressly contradict yourself;since this maxim must be built on the preced-ing reasoning, which will be allowed to be suf-ficiently refined and metaphysical. What party,then, shall we choose among these difficulties?If we embrace this principle, and condemn allrefined reasoning, we run into the most mani-fest absurdities. If we reject it in favour of thesereasonings, we subvert entirely the human un-derstanding. We have, therefore, no choice leftbut betwixt a false reason and none at all. Formy part, know not what ought to be done inthe present case. I can only observe what is

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commonly done; which is, that this difficultyis seldom or never thought of; and even whereit has once been present to the mind, is quicklyforgot, and leaves but a small impression be-hind it. Very refined reflections have little or noinfluence upon us; and yet we do not, and can-not establish it for a rule, that they ought not tohave any influence; which implies a manifestcontradiction.

But what have I here said, that reflectionsvery refined and metaphysical have little or noinfluence upon us? This opinion I can scarceforbear retracting, and condemning from mypresent feeling and experience. The intenseview of these manifold contradictions and im-perfections in human reason has so wroughtupon me, and heated my brain, that I am readyto reject all belief and reasoning, and can look

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upon no opinion even as more probable orlikely than another. Where am I, or what?From what causes do I derive my existence,and to what condition shall I return? Whosefavour shall I court, and whose anger must Idread? What beings surround me? and onwhom have, I any influence, or who have anyinfluence on me? I am confounded with allthese questions, and begin to fancy myself inthe most deplorable condition imaginable, in-vironed with the deepest darkness, and utterlydeprived of the use of every member and fac-ulty.

Most fortunately it happens, that since rea-son is incapable of dispelling these clouds, na-ture herself suffices to that purpose, and curesme of this philosophical melancholy and delir-ium, either by relaxing this bent of mind, or by

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some avocation, and lively impression of mysenses, which obliterate all these chimeras. Idine, I play a game of backgammon, I converse,and am merry with my friends; and when afterthree or four hours’ amusement, I would returnto these speculations, they appear so cold, andstrained, and ridiculous, that I cannot find inmy heart to enter into them any farther.

Here then I find myself absolutely and nec-essarily determined to live, and talk, and actlike other people in the common affairs of life.But notwithstanding that my natural propen-sity, and the course of my animal spirits andpassions reduce me to this indolent belief in thegeneral maxims of the world, I still feel suchremains of my former disposition, that I amready to throw all my books and papers intothe fire, and resolve never more to renounce

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the pleasures of life for the sake of reasoningand philosophy. For those are my sentimentsin that splenetic humour, which governs me atpresent. I may, nay I must yield to the cur-rent of nature, in submitting to my senses andunderstanding; and in this blind submission Ishew most perfectly my sceptical dispositionand principles. But does it follow, that I muststrive against the current of nature, which leadsme to indolence and pleasure; that I must se-clude myself, in some measure, from the com-merce and society of men, which is so agree-able; and that I must torture my brains withsubtilities and sophistries, at the very time thatI cannot satisfy myself concerning the reason-ableness of so painful an application, nor haveany tolerable prospect of arriving by its meansat truth and certainty. Under what obligationdo I lie of making such an abuse of time? And

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to what end can it serve either for the service ofmankind, or for my own private interest? No:If I must be a fool, as all those who reason orbelieve any thing certainly are, my follies shallat least be natural and agreeable. Where I striveagainst my inclination, I shall have a good rea-son for my resistance; and will no more be leda wandering into such dreary solitudes, andrough passages, as I have hitherto met with.

These are the sentiments of my spleen andindolence; and indeed I must confess, that phi-losophy has nothing to oppose to them, and ex-pects a victory more from the returns of a seri-ous good-humoured disposition, than from theforce of reason and conviction. In all the inci-dents of life we ought still to preserve our scep-ticism. If we believe, that fire warms, or wa-ter refreshes, it is only because it costs us too

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much pains to think otherwise. Nay if we arephilosophers, it ought only to be upon scepti-cal principles, and from an inclination, whichwe feel to the employing ourselves after thatmanner. Where reason is lively, and mixes itselfwith some propensity, it ought to be assentedto. Where it does not, it never can have anytitle to operate upon us.

At the time, therefore, that I am tired withamusement and company, and have indulgeda reverie in my chamber, or in a solitary walkby a river-side, I feel my mind all collectedwithin itself, and am naturally inclined to carrymy view into all those subjects, about which Ihave met with so many disputes in the courseof my reading and conversation. I cannot for-bear having a curiosity to be acquainted withthe principles of moral good and evil, the na-

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ture and foundation of government, and thecause of those several passions and inclina-tions, which actuate and govern me. I amuneasy to think I approve of one object, anddisapprove of another; call one thing beauti-ful, and another deformed; decide concerningtruth and falshood, reason and folly, withoutknowing upon what principles I proceed. Iam concerned for the condition of the learnedworld, which lies under such t deplorable igno-rance in all these particulars. I feel an ambitionto arise in me of contributing to the instructionof mankind, and of acquiring a name by myinventions and discoveries. These sentimentsspring up naturally in my present disposition;and should I endeavour to banish them, by at-taching myself to any other business or diver-sion, I feel I should be a loser in point of plea-sure; and this is the origin of my philosophy.

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But even suppose this curiosity and ambi-tion should not transport me into speculationswithout the sphere of common life, it wouldnecessarily happen, that from my very weak-ness I must be led into such enquiries. It is cer-tain, that superstition is much more bold in itssystems and hypotheses than philosophy; andwhile the latter contents itself with assigningnew causes and principles to the phaenomena,which appear in the visible world, the formeropens a world of its own, and presents us withscenes, and beings, and objects, which are alto-gether new. Since therefore it is almost impos-sible for the mind of man to rest, like those ofbeasts, in that narrow circle of objects, whichare the subject of daily conversation and ac-tion, we ought only to deliberate concerningthe choice of our guide, and ought to preferthat which is safest and most agreeable. And in

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this respect I make bold to recommend philos-ophy, and shall not scruple to give it the pref-erence to superstition of every kind or denomi-nation. For as superstition arises naturally andeasily from the popular opinions of mankind,it seizes more strongly on the mind, and is of-ten able to disturb us in the conduct of ourlives and actions. Philosophy on the contrary, ifjust, can present us only with mild and moder-ate sentiments; and if false and extravagant, itsopinions are merely the objects of a cold andgeneral speculation, and seldom go so far asto interrupt the course of our natural propen-sities. The cynics are an extraordinary instanceof philosophers, who from reasonings purelyphilosophical ran into as great extravaganciesof conduct as any Monk or Dervise that everwas in the world. Generally speaking, the er-rors in religion are dangerous; those in philos-

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ophy only ridiculous.

I am sensible, that these two cases of thestrength and weakness of the mind will notcomprehend all mankind, and that there arein England, in particular, many honest gentle-men, who being always employed in their do-mestic affairs, or amusing themselves in com-mon recreations, have carried their thoughtsvery little beyond those objects, which are ev-ery day exposed to their senses. And indeed,of such as these I pretend not to make philoso-phers, nor do I expect them either to be asso-ciates in these researches or auditors of thesediscoveries. They do well to keep themselvesin their present situation; and instead of refin-ing them into philosophers, I wish we couedcommunicate to our founders of systems, ashare of this gross earthy mixture, as an in-

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gredient, which they commonly stand muchin need of, and which would serve to temperthose fiery particles, of which they are com-posed. While a warm imagination is allowedto enter into philosophy, and hypotheses em-braced merely for being specious and agree-able, we can never have any steady principles,nor any sentiments, which will suit with com-mon practice and experience. But were thesehypotheses once removed, we might hope toestablish a system or set of opinions, whichif not true (for that, perhaps, is too much tobe hoped for) might at least be satisfactory tothe human mind, and might stand the test ofthe most critical examination. Nor should wedespair of attaining this end, because of themany chimerical systems, which have succes-sively arisen and decayed away among men,would we consider the shortness of that period,

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wherein these questions have been the subjectsof enquiry and reasoning. Two thousand yearswith such long interruptions, and under suchmighty discouragements are a small space oftime to give any tolerable perfection to the sci-ences; and perhaps we are still in too early anage of the world to discover any principles,which will bear the examination of the latestposterity. For my part, my only hope is, thatI may contribute a little to the advancementof knowledge, by giving in some particularsa different turn to the speculations of philoso-phers, and pointing out to them more distinctlythose subjects, where alone they can expect as-surance and conviction. Human Nature is theonly science of man; and yet has been hithertothe most neglected. It will be sufficient for me,if I can bring it a little more into fashion; andthe hope of this serves to compose my temper

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from that spleen, and invigorate it from that in-dolence, which sometimes prevail upon me. Ifthe reader finds himself in the same easy dispo-sition, let him follow me in my future specula-tions. If not, let him follow his inclination, andwait the returns of application and good hu-mour. The conduct of a man, who studies phi-losophy in this careless manner, is more trulysceptical than that of one, who feeling in him-self an inclination to it, is yet so overwhelmedwith doubts and scruples, as totally to reject it.A true sceptic will be diffident of his philosoph-ical doubts, as well as of his philosophical con-viction; and will never refuse any innocent sat-isfaction, which offers itself, upon account ofeither of them.

Nor is it only proper we should in generalindulge our inclination in the most elaborate

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philosophical researches, notwithstanding oursceptical principles, but also that we shouldyield to that propensity, which inclines us tobe positive and certain in particular points, ac-cording to the light, in which we survey themin any particular instant. It is easier to forbearall examination and enquiry, than to check our-selves in so natural a propensity, and guardagainst that assurance, which always arisesfrom an exact and full survey of an object. Onsuch an occasion we are apt not only to for-get our scepticism, but even our modesty too;and make use of such terms as these, it is ev-ident, it is certain, it is undeniable; which adue deference to the public ought, perhaps, toprevent. I may have fallen into this fault afterthe example of others; but I here enter a caveatagainst any Objections, which may be offeredon that head; and declare that such expressions

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were extorted from me by the present view ofthe object, and imply no dogmatical spirit, norconceited idea of my own judgment, which aresentiments that I am sensible can become nobody, and a sceptic still less than any other.

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OF THE PASSIONS

PART I

OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY

SECTION I. DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT

As all the perceptions of the mind may bedivided into impressions and ideas, so the im-pressions admit of another division into origi-nal and secondary. This division of the impres-sions is the same with that which I formerlymade use of (Book I. Part I. Sect. 2.) when I dis-tinguished them into impressions of sensationand reflection. Original impressions or impres-sions of sensation are such as without any an-tecedent perception arise in the soul, from theconstitution of the body, from the animal spir-its, or from the application of objects to the ex-

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ternal organs. Secondary, or reflective impres-sions are such as proceed from some of theseoriginal ones, either immediately or by the in-terposition of its idea. Of the first kind are allthe impressions of the senses, and all bodilypains and pleasures: Of the second are the pas-sions, and other emotions resembling them.

It is certain, that the mind, in its percep-tions, must begin somewhere; and that sincethe impressions precede their correspondentideas, there must be some impressions, whichwithout any introduction make their appear-ance in the soul. As these depend upon naturaland physical causes, the examination of themwould lead me too far from my present sub-ject, into the sciences of anatomy and naturalphilosophy. For this reason I shall here con-fine myself to those other impressions, which I

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have called secondary and reflective, as arisingeither from the original impressions, or fromtheir ideas. Bodily pains and pleasures are thesource of many passions, both when felt andconsidered by the mind; but arise originally inthe soul, or in the body, whichever you pleaseto call it, without any preceding thought or per-ception. A fit of the gout produces a long trainof passions, as grief, hope, fear; but is not de-rived immediately from any affection or idea.The reflective impressions may be divided intotwo kinds, viz. the calm and the violent. Of thefirst kind is the sense of beauty and deformityin action, composition, and external objects. Ofthe second are the passions of love and hatred,grief and joy, pride and humility. This divisionis far from being exact. The raptures of poetryand music frequently rise to the greatest height;while those other impressions, properly called

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passions, may decay into so soft an emotion, asto become, in a manner, imperceptible. But asin general the passions are more violent thanthe emotions arising from beauty and defor-mity, these impressions have been commonlydistinguished from each other. The subject ofthe human mind being so copious and vari-ous, I shall here take advantage of this vulgarand spacious division, that I may proceed withthe greater order; and having said ali I thoughtnecessary concerning our ideas, shall now ex-plain those violent emotions or passions, theirnature, origin, causes, and effects.

When we take a survey of the passions, thereoccurs a division of them into direct and in-direct. By direct passions I understand suchas arise immediately from good or evil, frompain or pleasure. By indirect such as proceed

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from the same principles, but by the conjunc-tion of other qualities. This distinction I can-not at present justify or explain any farther. Ican only observe in general, that under the in-direct passions I comprehend pride, humility,ambition, vanity, love, hatred, envy, pity, mal-ice, generosity, with their dependants. And un-der the direct passions, desire, aversion, grief,joy, hope, fear, despair and security. I shall be-gin with the former.

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SECTION II. O PRIDE AND HUMILITY, THEIROBJECTS AND CAUSES

The passions of pride and humility being sim-ple and uniform impressions, it is impossiblewe can ever, by a multitude of words, give ajust definition of them, or indeed of any of thepassions. The utmost we can pretend to is a de-scription of them, by an enumeration of suchcircumstances, as attend them: But as thesewords, pride and humility, are of general use,and the impressions they represent the mostcommon of any, every one, of himself, will beable to form a just idea of them, without anydanger of mistake. For which reason, not tolose time upon preliminaries, I shall immedi-ately enter upon the examination of these pas-sions.

It is evident, that pride and humility, though

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directly contrary, have yet the same object. Thisobject is self, or that succession of related ideasand impressions, of which we have an intimatememory and consciousness. Here the view al-ways fixes when we are actuated by either ofthese passions. According as our idea of our-self is more or less advantageous, we feel ei-ther of those opposite affections, and are elatedby pride, or dejected with humility. What-ever other objects may be comprehended bythe mind, they are always considered with aview to ourselves; otherwise they would neverbe able either to excite these passions, or pro-duce the smallest encrease or diminution ofthem. When self enters not into the consider-ation, there is no room either for pride or hu-mility.

But though that connected succession of per-

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ceptions, which we call self, be always the ob-ject of these two passions, it is impossible itcan be their cause, or be sufficient alone to ex-cite them. For as these passions are directlycontrary, and have the same object in com-mon; were their object also their cause; it couednever produce any degree of the one passion,but at the same time it must excite an equal de-gree of the other; which opposition and con-trariety must destroy both. It is impossible aman can at the same time be both proud andhumble; and where he has different reasons forthese passions, as frequently happens, the pas-sions either take place alternately; or if theyencounter, the one annihilates the other, as faras its strength goes, and the remainder onlyof that, which is superior, continues to operateupon the mind. But in the present case neitherof the passions coued ever become superior;

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because supposing it to be the view only of our-self, which excited them, that being perfectlyindifferent to either, must produce both in thevery same proportion; or in other words, canproduce neither. To excite any passion, and atthe same time raise an equal share of its antag-onist, is immediately to undo what was done,and must leave the mind at last perfectly calmand indifferent.

We must therefore, make a distinction be-twixt the cause and the object of these passions;betwixt that idea, which excites them, and thatto which they direct their view, when excited.Pride and humility, being once raised, imme-diately turn our attention to ourself, and re-gard that as their ultimate and final object; butthere is something farther requisite in order toraise them: Something, which is peculiar to one

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of the passions, and produces not both in thevery same degree. The first idea, that is pre-sented to the mind, is that of the cause or pro-ductive principle. This excites the passion, con-nected with it; and that passion, when excited,turns our view to another idea, which is thatof self. Here then is a passion placed betwixttwo ideas, of which the one produces it, andthe other is produced by it. The first idea, there-fore, represents the cause, the second the objectof the passion.

To begin with the causes of pride and hu-mility; we may observe, that their most obvi-ous and remarkable property is the vast vari-ety of subjects, on which they may be placed.Every valuable quality of the mind, whether ofthe imagination, judgment, memory or dispo-sition; wit, good-sense, learning, courage, jus-

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tice, integrity; all these are the cause of pride;and their opposites of humility. Nor are thesepassions confined to the mind but extend theirview to the body likewise. A man may beproud of his beauty, strength, agility, goodmein, address in dancing, riding, and of hisdexterity in any manual business or manufac-ture. But this is not all. The passions look-ing farther, comprehend whatever objects arein the least allyed or related to us. Our country,family, children, relations, riches, houses, gar-dens, horses, dogs, cloaths; any of these maybecome a cause either of pride or of humility.

From the consideration of these causes, itappears necessary we shoud make a new dis-tinction in the causes of the passion, betwixtthat quality, which operates, and the subject, onwhich it is placed. A man, for instance, is vain

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of a beautiful house, which belongs to him, orwhich he has himself built and contrived. Herethe object of the passion is himself, and thecause is the beautiful house: Which cause againis sub-divided into two parts, viz. the quality,which operates upon the passion, and the sub-ject in which the quality inheres. The quality isthe beauty, and the subject is the house, consid-ered as his property or contrivance. Both theseparts are essential, nor is the distinction vainand chimerical. Beauty, considered merely assuch, unless placed upon something related tous, never produces any pride or vanity; andthe strongest relation alone, without beauty, orsomething else in its place, has as little influ-ence on that passion. Since, therefore, thesetwo particulars are easily separated and thereis a necessity for their conjunction, in orderto produce the passion, we ought to consider

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them as component parts of the cause; and infixin our minds an exact idea of this distinction.

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SECTION III. WHENCE THESE OBJECTS ANDCAUSES ARE DERIVED

Being so far advanced as to observe a differ-ence betwixt the object of the passions and theircause, and to distinguish in the cause the qual-ity, which operates on the passions, from thesubject, in which it inheres; we now proceed toexamine what determines each of them to bewhat it is, and assigns such a particular object,and quality, and subject to these affections. Bythis means we shall fully understand the originof pride and humility.

It is evident in the first place, that these pas-sions are derermined to have self for their ob-ject, not only by a natural but also by an origi-nal property. No one can doubt but this prop-erty is natural from the constancy and steadi-ness of its operations. It is always self, which

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is the object of pride and humility; and when-ever the passions look beyond, it is still with aview to ourselves, nor can any person or objectotherwise have any influence upon us.

That this proceeds from an original qualityor primary impulse, will likewise appear evi-dent, if we consider that it is the distinguish-ing characteristic of these passions Unless na-ture had given some original qualities to themind, it coued never have any secondary ones;because in that case it would have no foun-dation for action, nor coued ever begin to ex-ert itself. Now these qualities, which we mustconsider as original, are such as are most in-separable from the soul, and can be resolvedinto no other: And such is the quality, whichdetermines the object of pride and humility.We may, perhaps, make it a greater question,

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whether the causes, that produce the passion,be as natural as the object, to which it is di-rected, and whether all that vast variety pro-ceeds from caprice or from the constitution ofthe mind. This doubt we shall soon remove, ifwe cast our eye upon human nature, and con-sider that in all nations and ages, the same ob-jects still give rise to pride and humility; andthat upon the view even of a stranger, we canknow pretty nearly, what will either encreaseor diminish his passions of this kind. If therebe any variation in this particular, it proceedsfrom nothing but a difference in the tempersand complexions of men; and is besides veryinconsiderable. Can we imagine it possible,that while human nature remains the same,men will ever become entirely indifferent totheir power, riches, beauty or personal merit,and that their pride and vanity will not be af-

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fected by these advantages?

But though the causes of pride and humilitybe plainly natural, we shall find upon exami-nation, that they are not original, and that it isutterly impossible they should each of them beadapted to these passions by a particular pro-vision, and primary constitution of nature, Be-side their prodigious number, many of themare the effects of art, and arise partly from theindustry, partly from the caprice, and partlyfrom the good fortune of men, Industry pro-duces houses, furniture, cloaths. Caprice deter-mines their particular kinds and qualities. Andgood fortune frequently contributes to all this,by discovering the effects that result from thedifferent mixtures and combinations of bodies.It is absurd, therefore, to imagine, that each ofthese was foreseen and provided for by nature,

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and that every new production of art, whichcauses pride or humility; instead of adapting it-self to the passion by partaking of some generalquality, that naturally operates on the mind; isitself the object of an original principle, whichtill then lay concealed in the soul, and is onlyby accident at last brought to light. Thus thefirst mechanic, that invented a fine scritoire,produced pride in him, who became possestof it, by principles different from those, whichmade him proud of handsome chairs and ta-bles. As this appears evidently ridiculous, wemust conclude, that each cause of pride andhumility is not adapted to the passions by a dis-tinct original quality; but that there are someone or more circumstances common to all ofthem, on which their efficacy depends.

Besides, we find in the course of nature, that

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though the effects be many, the principles, fromwhich they arise, are commonly but few andsimple, and that it is the sign of an unskilfulnaturalist to have recourse to a different qual-ity, in order to explain every different opera-tion. How much more must this be true withregard to the human mind, which being so con-fined a subject may justly be thought incapableof containing such a monstrous heap of princi-ples, as would be necessary to excite the pas-sions of pride and humility, were each distinctcause adapted to the passion by a distinct set ofprinciples?

Here, therefore, moral philosophy is in thesame condition as natural, with regard to as-tronomy before the time of Copernicus. Theantients, though sensible of that maxim, thatnature does nothing in vain, contrived such intri-

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cate systems of the heavens, as seemed incon-sistent with true philosophy, and gave placeat last to something more simple and natural.To invent without scruple a new principle toevery new phaenomenon, instead of adaptingit to the old; to overload our hypotheses witha variety of this kind; are certain proofs, thatnone of these principles is the just one, and thatwe only desire, by a number of falsehoods, tocover our ignorance of the truth.

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SECTION IV. OF THE RELATIONS OFIMPRESSIONS AND IDEAS

Thus we have established two truths with-out any obstacle or difficulty, that it is from nat-ural principles this variety of causes excites prideand humility, and that it is not by a different prin-ciple each different cause is adapted to its passion,and that it is not by a different principle each differ-ent cause is adapted to its passion. We shall nowproceed to enquire how we may reduce theseprinciples to a lesser number, and find amongthe causes something common, on which theirinfluence depends.

In order to this we must reflect on cer-tain properties of human nature, which thoughthey have a mighty influence on every opera-tion both of the understanding and passions,

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are not commonly much insisted on by philoso-phers. The first of these is the association ofideas, which I have so often observed and ex-plained. It is impossible for the mind to fix it-self steadily upon one idea for any considerabletime; nor can it by its utmost efforts ever ar-rive at such a constancy. But however change-able our thoughts may be, they are not entirelywithout rule and method in their changes. Therule, by which they proceed, is to pass fromone object to what is resembling, contiguous to,or produced by it. When one idea is presentto the imagination, any other, united by theserelations, naturally follows it, and enters withmore facility by means of that introduction.

The second property I shall observe in thehuman mind is a like association of impres-sions. All resembling impressions are con-

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nected together, and no sooner one arises thanthe rest immediately follow. Grief and disap-pointment give rise to anger, anger to envy,envy to malice, and malice to grief again, tillthe whole circle be compleated. In like man-ner our temper, when elevated with joy, nat-urally throws itself into love, generosity, pity,courage, pride, and the other resembling affec-tions. It is difficult for the mind, when actuatedby any passion, to confine itself to that passionalone, without any change or variation. Hu-man nature is too inconstant to admit of anysuch regularity. Changeableness is essential toit. And to what can it so naturally change asto affections or emotions, which are suitable tothe temper, and agree with that set of passions,which then prevail? It is evident, then, thereis an attraction or association among impres-sions, as well as among ideas; though with this

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remarkable difference, that ideas are associatedby resemblance, contiguity, and causation; andimpressions only by resemblance.

In the third place, it is observable of these twokinds of association, that they very much as-sist and forward each other, and that the transi-tion is more easily made where they both con-cur in the same object. Thus a man, who, byany injury from another, is very much discom-posed and ruffled in his temper, is apt to finda hundred subjects of discontent, impatience,fear, and other uneasy passions; especially ifhe can discover these subjects in or near theperson, who was the cause of his first passion.Those principles, which forward the transitionof ideas, here concur with those, which oper-ate on the passions; and both uniting in oneaction, bestow on the mind a double impulse.

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The new passion, therefore, must arise with somuch greater violence, and the transition to itmust be rendered so much more easy and nat-ural.

Upon this occasion I may cite the authorityof an elegant writer, who expresses himself inthe following manner.

“As the fancy delights in every thing that isgreat, strange, or beautiful, and is still morepleased the more it finds of these perfectionsin the same object, so it is capable of receivinga new satisfaction by the assistance of anothersense. Thus any continued sound, as the mu-sic of birds, or a fall of waters, awakens everymoment the mind of the beholder, and makeshim more attentive to the several beauties ofthe place, that lie before him. Thus if therearises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they

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heighten the pleasure of the imagination, andmake even the colours and verdure of the land-schape appear more agreeable; for the ideasof both senses recommend each other, and arepleasanter together than when they enter themind separately: As the different colours of apicture, when they are well disposed, set offone another, and receive an additional beautyfrom the advantage of the situation.” (Addi-son, Spectator 412, final paragraph.)

In this phaenomenon we may remark the as-sociation both of impressions and ideas, as wellas the mutual assistance they lend each other.

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SECTION V. OF THE INFLUENCE OF THESERELATIONS ON PRIDE AND HUMILITY

These principles being established on un-questionable experience, I begin to considerhow we shall apply them, by revolving over allthe causes of pride and humility, whether thesecauses be regarded, as the qualities, that oper-ate, or as the subjects, on which the qualities areplaced. In examining these qualities I immedi-ately find many of them to concur in producingthe sensation of pain and pleasure, indepen-dent of those affections, which I here endeav-our to explain. Thus the beauty of our person,of itself, and by its very appearance, gives plea-sure, as well as pride; and its deformity, pain aswell as humility. A magnificent feast delightsus, and a sordid one displeases. What I dis-cover to be true in some instances, I suppose to

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be so in all; and take it for granted at present,without any farther proof, that every cause ofpride, by its peculiar qualities, produces a sep-arate pleasure, and of humility a separate un-easiness.

Again, in considering the subjects, to whichthese qualities adhere, I make a new supposi-tion, which also appears probable from manyobvious instances, viz, that these subjects areeither parts of ourselves, or something nearlyrelated to us. Thus the good and bad qualitiesof our actions and manners constitute virtueand vice, and determine our personal charac-ter, than which nothing operates more stronglyon these passions. In like manner, it is thebeauty or deformity of our person, houses,equipage, or furniture, by which we are ren-dered either vain or humble. The same quali-

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ties, when transfered to subjects, which bear usno relation, influence not in the smallest degreeeither of these affections.

Having thus in a manner supposed twoproperties of the causes of these affections, viz,that the qualities produce a separate pain orpleasure, and that the subjects, on which thequalities are placed, are related to self; I pro-ceed to examine the passions themselves, inorder to find something in them, correspon-dent to the supposed properties of their causes.First, I find, that the peculiar object of pride andhumility is determined by an original and nat-ural instinct, and that it is absolutely impossi-ble, from the primary constitution of the mind,that these passions should ever look beyondself, or that individual person. of whose actionsand sentiments each of us is intimately con-

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scious. Here at last the view always rests, whenwe are actuated by either of these passions; norcan we, in that situation of mind, ever lose sightof this object. For this I pretend not to give anyreason; but consider such a peculiar directionof the thought as an original quality.

The second quality, which I discover in thesepassions, and which I likewise consider an anoriginal quality, is their sensations, or the pecu-liar emotions they excite in the soul, and whichconstitute their very being and essence. Thuspride is a pleasant sensation, and humility apainful; and upon the removal of the pleasureand pain, there is in reality no pride nor humil-ity. Of this our very feeling convinces us; andbeyond our feeling, it is here in vain to reasonor dispute.

If I compare, therefore, these two established

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properties of the passions, viz, their object,which is self, and their sensation, which is ei-ther pleasant or painful, to the two supposedproperties of the causes, viz, their relation toself, and their tendency to produce a pain orpleasure, independent of the passion; I imme-diately find, that taking these suppositions tobe just, the true system breaks in upon me withan irresistible evidence. That cause, which ex-cites the passion, is related to the object, whichnature has attributed to the passion; the sen-sation, which the cause separately produces, isrelated to the sensation of the passion: Fromthis double relation of ideas and impressions,the passion is derived. The one idea is eas-ily converted into its correlative; and the oneimpression into that, which resembles and cor-responds to it: With how much greater facil-ity must this transition be made, where these

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movements mutually assist each other, and themind receives a double impulse from the rela-tions both of its impressions and ideas?

That we may comprehend this the better, wemust suppose, that nature has given to the or-gans of the human mind, a certain disposi-tion fitted to produce a peculiar impression oremotion, which we call pride: To this emo-tion she has assigned a certain idea, viz, thatof self, which it never fails to produce. Thiscontrivance of nature is easily conceived. Wehave many instances of such a situation of af-fairs. The nerves of the nose and palate areso disposed, as in certain circumstances to con-vey such peculiar sensations to the mind: Thesensations of lust and hunger always producein us the idea of those peculiar objects, whichare suitable to each appetite. These two cir-

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cumstances are united in pride. The organsare so disposed as to produce the passion; andthe passion, after its production, naturally pro-duces a certain idea. All this needs no proof.It is evident we never should be possest of thatpassion, were there not a disposition of mindproper for it; and it is as evident, that the pas-sion always turns our view to ourselves, andmakes us think of our own qualities and cir-cumstances.

This being fully comprehended, it may nowbe asked, whethr nature produces the passion im-mediately, of herself; or whether she must be as-sisted by the co-operation of other causes? For itis observable, that in this particular her con-duct is different in the different passions andsensations. The palate must be excited by anexternal object, in order to produce any relish:

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But hunger arises internally, without the con-currence of any external object. But howeverthe case may stand with other passions and im-pressions, it is certain, that pride requires theassistance of some foreign object, and that theorgans, which produce it, exert not themselveslike the heart and arteries, by an original in-ternal movement. For first, daily experienceconvinces us, that pride requires certain causesto excite it, and languishes when unsupportedby some excellency in the character, in bodilyaccomplishments, in cloaths, equipage or for-tune. secondly, it is evident pride would beperpetual, if it arose immediately from nature;since the object is always the same, and thereis no disposition of body peculiar to pride, asthere is to thirst and hunger. Thirdly, Humil-ity is in the very same situation with pride; andtherefore, either must, upon this supposition,

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be perpetual likewise, or must destroy the con-trary passion from, the very first moment; sothat none of them coued ever make its appear-ance. Upon the whole, we may rest satisfyedwith the foregoing conclusion, that pride musthave a cause, as well as an object, and that theone has no influence without the other.

The difficulty, then, is only to discover thiscause, and find what it is that gives the first mo-tion to pride, and sets those organs in action,which are naturally fitted to produce that emo-tion. Upon my consulting experience, in orderto resolve this difficulty, I immediately find ahundred different causes, that produce pride;and upon examining these causes, I suppose,what at first I perceive to be probable, that all ofthem concur in two circumstances; which are,that of themselves they produce an impression,

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allyed to the passion, and are placed on a sub-ject, allyed to the object of the passion. When Iconsider after this the nature of relation, and itseffects both on the passions and ideas, I can nolonger doubt, upon these suppositions, that itis the very principle, which gives rise to pride,and bestows motion on those organs, which be-ing naturally disposed to produce that affec-tion, require only a first impulse or beginningto their action. Any thing, that gives a pleasantsensation, and is related to self, excites the pas-sion of pride, which is also agreeable, and hasself for its object.

What I have said of pride is equally trueof humility. The sensation of humility is un-easy, as that of pride is agreeable; for whichreason the separate sensation, arising from thecauses, must be reversed, while the relation to

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self continues the same. Though pride and hu-mility are directly contrary in their effects, andin their sensations, they have notwithstand-ing the same object; so that it is requisite onlyto change the relation of impressions, withoutmaking any change upon that of ideas. Accord-ingly we find, that a beautiful house, belongingto ourselves, produces pride; and that the samehouse, still belonging to ourselves, produceshumility, when by any accident its beauty ischanged into deformity, and thereby the sensa-tion of pleasure, which corresponded to pride,is transformed into pain, which is related to hu-mility. The double relation between the ideasand impressions subsists in both cases, andproduces an easy transition from the one emo-tion to the other.

In a word, nature has bestowed a kind of at-

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traction on certain impressions and ideas, bywhich one of them, upon its appearance, nat-urally introduces its correlative. If these twoattractions or associations of impressions andideas concur on the same object, they mutuallyassist each other, and the transition of the af-fections and of the imagination is made withthe greatest ease and facility. When an ideaproduces an impression, related to an impres-sion, which is connected with an idea, relatedto the first idea, these two impressions mustbe in a manner inseparable, nor will the onein any case be unattended with the other. Itis after this manner, that the particular causesof pride and humility are determined. Thequality, which operates on the passion, pro-duces separately an impression resembling it;the subject, to which the quality adheres, is re-lated to self, the object of the passion: No won-

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der the whole cause, consisting of a quality andof a subject, does so unavoidably give rise tothe pass on.

To illustrate this hypothesis we may com-pare it to that, by which I have already ex-plained the belief attending the judgments,which we form from causation. I have ob-served, that in all judgments of this kind, thereis always a present impression and a relatedidea; and that the present impression gives avivacity to the fancy, and the relation conveysthis vivacity, by an easy transition, to the re-lated idea. Without the present impression,the attention is not fixed, nor the spirits ex-cited. Without the relation, this attention restson its first object, and has no farther conse-quence. There is evidently a great analogy be-twixt that hypothesis and our present one of an

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impression and idea, that transfuse themselvesinto another impression and idea by means oftheir double relation: Which analogy must beallowed to be no despicable proof of both hy-potheses.

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SECTION VI. LIMITATIONS OF THIS SYSTEM

But before we proceed farther inthis subject, and examine particu-larly all the causes of pride and hu-mility, it will be proper to makesome limitations to the general sys-tem, that all agreeable objects, re-lated to ourselves, by an associa-tion of ideas and impressions, pro-duce pride, and disagreeable ones,humility: And these limitations arederived from the very nature of thesubject.

I. Suppose an agreeable object to acquire arelation to self, the first passion, that appearson this occasion, is joy; and this passion dis-covers itself upon a slighter relation than pride

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and vain-glory. We may feel joy upon beingpresent at a feast, where our senses are regardwith delicacies of every kind: But it is only themaster of the feast, who, beside the same joy,has the additional passion of self-applause andvanity. It is true, men sometimes boast of agreat entertainment, at which they have onlybeen present; and by so small a relation con-vert their pleasure into pride: But however, thismust in general be owned, that joy arises froma more inconsiderable relation than vanity, andthat many things, which are too foreign to pro-duce pride, are yet able to give us a delight andpleasure, The reason of the difference may beexplained thus. A relation is requisite to joy, inorder to approach the object to us, and make itgive us any satisfaction. But beside this, whichis common to both passions, it is requisite topride, in order to produce a transition from

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one passion to another, and convert the falsi-fication into vanity. As it has a double task toperform, it must be endowed with double forceand energy. To which we may add, that whereagreeable objects bear not a very close relationto ourselves, they commonly do to some otherperson; and this latter relation not only excels,but even diminishes, and sometimes destroysthe former, as we shall see afterwards. (Part II.Sec. 4.)

Here then is the first limitation, we mustmake to our general position, that every thingrelated to us, which produces pleasure or pain,produces likewise pride or humility. There isnot only a relation required, but a close one,and a closer than is required to joy.

II. The second limitation is, that the agree-able or disagreeable object be not only closely

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related, but also peculiar to ourselves, or atleast common to us with a few persons. It is aquality observable in human nature, and whichwe shall endeavour to explain afterwards, thatevery thing, which is often presented and towhich we have been long accustomed, loses itsvalue in our eyes, and is in a little time de-spised and neglected. We likewise judge ofobjects more from comparison than from theirreal and intrinsic merit; and where we cannotby some contrast enhance their value, we areapt to overlook even what is essentially goodin them. These qualities of the mind have aneffect upon joy as well as pride; and it is re-markable, that goods which are common toall mankind, and have become familiar to usby custom, give us little satisfaction; thoughperhaps of a more excellent kind, than thoseon which, for their singularity, we set a much

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higher value. But though this circumstance op-erates on both these passions, it has a muchgreater influence on vanity. We are rejoiced formany goods, which, on account of their fre-quency, give us no pride. Health, when it re-turns after a long absence, affords us a verysensible satisfaction; but is seldom regarded asa subject of vanity, because it is shared withsuch vast numbers.

The reason, why pride is so much more del-icate in this particular than joy, I take to be,as follows. In order to excite pride, there arealways two objects we must contemplate, viz.the cause or that object which produces plea-sure; and self, which is the real object of thepassion. But joy has only one object necessaryto its production, viz. that which gives plea-sure; and though it be requisite, that this bear

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some relation to self, yet that is only requisitein order to render it agreeable; nor is self, prop-erly speaking, the object of this passion. Since,therefore, pride has in a manner two objects,to which it directs our view; it follows, thatwhere neither of them have any singularity, thepassion must be more weakened upon that ac-count, than a passion, which has only one ob-ject. Upon comparing ourselves with others, aswe are every moment apt to do, we find we arenot in the least distinguished; and upon com-paring the object we possess, we discover stillthe same unlucky circumstance. By two com-parisons so disadvantageous the passion mustbe entirely destroyed.

III The third limitation is, that the pleasantor painful object be very discernible and obvi-ous, and that not only to ourselves, but to oth-

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ers also. This circumstance, like the two forego-ing, has an effect upon joy, as well as pride. Wefancy Ourselves more happy, as well as morevirtuous or beautiful, when we appear so toothers; but are still more ostentatious of ourvirtues than of our pleasures. This proceedsfrom causes, which I shall endeavour to explainafterwards.

IV. The fourth limitation is derived from theinconstancy of the cause of these passions, andfrom the short duration of its connexion withourselves. What is casual and inconstant givesbut little joy, and less pride. We are not muchsatisfyed with the thing itself; and are still lessapt to feel any new degrees of self-satisfactionupon its account. We foresee and anticipateits change by the imagination; which makes uslittle satisfyed with the thing: We compare it

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to ourselves, whose existence is more durable;by which means its inconstancy appears stillgreater. It seems ridiculous to infer an excel-lency in ourselves from an object, which is ofso much shorter duration, and attends us dur-ing so small a part of our existence. It will beeasy to comprehend the reason, why this causeoperates not with the same force in joy as inpride; since the idea of self is not so essential tothe former passion as to the latter.

V. I may add as a fifth limitation, or ratherenlargement of this system, that general ruleshave a great influence upon pride and humility,as well as on all the other passions. Hence weform a notion of different ranks of men, suit-able to the power of riches they are possest of;and this notion we change not upon accountof any peculiarities of the health or temper of

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the persons, which may deprive them of all en-joyment in their possessions. This may be ac-counted for from the same principles, that ex-plained the influence of general rules on theunderstanding. Custom readily carries us be-yond the just bounds in our passions, as wellas in our reasonings.

It may not be amiss to observe on this oc-casion, that the influence of general rules andmaxims on the passions very much contributesto facilitate the effects of all the principles,which we shall explain in the progress of thistreatise. For it is evident, that if a person full-grown, and of the same nature with ourselves,were on a sudden-transported into our world,he would be very much embarrased with ev-ery object, and would not readily find whatdegree of love or hatred, pride or humility, or

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any other passion he ought to attribute to it.The passions are often varyed by very incon-siderable principles; and these do not alwaysplay with a perfect regularity, especially on thefirst trial. But as custom and practice havebrought to light all these principles, and havesettled the just value of every thing; this mustcertainly contribute to the easy production ofthe passions, and guide us, by means of gen-eral established maxims, in the proportions weought to observe in preferring one object to an-other. This remark may, perhaps, serve to obvi-ate difficulties, that mayarise concerning somecauses, which I shall hereafter ascribe to partic-ular passions, and which may be esteemed toorefined to operate so universally and certainly,as they are found to do.

I shall close this subject with a reflection de-

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rived from these five limitations. This reflec-tion is, that the persons, who are proudest, andwho in the eye of the world have most reasonfor their pride, are not always the happiest; northe most humble always the most miserable, asmay at first sight be imagined from this system.An evil may be real. though its cause has norelation to us: It may be real, without being pe-culiar: It may be real, without shewing itself toothers: It may be real, without being constant:And it may be real, without falling under thegeneral rules. Such evils as these will not failto render us miserable, though they have littletendency to diminish pride: And perhaps themost real and the most solid evils of life will befound of this nature.

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SECTION VII. OF VICE AND VIRTUE

Taking these limitations along with us, let usproceed to examine the causes of pride and hu-mility; and see, whether in every case we candiscover the double relations, by which theyoperate on the passions. If we find that all thesecauses are related to self, and produce a plea-sure or uneasiness separate from the passion,there will remain no farther scruple with re-gard to the present system. We shall principallyendeavour to prove the latter point; the formerbeing in a manner self-evident.

To begin, with vice and virtue; which are themost obvious causes of these passions; it wouldbe entirely foreign to my present purpose to en-ter upon the controversy, which of late yearshas so much excited the curiosity of the pub-lick. Whether these moral distictions be founded on

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natural and original principles, or arise from inter-est and education. The examination of this I re-serve for the following book; and in the meantime I shall endeavour to show, that my sys-tem maintains its ground upon either of thesehypotheses; which will be a strong proof of itssolidity.

For granting that morality had no founda-tion in nature, it must still be allowed, that viceand virtue, either from self-interest or the prej-udices of education, produce in us a real painand pleasure; and this we may observe to bestrenuously asserted by the defenders of thathypothesis. Every passion, habit, or turn ofcharacter (say they) which has a tendency toour advantage or prejudice, gives a delight oruneasiness; and it is from thence the approba-tion or disapprobation arises. We easily gain

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from the liberality of others, but are always indanger of losing by their avarice: Courage de-fends us, but cowardice lays us open to ev-ery attack: Justice is the support of society, butinjustice, unless checked would quickly proveits ruin: Humility exalts; but pride mortifiesus. For these reasons the former qualities areesteemed virtues, and the latter regarded asvices. Now since it is granted there is a delightor uneasiness still attending merit or demeritof every kind, this is all that is requisite for mypurpose.

But I go farther, and observe, that this moralhypothesis and my present system not onlyagree together, but also that, allowing the for-mer to be just, it is an absolute and invinci-ble proof of the latter. For if all morality befounded on the pain or pleasure, which arises

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from the prospect of any loss or advantage, thatmay result from our own characters, or fromthose of others, all the effects of morality must-be derived from the same pain or pleasure, andamong the rest, the passions of pride and hu-mility. The very essence of virtue, accordingto this hypothesis, is to produce pleasure andthat of vice to give pain. The virtue and vicemust be part of our character in order to ex-cite pride or humility. What farther proof canwe desire for the double relation of impressionsand ideas?

The same unquestionable argument may bederived from the opinion of those, who main-tain that morality is something real, essential,and founded on nature. The most probable hy-pothesis, which has been advanced to explainthe distinction betwixt vice and virtue, and the

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origin of moral rights and obligations, is, thatfrom a primary constitution of nature certaincharacters and passions, by the very view andcontemplation, produce a pain, and others inlike manner excite a pleasure. The uneasinessand satisfaction are not only inseparable fromvice and virtue, but constitute their very natureand essence. To approve of a character is to feelan original delight upon its appearance. To dis-approve of it is to be sensible of an uneasiness.The pain and pleasure, therefore, being the pri-mary causes of vice and virtue, must also be thecauses of all their effects, and consequently ofpride and humility, which are the unavoidableattendants of that distinction.

But supposing this hypothesis of moral phi-losophy should be allowed to be false, it isstill evident, that pain and pleasure, if not the

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causes of vice and virtue, are at least insepara-ble from them. A generous and noble characteraffords a satisfaction even in the survey; andwhen presented to us, though only in a poemor fable, never fails to charm and delight us.On the other hand cruelty and treachery dis-please from their very nature; nor is it possi-ble ever to reconcile us to these qualities, ei-ther in ourselves or others. Thus one hypoth-esis of morality is an undeniable proof of theforegoing system, and the other at worst agreeswith it. But pride and humility arise not fromthese qualities alone of the mind, which, ac-cording to the vulgar systems of ethicks, havebeen comprehended as parts of moral duty, butfrom any other that has a connexion with plea-sure and uneasiness. Nothing flatters our van-ity more than the talent of pleasing by our wit,good humour, or any other accomplishment;

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and nothing gives us a more sensible mortifi-cation than a disappointment in any attempt ofthat nature. No one has ever been able to tellwhat wit is, and to-shew why such a system ofthought must be received under that denomi-nation, and such another rejected. It is only bytaste we can decide concerning it, nor are wepossest of any other standard, upon which wecan form a judgment of this kind. Now whatis this taste, from which true and false wit in amanner receive their being, and without whichno thought can have a title to either of thesedenominations? It is plainly nothing but a sen-sation of pleasure from true wit, and of uneasi-ness from false, without oar being able to tellthe reasons of that pleasure or uneasiness. Thepower of bestowing these opposite sensationsis. therefore, the very essence of true and falsewit; and consequently the cause of that pride

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or humility, which arises from them.

There may, perhaps, be some, who being ac-customed to the style of the schools and pulpit,and having never considered human nature inany other light, than that in which they place it,may here be surprized to hear me talk of virtueas exciting pride, which they look upon as avice; and of vice as producing humility, whichthey have been taught to consider as a virtue.But not to dispute about words, I observe, thatby pride I understand that agreeable impres-sion, which arises in the mind, when the vieweither of our virtue, beauty, riches or powermakes us satisfyed with ourselves: and that byhumility I mean the opposite impression. It isevident the former impression is not always vi-cious, nor the latter virtuous. The most rigidmorality allows us to receive a pleasure from

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reflecting on a generous action; and it is bynone esteemed a virtue to feel any fruitless re-morses upon the thoughts of past villainy andbaseness. Let us, therefore, examine these im-pressions, considered in themselves; and en-quire into their causes, whether placed on themind or body, without troubling ourselves atpresent with that merit or blame, which mayattend them.

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SECTION VIII. OF BEAUTY ANDDEFORMITY

Whether we consider the body as a part ofourselves, or assent to those philosophers, whoregard it as something external, it must still beallowed to be near enough connected with usto form one of these double relations, whichI have asserted to be necessary to the causesof pride and humility. Wherever, therefore,we can find the other relation of impressionsto join to this of ideas, we may expect withassurance either of these passions, accordingas the impression is pleasant or uneasy. Butbeauty of all kinds gives us a peculiar delightand satisfaction; as deformity produces pain,upon whatever subject it may be placed, andwhether surveyed in an animate or inanimateobject. If the beauty or deformity, therefore,

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be placed upon our own bodies, this pleasureor uneasiness must be converted into pride orhumility, as having in this case all the circum-stances requisite to produce a perfect transi-tion of impressions and ideas. These oppositesensations are related to the opposite passions.The beauty or deformity is closely related toself, the object of both these passions. No won-der, then our own beauty becomes an object ofpride, and deformity of humility.

But this effect of personal and bodily qual-ities is not only a proof of. the present sys-tem, by shewing that the passions arise not inthis case without all the circumstances I haverequired, but may be employed as a strongerand more convincing argument. If we considerall the hypotheses, which have been formed ei-ther by philosophy or common reason, to ex-

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plain the difference betwixt beauty and defor-mity, we shall find that all of them resolve intothis, that beauty is such an order and construc-tion of parts, as either by the primary consti-tution of our nature, by custom, or by caprice,is fitted to give a pleasure and satisfaction tothe soul. This is the distinguishing charac-ter of beauty, and forms all the difference be-twixt it and deformity, whose natural tendencyis to produce uneasiness. Pleasure and pain,therefore, are not only necessary attendants ofbeauty and deformity, but constitute their veryessence. And indeed, if we consider, that agreat part of the beauty, which we admire ei-ther in animals or in other objects, is derivedfrom the idea of convenience and utility, weshall make no scruple to assent to this opinion.That shape, which produces strength, is beau-tiful in one animal; and that which is a sign of

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agility in another. The order and convenienceof a palace are no less essential to its beauty,than its mere figure and appearance. In likemanner the rules of architecture require, thatthe top of a pillar should be more slender thanits base, and that because such a figure conveysto us the idea of security, which is pleasant;whereas the contrary form gives us the appre-hension of danger, which is uneasy. From innu-merable instances of this kind, as well as fromconsidering that beauty like wit, cannot be de-fined, but is discerned only by a taste or sensa-tion, we may conclude, that beauty is nothingbut a form, which produces pleasure, as de-formity is a structure of parts, which conveyspain; and since the power of producing painand pleasure make in this manner the essenceof beauty and deformity, all the effects of thesequalities must be derived from the sensation;

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and among the rest pride and humility, whichof all their effects are the most common and re-markable.

This argument I esteem just and decisive; butin order to give greater authority to the presentreasoning, let us suppose it false for a moment,and see what will follow. It is certain, then, thatif the power of producing pleasure and painforms not the essence of beauty and deformity,the sensations are at least inseparable from thequalities, and it is even difficult to considerthem apart. Now there is nothing common tonatural and moral beauty, (both of which arethe causes of pride) but this power of produc-ing pleasure; and as a common effect supposesalways a common cause, it is plain the pleasuremust in both cases be the real and influencingcause of the passion. Again; there is nothing

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originally different betwixt the beauty of ourbodies and the beauty of external and foreignobjects, but that the one has a near relation toourselves, which is wanting in the other. Thisoriginal difference, therefore, must be the causeof all their other differences, and among therest, of their different influence upon the pas-sion of pride, which is excited by the beautyof our person, but is not affected in the lcastby that of foreign and external objects. Plac-ing, then, these two conclusions together, wefind they compose the preceding system be-twixt them, viz, that pleasure, as a related or re-sembling impression, when placed on a relatedobject by a natural transition, produces pride;and its contrary, humility. This system, then,seems already sufficiently confirmed by expe-rience; that we have not yet exhausted all ourarguments.

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It is not the beauty of the body alone thatproduces pride, but also its strength and force.Strength is a kind of power; and therefore thedesire to excel in strength is to be considered asan inferior species of ambition. For this reasonthe present phaenomenon will be sufficientlyaccounted for, in explaining that passion.

Concerning all other bodily accomplish-ments we may observe in general, that what-ever in ourselves is either useful, beautiful, orsurprising, is an object of pride; and it’s con-trary, of humility. Now it is obvious, that ev-ery thing useful, beautiful or surprising, agreesin producing a separate pleasure and agrees innothing else. The pleasure, therefore, with therelation to self must be the cause of the passion.

Though it should be questioned, whetherbeauty be not something real, and different

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from the power of producing pleasure, it cannever be disputed, that as surprize is nothingbut a pleasure arising from novelty, it is not,properly speaking, a quality in any object, butmerely a passion or impression in the soul. Itmust, therefore, be from that impression, thatpride by a natural transition arises. And itarises so naturally, that there is nothing in us orbelonging to us, which produces surprize, thatdoes not at the same time excite that other pas-sion. Thus we are vain of the surprising adven-tures we have met with, the escapes we havemade, and dangers we have been exposed to.Hence the origin of vulgar lying; where menwithout any interest, and merely out of van-ity, heap up a number of extraordinary events,which are either the fictions of their brain, orif true, have at least no connexion with them-selves. Their fruitful invention supplies them

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with a variety of adventures; and where thattalent is wanting, they appropriate such as be-long to others, in order to satisfy their vanity.

In this phaenomenon are contained two curi-ous experiments, which if we compare them to-gether, according to the known rules, by whichwe judge of cause and effect in anatomy, nat-ural philosophy, and other sciences, will be anundeniable argument for that influence of thedouble relations above-mentioned. By one ofthese experiments we find, that an object pro-duces pride merely by the interposition of plea-sure; and that because the quality, by whichit produces pride, is in reality nothing but thepower of producing pleasure. By the other ex-periment we find, that the pleasure producesthe pride by a transition along related ideas;because when we cut off that relation the pas-

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sion is immediately destroyed.. A surprisingadventure, in which we have been ourselvesengaged, is related to us, and by that meansproduces pride: But the adventures of others,though they may cause pleasure, yet for wantof this relation of ideas, never excite that pas-sion. What farther proof can be desired for thepresent system?

There is only one objection to this systemwith regard to our body: which is, that thoughnothing be more agreeable than health, andmore painful than sickness, yet commonly menare neither proud of the one, nor mortifyedwith the other. This will easily be accountedfor, if we consider the second and fourth limi-tations, proposed to our general system. It wasobserved, that no object ever produces prideor humility, if it has not something peculiar to

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ourself; as also, that every cause of that passionmust be in some measure constant, and holdsome proportion to the duration of our self,which, is its object. Now as health and sick-ness vary incessantly to all men, and there isnone, who is solely or certainly fixed in either,these accidental blessings and calamities are ina manner separated from us, and are never con-sidered as connected with our being and ex-istence. And that this account is just appearshence, that wherever a malady of any kind isso rooted in our constitution, that we no longerentertain any hopes of recovery, from that mo-ment it becomes an object of humility; as is evi-dent in old men, whom nothing mortifies morethan the consideration of their age and infir-mities. They endeavour, as long as possible,to conceal their blindness and deafness, theirrheums and gouts; nor do they ever confess

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them without reluctance and uneasiness. Andthough young men are not ashamed of everyhead-ach or cold they fall into, yet no topic isso proper to mortify human pride, and makeus entertain a mean opinion of our nature, thanthis, that we are every moment of our lives sub-ject to such infirmities. This sufficiently provesthat bodily pain and sickness are in themselvesproper causes of humility; though the customof estimating every thing by comparison morethan by its intrinsic worth and value, makes usoverlook these calamities, which we find to beincident to every one, and causes us to form anidea of our merit and character independent ofthem.

We are ashamed of such maladies as affectothers, and are either dangerous or disagree-able to them. Of the epilepsy; because it gives

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a horror to every one present: Of the itch; be-cause it is infectious: Of the king’s-evil; be-cause it commonly goes to posterity. Men al-ways consider the sentiments of others in theirjudgment of themselves. This has evidentlyappeared in some of the foregoing reasonings;and will appear still more evidently, and bemore fully explained afterwards.

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SECTION IX. OF EXTERNAL ADVANTAGESAND DISADVANTAGES

But though pride and humility have thequalities of our mind and body that is self, fortheir natural and more immediate causes, wefind by experience, that there are many otherobjects, which produce these affections, andthat the primary one is, in some measure, ob-scured and lost by the multiplicity of foreignand extrinsic. We found a vanity upon houses,gardens, equipages, as well as upon personalmerit and accomplishments; and though theseexternal advantages be in themselves widelydistant from thought or a person, yet they con-siderably influence even a passion, which is di-rected to that as its ultimate object, This, hap-pens when external objects acquire any partic-ular relation to ourselves, and are associated

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or connected with us. A beautiful fish in theocean, an animal in a desart, and indeed anything that neither belongs, nor is related tous, has no manner of influence on our vanity,whatever extraordinary qualities it may be en-dowed with, and whatever degree of surprizeand admiration it may naturally occasion. Itmust be some way associated with us in orderto touch our pride. Its idea must hang in a man-ner, upon that of ourselves and the transitionfrom the one to the other must be easy and nat-ural.

But here it is remarkable, that though the re-lation of resemblance operates upon the mindin the same manner as contiguity and causa-tion, in conveying us from one idea to another,yet it is seldom a foundation either of pride orof humility. If we resemble a person in any of

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the valuable parts of his character, we must,in some degree, possess the quality, in whichwe resemble him; and this quality we alwayschuse to survey directly in ourselves ratherthan by reflexion in another person, when wewould found upon it any degree of vanity. Sothat though a likeness may occasionally pro-duce that passion by suggesting a more advan-tageous idea of ourselves, it is there the viewfixes at last, and the passion finds its ultimateand final cause.

There are instances, indeed, wherein menshew a vanity in resembling a great man in hiscountenance, shape, air, or other minute cir-cumstances, that contribute not in any degreeto his reputation; but it must be confessed thatthis extends not very far, nor is of any consid-erable moment in these affections. For this I as-

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sign the following reason. We can never have avanity of resembling in trifles any person, un-less he be possessed of very shining qualities,which give us a respect and veneration for him.These qualities, then, are, properly speaking,the causes of our vanity, by means of their rela-tion to ourselves. Now after what manner arethey related to ourselves? They are parts of theperson we value, and consequently connectedwith these trifles; which are also supposed tobe parts of him. These trifles are connectedwith the resembling qualities in us; and thesequalities in us, being parts, are connected withthe whole; and by that means form a chain ofseveral links of the person we resemble. Butbesides that this multitude of relations mustweaken the connexion; it is evident the mind,in passing from the shining qualities to the triv-ial ones, must by that contrast the better per-

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ceive the minuteness of the latter, and be insome measure ashamed of the comparison andresemblance.

The relation, therefore, of contiguity, or thatof causation, betwixt the cause and object ofpride and humility, is alone requisite to giverise to these passions; and these relations arenothing else but qualities, by which the imag-ination is conveyed from one idea to another.Now let us consider what effect these can pos-sibly have upon the mind, and by what meansthey become so requisite to the production ofthe passions. It is evident, that the associationof ideas operates in so silent and imperceptiblea manner, that we are scarce sensible of it, anddiscover it more by its effects than by any im-mediate feeling or perception. It produces noemotion, and gives rise to no new impression

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of any kind, but only modifies those ideas, ofwhich the mind was formerly possessed, andwhich it coued recal upon occasion. From thisreasoning, as well as from undoubted experi-ence, we may conclude, that an association ofideas, however necessary, is not alone sufficientto give rise to any passion.

It is evident, then, that when the mind feelsthe passion either of pride or humility upon theappearance of related object, there is, besidethe relation or transition of thought, an emo-tion or original impression produced by someother principle. The question is, whether theemotion first produced be the passion itself, orsome other impression related to it. This ques-tion we cannot be long in deciding, For besidesall the other arguments, with which this sub-ject abounds, it must evidently appear, that the

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relation of ideas, which experience shews to beso requisite a circumstance to the productionof the passion, would be entirely superfluous,were it not to second a relation of affections,and facilitate the transition from one impres-sion to another. If nature produced immedi-ately the passion of pride or humility, it wouldbe compleated in itself, and would require nofarther addition or encrease from any other af-fection. But supposing the first emotion to beonly related to pride or humility, it is easilyconceived to what purpose the relation of ob-jects may serve, and how the two different as-sociations, of impressions and ideas, by unitingtheir forces, may assist each other’s operation.This is not only easily conceived, but I will ven-ture to affirm it is the only manner, in which wecan conceive this subject. An easy transition ofideas, which, of itself, causes no emotion, can

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never be necessary, or even useful to the pas-sions, but by forwarding the transition betwixtsome related impressions. Not to mention, thatthe same object causes a greater or smaller de-gree of pride, not only in proportion to the en-crease or decrease of its qualities, but also tothe distance or nearness of the relation; whichis a clear argument for the transition of affec-tions along the relation of ideas; since everychange in the relation produces a proportion-able change in the passion. Thus one part ofthe preceding system, concerning the relationsof ideas is a sufficient proof of the other, con-cerning that of impressions; and is itself so evi-dently founded on experience, that it would belost time to endeavour farther to prove it.

This will appear still more evidently in par-ticular instances. Men are vain of the beauty of

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their country, of their county, of their parish.Here the idea of beauty plainly produces apleasure. This pleasure is related to pride. Theobject or cause of this pleasure is, by the suppo-sition, related to self, or the object of pride. Bythis double relation of impressions and ideas, atransition is made from the one impression tothe other.

Men are also vain of the temperature of theclimate, in which they were born; of the fer-tility of their native soil; of the goodness ofthe wines, fruits or victuals, produced by it;of the softness or force of their language; withother particulars of that kind. These objectshave plainly a reference to the pleasures of thesenses, and are originally considered as agree-able to the feeling, taste or hearing. How isit possible they coued ever become objects of

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pride, except by means of that transition above-explained?

There are some, that discover a vanity of anopposite kind, and affect to depreciate theirown country, in comparison of those, to whichthey have travelled. These persons find, whenthey are at home, and surrounded with theircountrymen, that the strong relation betwixtthem and their own nation is shared with somany, that it is in a manner lost to them;whereas their distant relation to a foreign coun-try, which is formed by their having seen it andlived in it, is augmented by their consideringhow few there are who have done the same.For this reason they always admire the beauty,utility and rarity of what is abroad, above whatis at home.

Since we can be vain of a country, climate or

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any inanimate object, which bears a relation tous, it is no wonder we are vain of the qualitiesof those, who are connected with us by bloodor friendship. Accordingly we find, that thevery same qualities, which in ourselves pro-duce pride, produce also in a lesser degree thesame affection, when discovered in persons re-lated to us. The beauty, address, merit, creditand honours of their kindred are carefully dis-played by the proud, as some of their most con-siderable sources of their vanity.

As we are proud of riches in ourselves, soto satisfy our vanity we desire that every one,who has any connexion with us, should like-wise be possest of them, and are ashamed ofany one, that is mean or poor, among ourfriends and relations. For this reason we re-move the poor as far from us as possible; and

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as we cannot prevent poverty in some distantcollaterals, and our forefathers are taken to beour nearest relations; upon this account everyone affects to be of a good family, and to bedescended from a long succession of rich andhonourable ancestors.

I have frequently observed, that those, whoboast of the antiquity of their families, are gladwhen they can join this circumstance, that theirancestors for many generations have been un-interrupted proprietors of the same portion ofland, and that their family has never changedits possessions, or been transplanted into anyother county or province. I have also observed,that it is an additional subject of vanity, whenthey can boast, that these possessions havebeen transmitted through a descent composedentirely of males, and that the honour, and for-

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tune have never past through any female. Letus endeavour to explain these phaenomena bythe foregoing system.

It is evident, that when any one boasts of theantiquity of his family, the subjects of his van-ity are not merely the extent of time and num-ber of ancestors, but also their riches and credit,which are supposed to reflect a lustre on him-self on account of his relation to them. He firstconsiders these objects; is affected by them inan agreeable manner; and then returning backto himself, through the relation of parent andchild, is elevated with the passion of pride, bymeans of the double relation, of impressionsand ideas. Since therefore the passion dependson these relations, whatever strengthens anyof the relations must also encrease the passion,and whatever weakens the relations must di-

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minish the passion. Now it is certain the iden-tity of the possesion strengthens the relation ofideas arising from blood and kindred, and con-veys the fancy with greater facility from onegeneration to another, from the remote ances-tors to their posterity, who are both their heirsand their descendants. By this facility the im-pression is transmitted more entire, and excitesa greater degree of pride and vanity.

The case is the same with the transmission ofthe honours and fortune through a successionof males without their passing through any fe-male. It is a quality of human nature, which weshall consider (Part II. Sect, 2.) afterwards, thatthe imagination naturally turns to whatever isimportant and considerable; and where twoobjects are presented to it, a small and a greatone, usually leaves the former, and dwells en-

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tirely upon the latter. As in the society of mar-riage, the male sex has the advantage abovethe female, the husband first engages our atten-tion; and whether we consider him directly, orreach him by passing through related objects,the thought both rests upon him with greatersatisfaction, and arrives at him with greater fa-cility than his consort. It is easy to see, that thisproperty must strengthen the child’s relationto the father, and weaken that to the mother.For as all relations are nothing hut a propensityto pass from one idea ma another, whateverstrengthens the propensity strengthens the re-lation; and as we have a stronger propensity topass from the idea of the children to that of thefather, than from the same idea to that of themother, we ought to regard the former relationas the closer and more considerable. This isthe reason why children commonly bear their

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father’s name, and are esteemed to be of no-bler or baser birth, according to his family. Andthough the mother should be possest of a supe-rior spirit and genius to the father, as often hap-pens, the general rule prevails, notwithstand-ing the exceprion, according to the doctrineabove-explained. Nay even when a superior-ity of any kind is so great, or when any otherreasons have such an effect, as to make thechildren rather represent: the mother’s familythan the father’s, the general rule still retainssuch an efficacy that it weakens the relation,and makes a kind of break in the line of ances-tors. The imagination runs not along them withfacility, nor is able to transfer the honour andcredit of the ancestors to their posterity of thesame name and family so readily, as when thetransition is conformable to the general rules,and passes from father to son, or from brother

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to brother.

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SECTION X. OF PROPERTY AND RICHES

But the relation, which is esteemed the clos-est, and which of all others produces most com-monly the passion of pride, is that of property.This relation it will be impossible for me fullyto explain before I come to treat of justice andthe other moral virtues. It is sufficient to ob-serve on this occasion, that property may bedefined, such a relation betwixt a person andan object as permits him, but forbids any other,the free use and possession of it, without vi-olating the laws of justice and moral equity.If justice, therefore, be a virtue, which has anatural and original influence on the humanmind, property may be looked upon as a par-ticular species of causation; whether we con-sider the liberty it gives the proprietor to oper-ate as he please upon the object or the advan-

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tages, which he reaps from it. It is the samecase, if justice, according to the system of cer-tain philosophers, should be esteemed an arti-ficial and not a natural virtue. For then honour,and custom, and civil laws supply the place ofnatural conscience, and produce, in some de-gree, the same effects. This in the mean time iscertain, that the mention of the property natu-rally carries our thought to the proprietor, andof the proprietor to the property; which be-ing a proof of a perfect relation of ideas is allthat is requisite to our present purpose. A re-lation of ideas, joined to that of impressions,always produces a transition of affections; andtherefore, whenever any pleasure or pain arisesfrom an object, connected with us by property.we may be certain, that either pride or humilitymust arise from this conjunction of relations; ifthe foregoing system be solid and satisfactory.

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And whether it be so or not, we may soon sat-isfy ourselves by the most cursory view of hu-man life.

Every thing belonging to a vain man is thebest that is any where to be found. His houses,equipage, furniture, doaths, horses, hounds,excel all others in his conceit; and it is easy toobserve, that from the least advantage in anyof these, he draws a new subject of pride andvanity. His wine, if you’ll believe him, hasa finer flavour than any other; his cookery ismore exquisite; his table more orderly; his ser-vants more expert; the air, in which he lives,more healthful; the soil he cultivates more fer-tile; his fruits ripen earlier and to greater per-fection: Such a thing is remarkable for its nov-elty; such another for its antiquity: This is theworkmanship of a famous artist; that belonged

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once to such a prince or great man: All objects,in a word, that are useful, beautiful or surpris-ing, or are related to such, may, by means ofproperty, give rise to this passion. These agreein giving pleasure, and agree in nothing else.This alone is common to them; and thereforemust be the quality that produces the passion,which is their common effect. As every new in-stance is a new argument, and as the instancesare here without number, I may venture to af-firm, that scarce any system was ever so fullyproved by experience, as that which I have hereadvanced.

If the property of any thing, that gives plea-sure either by its utility, beauty or novelty, pro-duces also pride by a double relation of impres-sions and ideas; we need not be surprized, thatthe power of acquiring this property, should

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have the same effect. Now riches are to be con-sidered as the power of acquiring the propertyof what pleases; and it is only in this view theyhave any influence on the passions. Paper will,on many occasions, be considered as riches,and that because it may convey the power ofacquiring money: And money is not riches, asit is a metal endowed with certain qualities ofsolidity, weight and fusibility; but only as it hasa relation to the pleasures and conveniences oflife. Taking then this for granted, which is initself so evident, we may draw from it one ofthe strongest arguments I have yet employedto prove the influence of the double relationson pride and humility.

It has been observed in treating of the under-standing, that the distinction, which we some-times make betwixt a power and the exercise

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of it, is entirely frivolous, and that neither mannor any other being ought ever to be thoughtpossest of any ability, unless it be exerted andput in action. But though this be strictly true ina just and philosophical way of thinking, it iscertain it is not the philosophy of our passions;but that many things operate upon them bymeans of the idea and supposition of power, in-dependent of its actual exercise. We are pleasedwhen we acquire an ability of procuring plea-sure, and are displeased when another acquiresa power of giving pain. This is evident from ex-perience; but in order to give a just explicationof the matter, and account for this satisfactionand uneasiness, we must weigh the followingreflections.

It is evident the error of distinguishingpower from its exercise proceeds not entirely

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from the scholastic doctrine of free-will, which,indeed, enters very little into common life, andhas but small influence on our vulgar and pop-ular ways of thinking. According to that doc-trine, motives deprive us not of free-will, nortake away our power of performing or forbear-ing any action. But according to common no-tions a man has no power, where very consid-erable motives lie betwixt him and the satisfac-tion of his desires, and determine him to for-bear what he wishes to perform. I do not thinkI have fallen into my enemy’s power, when Isee him pass me in the streets with a sword byhis side, while I am unprovided of any weapon.I know that the fear of the civil magistrate is asstrong a restraint as any of iron, and that I amin as perfect safety as if he were chained or im-prisoned. But when a person acquires such anauthority over me, that not only there is no ex-

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ternal obstacle to his actions; but also that hemay punish or reward me as he pleases, with-out any dread of punishment in his turn, I thenattribute a full power to him, and consider my-self as his subject or vassal.

Now if we compare these two cases, that ofa person, who has very strong motives of in-terest or safety to forbear any action, and thatof another, who lies under no such obligation,we shall find, according to the philosophy ex-plained in the foregoing book, that the onlyknown difference betwixt them lies in this, thatin the former case we conclude from past ex-perience, that the person never will performthat action, and in the latter, that he possiblyor probably will perform it. Nothing is morefluctuating and inconstant on many occasions,than the will of man; nor is there any thing but

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strong motives, which can give us an absolutecertainty in pronouncing concerning any of hisfuture actions. When we see a person free fromthese motives, we suppose a possibility eitherof his acting or forbearing; and though in gen-eral we may conclude him to be determined bymotives and causes, yet this removes not theuncertainty of our judgment concerning thesecauses, nor the influence of that uncertaintyon the passions. Since therefore we ascribe apower of performing an action to every one,who has no very powerful motive to forbearit, and refuse it to such as have; it may justlybe concluded, that power has always a refer-ence to its exercise, either actual or probable,and that we consider a person as endowed withany ability when we find from past experience,that it is probable, or at least possible he mayexert it. And indeed, as our passions always

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regard the real existence of objects, and we al-ways judge of this reality from past instances;nothing can be more likely of itself, withoutany farther reasoning, than that power consistsin the possibility or probability of any action,as discovered by experience and the practice ofthe world.

Now it is evident, that wherever a personis in such a situadon with regard to me, thatthere is no very powerful motive to deter himfrom injuring me, and consequently it is uncer-tain whether he will injure me or not, I mustbe uneasy in such a situation, and cannot con-sider the possibility or probability of that in-jury without a sensible concern. The passionsare not only affected by such events as are cer-tain and infallible, but also in an inferior degreeby such as are possible and contingent. And

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though perhaps I never really feel any harm,and discover by the event, that, philosophicallyspeaking, the person never had any power ofharming me; since he did not exert any; thisprevents not my uneasiness from the preced-ing uncertainty. The agreeable passions mayhere operate as well as the uneasy, and conveya pleasure when I perceive a good to becomeeither possible or probable by the possibilityor probability of another’s bestowing it on me,upon the removal of any strong motives, whichmight formerly have hindered him.

But we may farther observe, that this satis-faction encreases, when any good approachesin such a manner that it it in one’s own powerto take or leave it, and there neither is anyphysical impediment, nor any very strong mo-tive to hinder our enjoyment. As all men desire

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pleasure, nothing can be more probable, thanits existence when there is no external obstacleto the producing it, and men perceive no dan-ger in following their inclinations. In that casetheir imagination easily anticipates the satisfac-tion, and conveys the same joy, as if they werepersuaded of its real and actual existence.

But this accounts not sufficiently for the sat-isfaction, which attends riches. A miser re-ceives delight from his money; that is, fromthe power it affords him of procuring all thepleasures and conveniences of life, thoughhe knows he has enjoyed his riches for fortyyears without ever employing them; and con-sequently cannot conclude by any species ofreasoning, that the real existence of these plea-sures is nearer, than if he were entirely de-prived of all his possessions. But though he

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cannot form any such conclusion in a way ofreasoning concerning she nearer approach ofthe pleasure, it is certain he imagines it to ap-proach nearer, whenever all external obstaclesare removed, along with the more powerfulmotives of interest and danger, which opposeit. For farther satisfaction on this head I mustrefer to my account of the will, where I shall(Part III. Sect. 2.) explain that false sensationof liberty, which make, us imagine we can per-form any thing, that is not very dangerous ordestructive. Whenever any other person is un-der no strong obligations of interest to forbearany pleasure, we judge from experience, thatthe pleasure will exist, and that he will proba-bly obtain it. But when ourselves are in that sit-uation, we judge from an illusion of the fancy,that the pleasure is still closer and more imme-diate. The will seems to move easily every way,

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and casts a shadow or image of itself, even tothat side, on which it did not settle. By meansof this image the enjoyment seems to approachnearer to us, and gives us the same lively sat-isfaction, as if it were perfectly certain and un-avoidable.

It will now be easy to draw this whole rea-soning to a paint, and to prove, that whenriches produce any pride or vanity in their pos-sessors, as they never fail so do, it is only bymeans of a double relation of impressions andideas. The very essence of riches consists in thepower of procuring the pleasures and conve-niences of life. The very essence of this consistsin the probability of its exercise, and in its caus-ing us to anticipate, by a true or false reasoning,the real existence of the pleasure. This antici-pation of pleasure is, in itself, a very consider-

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able pleasure; and as its cause is some posses-sion or property, which we enjoy, and which isthereby related to us, we here dearly see all theparts of the foregoing system most exactly anddistinctly drawn out before us. For the samereason, that riches cause pleasure and pride,and poverty excites uneasiness and humility,power must produce the former emotions, andslavery the latter. Power or an authority overothers makes us capable of satisfying all ourdesires; as slavery, by subjecting us to the willof others, exposes us to a thousand wants, andmortifications.

It is here worth observing, that the vanityof power, or shame of slavery, are much aug-mented by the consideration of the persons,over whom we exercise our authority, or whoexercise it over us. For supposing it possible

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to frame statues of such an admirable mecha-nism, that they coued move and act in obedi-ence to the will; it is evident the possession ofthem would give pleasure and pride, but notto such a degree, as the same authority, whenexerted over sensible and rational creatures,whose condition, being compared to our own,makes it seem more agreeable and honourable.Comparison is in every case a sure method ofaugmenting our esteem of any thing. A richman feels the felicity of his condition better byopposing it to that of a beggar. But there is apeculiar advantage in power, by the contrast,which is, in a manner, presented to us, betwixtourselves and the person we command. Thecomparison is obvious and natural: The imagi-nation finds it in the very subject: The passageof the thought to its conception is smooth andeasy. And that this circumstance has a consid-

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erable effect in augmenting its influence, willappear afterwards in examining the nature ofmalice and envy.

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SECTION XI. OF THE LOVE OF FAME

But beside these original causes of pride andhumility, there is a secondary one in the opin-ions of others, which has an equal influence onthe affections. Our reputation, our character,our name are considerations of vast weight andimportance; and even the other causes of pride;virtue, beauty and riches; have little influence,when not seconded by the opinions and sen-timents of others. In order to account for thisphaenomenon it will be necessary to take somecompass, and first explain the nature of sympa-thy.

No quality of human nature is more remark-able, both in itself and in its consequences, thanthat propensity we have to sympathize withothers, and to receive by communication their

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inclinations and sentiments, however differentfrom, or even contrary to our own. This is notonly conspicuous in children, who implicitlyembrace every opinion proposed to them; butalso in men of the greatest judgment and un-derstanding, who find it very difficult to fol-low their own reason or inclination, in oppo-sition to that of their friends and daily com-panions. To this principle we ought to as-cribe the great uniformity we may observe inthe humours and turn of thinking of those ofthe same nation; and it is much more proba-ble, that this resemblance arises from sympa-thy, than from any influence of the soil and cli-mate, which, though they continue invariablythe same, are not able to preserve the charac-ter of a nation the same for a century together.A good-natured man finds himself in an in-stant of the same humour with his company;

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and even the proudest and most surly take atincture from their countrymen and acquain-tance. A chearful countenance infuses a sen-sible complacency and serenity into my mind;as an angry or sorrowful one throws a suddendump upon me. Hatred, resentment, esteem,love, courage, mirth and melancholy; all thesepassions I feel more from communication thanfrom my own natural temper and disposition.So remarkable a phaenomenon merits our at-tention, and must be traced up to its first prin-ciples.

When any affection is infused by sympathy,it is at first known only by its effects, and bythose external signs in the countenance andconversation, which convey an idea of it. Thisidea is presently converted into an impression,and acquires such a degree of force and vivac-

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ity, as to become the very passion itself, andproduce an equal emotion, as any original af-fection. However instantaneous this changeof the idea into an impression may be, it pro-ceeds from certain views and reflections, whichwill not escape the strict scrutiny of a. philoso-pher, though they may the person himself, whomakes them.

It is evident, that the idea, or rather impres-sion of ourselves is always intimately presentwith us, and that our consciousness gives us solively a conception of our own person, that it isnot possible to imagine, that any thing can inthis particular go beyond it. Whatever object,therefore, is related to ourselves must be con-ceived with a little vivacity of conception, ac-cording to the foregoing principles; and thoughthis relation should not be so strong as that of

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causation, it must still have a considerable in-fluence. Resemblance and contiguity are rela-tions not to be neglected; especially when byan inference from cause and effect, and by theobservation of external signs, we are informedof the real existence of the object, which is re-sembling or contiguous.

Now it is obvious, that nature has preserveda great resemblance among all human crea-tures, and that we never remark any passion orprinciple in others, of which, in some degree orother, we may not find a parallel in ourselves.The case is the same with the fabric of the mind,as with that of the body. However the partsmay differ in shape or size, their structure andcomposition are in general the same. There is avery remarkable resemblance, which preservesitself amidst all their variety; and this resem-

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blance must very much contribute to make usenter into the sentiments of others; and em-brace them with facility and pleasure. Accord-ingly we find, that where, beside the generalresemblance of our natures, there is any pecu-liar similarity in our manners, or character, orcountry, or language, it facilitates the sympa-thy. The stronger the relation is betwixt our-selves and any object, the more easily does theimagination make the transition, and convey tothe related idea the vivacity of conception, withwhich we always form the idea of our own per-son.

Nor is resemblance the only relation, whichhas this effect, but receives new force fromother relations, that may accompany it. Thesentiments of others have little influence, whenfar removed from us, and require the relation of

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contiguity, to make them communicate them-selves entirely. The relations of blood, beinga species of causation, may sometimes con-tribute to the same effect; as also acquaintance,which operates in the same manner with edu-cation and custom; as we shall see more fully(Part II. Sect. 4.) afterwards. All these re-lations, when united together, convey the im-pression or consciousness of our own person tothe idea of the sentiments or passions of others,and makes us conceive them in the strongestand most lively manner.

It has been remarked in the beginning of thistreatise, that all ideas are borrowed from im-pressions, and that these two kinds of percep-tions differ only in the degrees of force and vi-vacity, with which they strike upon the soul.The component part of ideas and impressions

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are precisely alike. The manner and order oftheir appearance may be the same. The dif-ferent degrees of their force and vivacity are,therefore, the only particulars, that distinguishthem: And as this difference may be removed,in some measure, by a relation betwixt the im-pressions and ideas, it is no wonder an ideaof a sentiment or passion, may by this meansbe inlivened as to become the very sentimentor passion. The lively idea of any object al-ways approaches is impression; and it is cer-tain we may feel sickness and pain from themere force of imagination, and make a maladyreal by often thinking of it. But this is most re-markable in the opinions and affections; andit is there principally that a lively idea is con-verted into an impression. Our affections de-pend more upon ourselves, and the internaloperations of the mind, than any other impres-

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sions; for which reason they arise more nat-urally from the imagination, and from everylively idea we form of them. This is the natureand cause of sympathy; and it is after this man-ner we enter so deep into the opinions and af-fections of others, whenever we discover them.

What is principally remarkable in thiswhole affair is the strong confirmation thesephaenomena give to the foregoing system con-cerning the understanding, and consequentlyto the present one concerning the passions;since these are analogous to each other. It is in-deed evident, that when we sympathize withthe passions and sentiments of others, thesemovements appear at first in our mind as mereideas, and are conceived to belong to anotherperson, as we conceive any other matter of fact.It is also evident, that the ideas of the affec-

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tions of others are converted into the very im-pressions they represent, and that the passionsarise in conformity to the images we form ofthem. All this is an object of the plainest ex-perience, and depends not on any hypothesisof philosophy. That science can only be admit-ted to explain the phaenomena; though at thesame time it must be confest, they are so clearof themselves, that there is but little occasion toemploy it. For besides the relation of cause andeffect, by which we are convinced of the real-ity of the passion, with which we sympathize;besides this, I say, we must be assisted by therelations of resemblance and contiguity, in or-der to feel the sympathy in its full perfection.And since these relations can entirely convertan idea into an impression, and convey the vi-vacity of the latter into the former, so perfectlyas to lose nothing of it in the transition, we may

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easily conceive how the relation of cause andeffect alone, may serve to strengthen and in-liven an idea. In sympathy there is an evidentconversion of an idea into an impression. Thisconversion arises from the relation of objects toourself. Ourself is always intimately present tous. Let us compare all these circumstances, andwe shall find, that sympathy is exactly corre-spondent to the operations of our understand-ing; and even contains something more sur-prizing and extraordinary.

It is now time to turn our view from the gen-eral consideration of sympathy, to its influenceon pride and humility, when these passionsarise from praise and blame, from reputationand infamy. We may observe, that no person isever praised by another for any quality, whichwould not, if real, produce, of itself, a pride in

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the person possest of it. The elogiums eitherturn upon his power, or riches, or family, orvirtue; all of which are subjects of vanity, thatwe have already explained and accounted for.It is certain, then, that if a person consideredhimself in the same light, in which he appearsto his admirer, he would first receive a sepa-rate pleasure, and afterwards a pride or self-satisfaction, according to the hypothesis aboveexplained. Now nothing is more natural thanfor us to embrace the opinions of others inthis particular; both from sympathy, which ren-ders all their sentiments intimately present tous; and from reasoning, which makes us re-gard their judgment, as a kind of argument forwhat they affirm. These two principles of au-thority and sympathy influence almost all ouropinions; but must have a peculiar influence,when we judge of our own worth and charac-

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ter. Such judgments are always attended withpassion (Book I, Part III. Sect. 10.); and nothingtends more to disturb our understanding, andprecipitate us into any opinions, however un-reasonable, than their connexion with passion;which diffuses itself over the imagination, andgives an additional force to every related idea.To which we may add, that being conscious ofgreat partiality in our own favour, we are pe-culiarly pleased with any thing, that confirmsthe good opinion we have of ourselves, and areeasily shocked with whatever opposes it.

All this appears very probable in theory; butin order to bestow a full certainty on this rea-soning, we must examine the phaenonena ofthe passions, and see if they agree with it.

Among these phaenomena we may esteem ita very favourable one to our present purposes

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that though fame in general be agreeable, yetwe receive a much greater satisfaction from theapprobation of those, whom we ourselves es-teem and approve of, than of those, whom wehate and despise. In like measure we are princi-pally mortifyed with the contempt of persons,upon whose judgment we set some value, andare, in a peat measure, indifferent about theopinions of the rest of mankind. But if the mindreceived from any original instinct a desire offame and aversion to infamy, fame and infamywould influence us without distinction; andevery opinion, according as it were favourabkor unfavourable, would equally excite that de-sire or aversion. The judgment of a fool is thejudgment of another person, as well as that ofa wise man, and is only inferior in its influenceon our own judgment.

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We are not only better pleased with the ap-probation of a wise man than with that of afool, but receive an additional satisfaction fromthe former, when it is obtained after a long andintimate acquaintance. This is accounted for af-ter the same manner.

The praises of others never give us muchpleasure, unless they concur with our ownopinion, and extol us for those qualities, inwhich we chiefly excel. A mere soldier littlevalues the character of eloquence: A gownmanof courage: A bishop of humour: Or a mer-chant of learning. Whatever esteem a man mayhave for any quality, abstractedly considered;when he is conscious he is not possest of it; theopinions of the whole world will give him lit-tle pleasure in that particular, and that becausethey never will be able to draw his own opinion

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after them.

Nothing is more usual than for men of goodfamilies, but narrow circumstances, to leavetheir friends and country, and rather seek theirlivelihood by mean and mechanical employ-ments among strangers, than among those,who are acquainted with their birth and edu-cation. We shall be unknown, say they, wherewe go. No body will suspect from what familywe are sprung. We shall be removed from allour friends and acquaintance, and our povertyand meanness will by that means sit more easyupon us. In examining these sentiments, I findthey afford many very convincing argumentsfor my present purpose.

First, We may infer from them, that the un-easiness of being contemned depends on sym-pathy, and that sympathy depends on the rela-

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tion of objects to ourselves; since we are mostuneasy under the contempt of persons, whoare both related to us by blood, and contigu-ous in place. Hence we-seek to diminish thissympathy and uneasiness by separating theserelations, and placing ourselves in a contiguityto strangers, and at a distance from relations.

Secondly, We may conclude, that relationsare requisite to sympathy, not absolutely con-sidered as relations, but by their influence inconverting our ideas of the sentiments of othersinto the very sentiments, by means of the asso-ciation betwixt the idea of their persons, andthat of our own. For here the relations of kin-dred and contiguity both subsist; but not beingunited in the same persons, they contribute ina less degree to the sympathy.

Thirdly, This very circumstance of the

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diminution of sympathy by the separation ofrelations is worthy of our attention. Sup-pose I am placed in a poor condition amongstrangers, and consequently am but lightlytreated; I yet find myself easier in that situation,than when I was every day exposed to the con-tempt of my kindred and countrymen. Here Ifeel a double contempt; from my relations, butthey are absent; from those about me, but theyare strangers. This double contempt is like-wise strengthened by the two relations of kin-dred and contiguity. But as the persons are notthe same, who are connected with me by thosetwo relations, this difference of ideas separatesthe impressions arising from the contempt, andkeeps them from running into each other. Thecontempt of my neighbours has a certain in-fluence; as has also that of my kindred: Butthese influences are distinct, and never unite;

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as when the contempt proceeds from personswho are at once both my neighbours and kin-dred. This phaenomenon is analogous to thesystem of pride and humility above-explained,which may seem so extraordinary to vulgar ap-prehensions.

Fourthly, A person in these circumstancesnaturally conceals his birth from those amongwhom he lives, and is very uneasy, if any onesuspects him to be of a family, much superiorto his present fortune and way of living. Ev-ery thing in this world is judged of by compar-ison. What is an immense fortune for a privategentleman is beggary for a prince. A peasantwould think himself happy in what cannot af-ford necessaries for a gentleman. When a manhas either been acustomed to a more splendidway of living, or thinks himself intitled to it by

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his birth and quality, every thing below is dis-agreeable and even shameful; and it is with shegreatest industry he conceals his pretensions toa better fortune. Here he himself knows hismisfortunes; but as those, with whom he lives.are ignorant of them, he has the disagreeablereflection and comparison suggested only byhis own thoughts, and never receives it by asympathy with others; which must contributevery much so his ease and satisfaction.

If there be any objections to this hypothe-sis, that the pleasure, which we receive from praise,arises from a communication of sentiments, weshall find, uponexamination, that these objec-tions, when taken in a properlight, will serveto confirm it. Popular fame may be agreeableeven to a man, who despises the vulgar; butit is because their multitude gives them ad-

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ditional weight and authority. Plagiaries aredelighted with praises, which they are con-scious they do not deserve; but this is a kind ofcastle-building, where the imagination amusesitself with its own fictions, and strives to ren-der them firm and stable by a sympathy withthe sentiments of others. Proud men are mostshocked with contempt, should they do notmost readily assent to it; but it is because of theopposition betwixt the passion, which is nat-ural so them, and that received by sympathy.A violent lover in like manner is very muchdisp pleased when you blame and condemn hislove; though it is evident your opposition canhave no influence, but by the hold it takes ofhimself, and by his sympathy with you. If hedespises you, or perceives you are in jest, what-ever you say has no effect upon him.

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SECTION XII. OF THE PRIDE AND HUMILITYOF ANIMALS

Thus in whatever light we consider this sub-ject, we may still observe, that die causes ofpride and humility correspond exactly to ourhypothesis, and that nothing can excite eitherof these passions, unless it be both related toourselves, and produces a pleasure or pain in-dependent of the passion. We have not onlyproved, that a tendency to produce pleasure orpain is common to all the causes of pride or hu-mility, but also that it is the only thing, whichis common; and consequently is the quality, bywhich they operate. We have farther proved,that the most considerable causes of these pas-sions are really nothing but the power of pro-ducing either agreeable or uneasy sensations;and therefore that all their effects, and amongst

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the rest, pride and humility, are derived solelyfrom that origin. Such simple and natural prin-ciples, founded on such solid proofs, cannotfail to be received by philosophers, unless op-posed by some objections, that have escapedme.

It is usual with anatomists to join their ob-servations and experiments on human bodiesto those on beasts, and from the agreement ofthese experiments to derive an additional argu-ment for any particular hypothesis. It is indeedcertain, that where the structure of parts inbrutes is the same as in men, and the operationof these parts also the same, the causes of thatoperation cannot be different, and that what-ever we discover to be true of the one species,may be concluded without hesitation to be cer-tain of the other. Thus though the mixture of

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humours and the composition of minute partsmay justly be presumed so be somewhat differ-ent in men from what it is in mere animals; andtherefore any experiment we make upon theone concerning the effects of medicines will notalways apply to the other; yet as the structureof the veins and muscles, the fabric and situa-tion of the heart, of the lungs, the stomach, theliver and other parts, are the same or nearly thesame in all animals, the very same hypothesis,which in one species explains muscular mo-tion, the progress of the chyle, the circulation ofthe blood, must be applicable to every one; andaccording as it agrees or disagrees with the ex-periments we may make in any species of crea-tures, we may draw a proof of its truth or fal-shood on the whole. Let us, therefore, applythis method of enquiry, which is found so justand useful in reasonings concerning the body,

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to our present anatomy of the mind, and seewhat discoveries we can make by it.

In order to this we must first shew the cor-respondence of passions in men and animals,and afterwards compare the causes, which pro-duce these passions.

It is plain, that almost in every species ofcreatures, but especially of the nobler kind,there are many evident marks of pride and hu-mility. The very port and gait of a swan, orturkey, or peacock show the high idea he hasentertained of himself, and his contempt of allothers. This is the more remarkable, that inthe two last species of animals, the pride al-ways attends the beauty, and is discovered inthe male only. The vanity and emulation ofnightingales in singing have been commonlyremarked; as likewise that of horses in swift-

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ness, of hounds in sagacity and smell, of thebull and cock in strength, and of every otheranimal in his particular excellency. Add to this,that every species of creatures, which approachso often to man, as to familiarize themselveswith him, show an evident pride in his appro-bation, and are pleased with his praises andcaresses, independent of every other consider-ation. Nor are they the caresses of every onewithout distinction, which give them this van-ity, but those principally of the persons theyknow and love; in the same manner as that pas-sion is excited in mankind. All these are ev-ident proofs, that pride and humility are notmerely human passions, but extend themselvesover the whole animal creation.

The causes of these passions are likewisemuch the same in beasts as in us, making a

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just allowance for our superior knowledge andunderstanding. Thus animals have little or nosense of virtue or vice; they quickly lose sightof the relations of blood; and are incapable ofthat of right and property: For which reasonthe causes of their pride and humility must liesolely in the body, and can never be placed ei-ther in the mind or external objects. But so faras regards the body, the same qualities causepride in the animal as in the human kind; and itis on beauty, strength, swiftness or some otheruseful or agreeable quality that this passion isalways founded.

The next question is, whether, since thosepassions are the same, and arise from the samecauses through the whole creation, the manner,in which the causes operate, be also the same.According to all rules of analogy, this is justly

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to be expected; and if we find upon trial, thatthe explication of these phaenomena, which wemake use of in one species, will not apply tothe rest, we may presume that that explication,however specious, is in reality without founda-tion.

In order to decide this question, let us con-sider, that there is evidently the same relationof ideas, and derived from the same causes, inthe minds of animals as in those of men. A dog,that has hid a bone, often forgets the place; butwhen brought to it, his thought passes easily towhat he formerly concealed, by means of thecontiguity, which produces a relation amonghis ideas. In like manner, when he has beenheartily beat in any place, he will tremble onhis approach to it, even though he discover nosigns of any present danger. The effects of re-

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semblance are not so remarkable; but as that re-lation makes a considerable ingredient in cau-sation, of which all animals shew so evident ajudgment, we may conclude that the three re-lations of resemblance, contiguity and causa-tion operate in the same manner upon beastsas upon human creatures.

There are also instances of the relation of im-pressions, sufficient to convince us, that there isan union of certain affections with each other inthe inferior species of creatures as well as in thesuperior, and that their minds are frequentlyconveyed through a series of connected emo-tions. A dog, when elevated with joy, runs nat-urally into love and kindness, whether of hismaster or of the sex. In like manner, when fullof pain and sorrow, he becomes quarrelsomeand illnatured; and that passion; which at first

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was grief, is by the smallest occasion convertedinto anger.

Thus all the internal principles, that are nec-essary in us to produce either pride or humil-ity, are commcm to all creaturn; and since thecauses, which excite these passions, are like-wise the same, we may justly conclude, thatthese causes operate after the same mannerthrough the whole animal creation. My hy-pothesis Is so simple, and supposes so little re-flection and judgment, that it is applicable toevery sensible creature; which must not only beallowed to be a convincing proof of its veracity,but, I am confident, will be found an objectionto every other system.

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PART II

OF LOVE AND HATRED

SECTION I. OF THE OBJECT AND CAUSES OFLOVE AND HATRED

It is altogether impossible to give any defi-nition of the passions of love and hatred; andthat because they produce merely a simple im-pression, without any mixture or composition.Twould be as unnecessary to attempt any de-scription of them, drawn from their nature, ori-gin, causes and objects; and that both becausethese are the subjects of our present enquiry,and because these passions of themselves aresufficiently known from our common feelingand experience. This we have already observed

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concerning pride and humility, and here repeatit concerning love and hatred; and indeed thereis so great a resemblance betwixt these two setsof passions, that we shall be obliged to beginwith a kind of abridgment of our reasoningsconcerning the former, in order to explain thelatter.

As the immediate object of pride and humil-ity is self or that identical person, of whosethoughts, actions, and sensations we are inti-mately conscious; so the object of love and ha-tred is some other person, of whose thoughts,actions, and sensations we are not conscious.This is sufficiently evident from experience.Our love and hatred are always directed tosome sensible being external to us; and whenwe talk of self-love, it is not in a proper sense,nor has the sensation it produces any thing in

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common with that tender emotion which is ex-cited by a friend or mistress. It is the same casewith hatred. We may be mortified by our ownfaults and follies; but never feel any anger orhatred except from the injuries of others.

But though the object of love and hatredbe always some other person, it is plain thatthe object is not, properly speaking, the causeof these passions, or alone sufficient to excitethem. For since love and hatred are directlycontrary in their sensation, and have the sameobject in common, if that object were also theircause, it would produce these opposite pas-sions in an equal degree; and as they must,from the very first moment, destroy each other,none of them would ever be able to make its ap-pearance. There must, therefore, be some causedifferent from the object.

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If we consider the causes of love and ha-tred, we shall find they are very much diver-sifyed, and have not many things in common.The virtue, knowledge, wit, good sense, goodhumour of any person, produce love and es-teem; as the opposite qualities, hatred and con-tempt. The same passions arise from bodilyaccomplishments, such as beauty, force, swift-ness, dexterity; and from their contraries; aslikewise from the external advantages and dis-advantages of family, possession, cloaths, na-tion and climate. There is not one of these ob-jects, but what by its different qualities mayproduce love and esteem, or hatred and con-tempt.

From the view of these causes we may de-rive a new distinction betwixt the quality thatoperates, and the subject on which it is placed.

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A prince, that is possessed of a stately palace,commands the esteem of the people upon thataccount; and that first, by the beauty of thepalace, and secondly, by the relation of prop-erty, which connects it with him. The re-moval of either of these destroys the passion;which evidently proves that the cause Is a com-pounded one.

Twould be tedious to trace the passions oflove and hatred, through all the observationswhich we have formed concerning pride andhumility, and which are equally applicable toboth sets of passions. Twill be sufficient to re-mark in general, that the object of love andhatred is evidently some thinking person; andthat the sensation of the former passion is al-ways agreeable, and of the latter uneasy. Wemay also suppose with some shew of probabil-

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ity, that the cause of both these passions is alwaysrelated to a thinking being, and that the cause of theformer produce a separate pleasure, and of the lattera separate uneasiness.

One of these suppositions, viz, that the causeof love and hatred must be related to a per-son or thinking being, in order to produce thesepassions, is not only probable, but too evidentto be contested. Virtue and vice, when con-sidered in the abstract; beauty and deformity,when placed on inanimate objects; poverty andriches when belonging to a third person, exciteno degree of love or hatred, esteem or contempttowards those, who have no relation to them. Aperson looking out at a window, sees me in thestreet, and beyond me a beautiful palace, withwhich I have no concern: I believe none willpretend, that this person will pay me the same

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respect, as if I were owner of the palace.

It is not so evident at first sight, that a re-lation of impressions is requisite to these pas-sions, and that because in the transition theone impression is so much confounded withthe other, that they become in a manner undis-tinguishable. But as in pride and humility, wehave easily been able to make the separation,and to prove, that every cause of these pas-sions, produces a separate pain or pleasure,I might here observe the same method withthe same success, in examining particularly theseveral causes of love and hatred. But as I has-ten a full and decisive proof of these systems,I delay this examination for a moment: Andin the mean time shall endeavour to convert tomy present purpose all my reaaonings concern-ing pride and humility, by an argument that is

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founded on unquestionable examination.

There are few persons, that are satisfyedwith their own character, or genius, or fortune,who are nor desirous of shewing themselves tothe world, and of acquiring the love and appro-bation of mankind. Now it is evident, that thevery same qualities and circumstances, whichare the causes of pride or self-esteem, are alsothe causes of vanity or the desire of reputation;and that we always put to view those partic-ulars with which in ourselves we are best sat-isfyed. But if love and esteem were not pro-duced by the same qualities as pride, accord-ing as these qualities are related to ourselvesor others, this method of proceeding would bevery absurd, nor coued men expect a corre-spondence in the sentiments of every other per-son, with those themselves have entertained.

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It is true, few can form exact systems of thepassions, or make reflections on their generalnature and resemblances. But without such aprogress in philosophy, we are not subject tomany mistakes in this particular, but are suffi-ciently guided by common experience, as wellas by a kind of presentation; which tells uswhat will operate on others, by what we feelimmediately in ourselves. Since then the samequalities that produce pride or humility, causelove or hatred; all the arguments that have beenemployed to prove, that the causes of the for-mer passions excite a pain or pleasure inde-pendent of the passion, will be applicable withequal evidence to the causes of the latter.

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SECTION II. EXPERIMENTS TO CONFIRMTHIS SYSTEM

Upon duly weighing these arguments, noone will make any scruple to assent to that con-dusion I draw from them, concerning the tran-sition along related impressions and ideas, es-pecially as it is a principle, in itself, so easyand natural. But that we may place this sys-tem beyond doubt both with regard to love andhatred, pride and humility, it will be properto make some new experiments upon all thesepassions, as well as to recal a few of theseobservations, which I have formerly touchedupon.

In order to make these experiments, let ussuppose I am in company with a person, whomI formerly regarded without any sentiments ei-ther of friendship or enmity. Here I have the

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natural and ultimate object of all these fourpassions placed before me. Myself am theproper object of pride or humility; the otherperson of love or hatred.

Regard now with attention the nature ofthese passions, and their situation with respectto each other. It is evident here are four affec-tions, placed, as it were, in a square or reg-ular connexion with, and distance from eachother. The passions of pride and humility, aswell as those of love and hatred, are connectedtogether by the identity of their object, whichto the first set of passions is self, to the secondsome other person. These two lines of com-munication or connexion form two oppositesides of the square. Again, pride and love areagreeable passions; hatred and humility un-easy. This similitude of sensation betwixt pride

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and love, and that betwixt humility and hatredform a new connexion, and may be consideredas the other two sides of the square. Upon thewhole, pride is connected with humility, lovewith hatred, by their objects or ideas: Pridewith love, humility with hatred, by their sen-sations or impressions.

I say then, that nothing can produce any ofthese passions without bearing it a double re-lation, viz, of ideas to the object of the passion,and of sensation to the passion itself. This wemust prove by our experiments. First Exper-iment. To proceed with the greater order inthese experiments, let us first suppose, that be-ing placed in the situation above-mentioned,viz, in company with some other person, thereis an object presented, that has no relation ei-ther of impressions or ideas to any of these pas-

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sions. Thus suppose we regard together an or-dinary stone, or other common object, belong-ing to neither of us, and causing of itself noemotion, or independent pain and pleasure: Itis evident such an object will produce none ofthese four passions. Let us try it upon each ofthem successively. Let us apply it to love, tohatred, to humility, to pride; none of them everarises in the smallest degree imaginable. Letus change the object, as oft as we please; pro-vided still we choose one, that has neither ofthese two relations. Let us repeat the experi-ment in all the dispositions, of which the mindis susceptible. No object, in the vast variety ofnature, will, in any disposition, produce anypassion without these relations.

Second Experiment. Since an object, thatwants both these relations can never produce

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any passion, let us bestow on it only one ofthese relations; and see what will follow. Thussuppose, I regard a stone or any common ob-ject, that belongs either to me or my compan-ion, and by that means acquires a relation ofideas to the object of the passions: It is plain,that to consider the matter a priori, no emotionof any kind can reasonably be expected. For be-sides, that a relation of ideas operates secretlyand calmly on the mind, it bestows an equalimpulse towards the opposite passions of prideand humility, love and hatred, according as theobject belongs to ourselves or others; which op-position of the passions must destroy both, andleave the mind perfectly free from any affectionor emotion. This reasoning a priori is confirmedby experience. No trivial or vulgar object, thatcauses not a pain or pleasure, independent ofthe passion, will ever, by its property or other

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relations either to ourselves or others, be ableto produce the affections of pride or humility,love or hatred.

Third Experiment. It is evident, therefore,that a relation of ideas is not able alone to giverise to these affections. Let us now removethis relation, and in its stead place a relation ofimpressions, by presenting an object, which isagreeable or disagreeable, but has no relationeither to ourself or companion; and let us ob-serve the consequences. To consider the mat-ter first a priori, as in the preceding experiment;we may conclude, that the object will have asmall, but an uncertain connexion with thesepassions. For besides, that this relation is nota cold and imperceptible one, it has not the in-convenience of the relation of ideas, nor directsus with equal force to two contrary passions,

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which by their opposition destroy each other.But if we consider, on the other hand, that thistransition from the sensation to the affectionis not forwarded by any principle, that pro-duces a transition of ideas; but, on the contrary,that though the one impression be easily trans-fused into the other, yet the change of objectsis supposed contrary to all the principles, thatcause a transition of that kind; we may fromthence infer, that nothing will ever be a steadyor durable cause of any passion, that is con-nected with the passion merely by a relationof impressions. What our reason would con-clude from analogy, after balancing these ar-guments, would be, that an object, which pro-duces pleasure or uneasiness, but has no man-ner of connexion either with ourselves or oth-ers, may give such a turn to the disposition, asthat may naturally fall into pride or love, hu-

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mility or hatred, and search for other objects,upon which by a double relation, it can foundthese affections; but that an object, which hasonly one of these relations, though the most ad-vantageous one, can never give rise to any con-stant and established passion.

Most fortunately all this reasoning is foundto be exactly conformable to experience, andthe phaenomena of the passions. Suppose Iwere travelling with a companion through acountry, to which we are both utter strangers;it is evident, that if the prospects be beautiful,the roads agreeable, and the inns commodious,this may put me into good humour both withmyself and fellow-traveller. But as we sup-pose, that this country has no relation either tomyself or friend it can never be the immediatecause of pride or love; and therefore if I found

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not the passion on some other object, that bearseither of us a closer relation, my emotions arerather to be considerd as the overflowings of anelevate or humane disposition, than as an es-tablished passion. The case is the same wherethe object produces uneasiness.

Fourth Experiment. Having found, that nei-ther an object without any relation of ideasor impressions, nor an object, that has onlyone relation, can ever cause pride or humil-ity, love or hatred; reason alone may convinceus, without any farther experiment, that what-ever has a double relation must necessarily ex-cite these passions; since it is evident they musthave some cause. But to leave as little roomfor doubt as possible, let us renew our experi-ments, and see whether the event in this caseanswers our expectation. I choose an object,

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such as virtue, that causes a separate satisfac-tion: On this object I bestow a relation to self;and find, that from this disposition of affairs,there immediately arises a passion. But whatpassion? That very one of pride, to which thisobject bears a double relation. Its idea is re-lated to that of self, the object of the passion:The sensation it causes resembles the sensationof the passion. That I may be sure I am notmistaken in this experiment, I remove first onerelation; then another; and find, that each re-moval destroys the passion, and leaves the ob-ject perfectly indifferent. But I am not contentwith this. I make a still farther trial; and in-stead of removing the relation, I only changeit for one of a different kind. I suppose thevirtue to belong to my companion, not to my-self; and observe what follows from this al-teration. I immediately perceive the affections

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wheel to about, and leaving pride, where thereis only one relation, viz, of impressions, fallto the side of love, where they are attractedby a double relation of impressions and ideas.By repeating the same experiment, in changinganew the relation of ideas, I bring the affectionsback to pride; and by a new repetition I againplace them at love or kindness. Being fully con-vinced of the influence of this relation, I try theeffects of the other; and by changing virtue forvice, convert the pleasant impression, whicharises from the former, into the disagreeableone, which proceeds from the latter. The effectstill answers expectation. Vice, when placedon another, excites, by means of its double re-lations, the passion of hatred, instead of love,which for the same reason arises from virtue.To continue the experiment, I change anew therelation of ideas, and suppose the vice to be-

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long to myself. What follows? What is usual.A subsequent change of the passion from ha-tred to humility. This humility I convert intopride by a new change of the impression; andfind after all that I have compleated the round,and have by these changes brought back thepassion to that very situation, in which I firstfound it.

But to make the matter still more certain, Ialter the object; and instead of vice and virtue,make the trial upon beauty and deformity,riches and poverty, power and servitude. Eachof these objects runs the circle of the passionsin the same manner, by a change of their re-lations: And in whatever order we proceed,whether through pride, love, hatred, humility,or through humility, hatred, love, pride, theexperiment is not in the least diversifyed. Es-

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teem and contempt, indeed, arise on some oc-casions instead of love and hatred; but theseare at the bottom the same passions, only diver-sifyed by some causes, which we shall explainafterwards.

Fifth Experiment. To give greater author-ity to these experiments, let us change thesituation of affairs as much as possible, andplace the passions and objects in all the dif-ferent positions, of which they are suscepti-ble. Let us suppose, beside the relations above-mentioned, that the person, along with whomI make all these experiments, is closely con-nected with me either by blood or friendship.He is, we shall suppose, my son or brother, oris united to me by a long and familiar acquain-tance. Let us next suppose, that the cause ofthe passion acquires a double relation of im-

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pressions and ideas to this person; and let ussee what the effects are of all these complicatedattractions and relations.

Before we consider what they are in fact,let us determine what they ought to be, con-formable to my hypothesis. It is plain, that, ac-cording as the impression is either pleasant oruneasy, the passion of love or hatred must arisetowards the person, who is thus connected tothe cause of the impression by these double re-lations, which I have all along required. Thevirtue of a brother must make me love him; ashis vice or infamy must excite the contrary pas-sion. But to judge only from the situation ofaffairs, I should not expect, that the affectionswould rest there, and never transfuse them-selves into any other impression. As there ishere a person, who by means of a double rela-

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tion is the object of my passion, the very samereasoning leads me to think the passion will becarryed farther. The person has a relation ofideas to myself, according to the supposition;the passion, of which he is the object, by be-ing either agreeable or uneasy, has a relation ofimpressions to pride or humility. It is evident,then, that one of these passions must arise fromthe love or hatred.

This is the reasoning I form in conformity tomy hypothesis; and am pleased to find upontrial that every thing answers exactly to my ex-pectation. The virtue or vice of a son or brothernot only excites love or hatred, but by a newtransition, from similar causes, gives rise topride or humility. Nothing causes greater van-ity than any shining quality in our relations; asnothing mortifies us more than their vice or in-

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famy. This exact conformity of experience toour reasoning is a convincing proof of the so-lidity of that hypothesis, upon which we rea-son.

Sixth Experiment. This evidence will be stillaugmented, if we reverse the experiment, andpreserving still the same relations, begin onlywith a different passion. Suppose, that in-stead of the virtue or vice of a son or brother,which causes first love or hatred, and after-wards pride or humility, we place these goodor bad qualities on ourselves, without any im-mediate connexion with the person, who is re-lated to us: Experience shews us, that by thischange of situation the whole chain is broke,and that the mind is not conveyed from onepassion to another, as in the preceding instance.We never love or hate a son or brother for the

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virtue or vice we discern in ourselves; thoughit is evident the same qualities in him give usa very sensible pride or humility. The transi-tion from pride or humility to love or hatred isnot so natural as from love or hatred to prideor humility. This may at first sight be esteemedcontrary to my hypothesis; since the relationsof impressions and ideas are in both cases pre-cisely the same. Pride and humility are im-pressions related to love and hatred. Myselfam related to the person. It should, therefore,be expected, that like causes must produce likeeffects, and a perfect transition arise from thedouble relation, as in all other cases. This diffi-culty we may easily solve by the following re-flections.

It is evident, that as we are at all times inti-mately conscious of ourselves, our sentiments

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and passions, their ideas must strike upon uswith greater vivacity than the ideas of the sen-timents and passions of any other person. Butevery thing, that strikes upon us with vivacity,and appears in a full and strong light, forces it-self, in a manner, into our consideration, andbecomes present to the mind on the smallesthint and most trivial relation. For the same rea-son, when it is once present, it engages the at-tention, and keeps it from wandering to otherobjects, however strong may be their relation toour first object. The imagination passes easilyfrom obscure to lively ideas, but with difficultyfrom lively to obscure. In the one case the rela-tion is aided by another principle: In the othercase, it is opposed by it.

Now I have observed, that those two facul-ties of the mind, the imagination and passions,

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assist each other in their operations when theirpropensities are similar, and when they actupon the same object. The mind has always apropensity to pass from a passion to any otherrelated to it; and this propensity is forwardedwhen the object of the one passion is relatedto that of the other. The two impulses concurwith each other, and render the whole transi-tion more smooth and easy. But if it shouldhappen, that while the relation of ideas, strictlyspeaking, continues the same, its influence, incausing a transition of the imagination, shouldno longer take place, it is evident its influenceon the passions must also cease, as being de-pendent entirely on that transition. This is thereason why pride or humility is not transfusedinto love or hatred with the same ease, that thelatter passions are changed into the former. Ifa person be my brother I am his likewise: but

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though the relations be reciprocal they havevery different effects on the imagination. Thepassage is smooth and open from the consid-eration of any person related to us to that ofourself, of whom we are every moment con-scious. But when the affections are once di-rected to ourself, the fancy passes not with thesame facility from that object to any other per-son, how closely so ever connected with us.This easy or difficult transition of the imagi-nation operates upon the passions, and facili-tates or retards their transition, which is a clearproof, that these two faculties of the passionsand imagination are connected together, andthat the relations of ideas have an influenceupon the affections. Besides innumerable ex-periments that prove this, we here find, thateven when the relation remains; if by any par-ticular circumstance its usual effect upon the

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fancy in producing an association or transitionof ideas, is prevented; its usual effect upon thepassions, in conveying us from one to another,is in like manner prevented.

Some may, perhaps, find a contradiction be-twixt this phaenomenon and that of sympathy,where the mind passes easily from the idea ofourselves to that of any other object related tous. But this difficulty will vanish, if we con-sider that in sympathy our own person is notthe object of any passion, nor is there any thing,that fixes our attention on ourselves; as in thepresent case, where we are supposed to be ac-tuated with pride or humility. Ourself, inde-pendent of the perception of every other ob-ject, is in reality nothing: For which reason wemust turn our view to external objects; and itis natural for us to consider with most atten-

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tion such as lie contiguous to us, or resembleus. But when self is the object of a passion,it is not natural to quit the consideration of it,till the passion be exhausted: in which case thedouble relations of impressions and ideas canno longer operate.

Seventh Experiment. To put this whole rea-soning to a farther trial, let us make a new ex-periment; and as we have already seen the ef-fects of related passions and ideas, let us heresuppose an identity of passions along with arelation of ideas; and let us consider the effectsof this new situation. It is evident a transi-tion of the passions from the one object to theother is here in all reason to be expected; sincethe relation of ideas is supposed still to con-tinue, and identity of impressions must pro-duce a stronger connexion, than the most per-

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fect resemblance, that can be imagined. If adouble relation, therefore, of impressions andideas is able to produce a transition from oneto the other, much more an identity of impres-sions with a relation of ideas. Accordingly wefind, that when we either love or hate any per-son, the passions seldom continue within theirfirst bounds; but extend themselves towardsall the contiguous objects, and comprehend thefriends and relations of him we love or hate.Nothing is more natural than to bear a kind-ness to one brother on account of our friend-ship for another, without any farther examina-tion of his character. A quarrel with one persongives us a hatred for the whole family, thoughentirely innocent of that, which displeases us.Instances of this kind are every where to be metwith.

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There is only one difficulty in this experi-ment, which it will be necessary to account for,before we proceed any farther. It is evident,that though all passions pass easily from oneobject to another related to it, yet this transi-tion is made with greater facility, where themore considerable object is first presented, andthe lesser follows it, than where this order isreversed, and the lesser takes the precedence.Thus it is more natural for us to love the sonupon account of the father, than the fatherupon account of the son; the servant for themaster, than the master for the servant; the sub-ject for the prince, than the prince for the sub-ject. In like manner we more readily contracta hatred against a whole family, where our firstquarrel is with the head of it, than where we aredispleased with a son, or servant, or some infe-rior member. In short, our passions, like other

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objects, descend with greater facility than theyascend.

That we may comprehend, wherein consiststhe difficulty of explaining this phaenomenon,we must consider, that the very same reason,which determines the imagination to pass fromremote to contiguous objects, with more facil-ity than from contiguous to remote, causes itlikewise to change with more ease, the less forthe greater, than the greater for the less. What-ever has the greatest influence is most takennotice of; and whatever is most taken noticeof, presents itself most readily to the imagina-tion. We are more apt to over-look in any sub-ject, what is trivial, than what appears of con-siderable moment; but especially if the lattertakes the precedence, and first engages our at-tention. Thus if any accident makes us consider

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the Satellites of Jupiter, our fancy is naturallydetermined to form the idea of that planet; butif we first reflect on the principal planet, it ismore natural for us to overlook its attendants.The mention of the provinces of any empireconveys our thought to the seat of the empire;but the fancy returns not with the same facil-ity to the consideration of the provinces. Theidea of the servant makes us think of the mas-ter; that of the subject carries our view to theprince. But the same relation has not an equalinfluence in conveying us back again. And onthis is founded that reproach of Cornelia to hersons, that they ought to be ashamed she shouldbe more known by the title of the daughter ofScipio than by that of the mother of the Grac-chi. This was, in other words, exhorting themto render themselves as illustrious and famousas their grandfather, otherwise the imagination

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of the people, passing from her who was in-termediate, and placed in an equal relation toboth, would always leave them, and denomi-nate her by what was more considerable andof greater moment. On the same principle isfounded that common custom of making wivesbear the name of their husbands, rather thanhusbands that of their wives; as also the cere-mony of giving the precedency to those, whomwe honour and respect. We might find manyother instances to confirm this principle, wereit not already sufficiently evident.

Now since the fancy finds the same facil-ity in passing from the lesser to the greater,as from remote to contiguous, why does notthis easy transition of ideas assist the transi-tion of passions in the former case, as well asin the latter? The virtues of a friend or brother

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produce first love, and then pride; because inthat case the imagination passes from remoteto contiguous, according to its propensity. Ourown virtues produce not first pride, and thenlove to a friend or brother; because the passagein that case would be from contiguous to re-mote, contrary to its propensity. But the loveor hatred of an inferior causes not readily anypassion to the superior, though that be the nat-ural propensity of the imagination: While thelove or hatred of a superior, causes a passionto the inferior, contrary to its propensity. Inshort, the same facility of transition operatesnot in the same manner upon superior and in-ferior as upon contiguous and remote. Thesetwo phaenomena appear contradictory, and re-quire some attention to be reconciled.

As the transition of ideas is here made con-

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trary to the natural propensity of the imagi-nation, that faculty must be overpowered bysome stronger principle of another kind; andas there is nothing ever present to the mindbut impressions and ideas, this principle mustnecessarily lie in the impressions. Now it hasbeen observed, that impressions or passionsare connected only by their resemblance, andthat where any two passions place the mindin the same or in similar dispositions, it verynaturally passes from the one to the other: Ason the contrary, a repugnance in the disposi-tions produces a difficulty in the transition ofthe passions. But it is observable, that this re-pugnance may arise from a difference of de-gree as well as of kind; nor do we experiencea greater difficulty in passing suddenly from asmall degree of love to a small degree of ha-tred, than from a small to a great degree of ei-

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ther of these affections. A man, when calm oronly moderately agitated, is so different, in ev-ery respect, from himself, when disturbed witha violent passion, that no two persons can bemore unlike; nor is it easy to pass from the oneextreme to the other, without a considerable in-terval betwixt them.

The difficulty is not less, if it be not rathergreater, in passing from the strong passion tothe weak, than in passing from the weak to thestrong, provided the one passion upon its ap-pearance destroys the other, and they do notboth of them exist at once. But the case is en-tirely altered, when the passions unite together,and actuate the mind at the same time. A weakpassion, when added to a strong, makes not soconsiderable a change in the disposition, as astrong when added to a weak; for which reason

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there is a closer connexion betwixt the great de-gree and the small, than betwixt the small de-gree and the great.

The degree of any passion depends upon thenature of its object; and an affection directedto a person, who is considerable in our eyes,fills and possesses the mind much more thanone, which has for its object a person we es-teem of less consequence. Here then the contra-diction betwixt the propensities of the imagina-tion and passion displays itself. When we turnour thought to a great and a small object, theimagination finds more facility in passing fromthe small to the great, than from the great tothe small; but the affections find a greater diffi-culty: And as the affections are a more power-ful principle than the imagination, no wonderthey prevail over it, and draw the mind to their

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side. In spite of the difficulty of passing fromthe idea of great to that of little, a passion di-rected to the former, produces always a similarpassion towards the latter; when the great andlittle are related together. The idea of the ser-vant conveys our thought most readily to themaster; but the hatred or love of the masterproduces with greater facility anger or good-will to the servant. The strongest passion inthis case takes the precedence; and the additionof the weaker making no considerable changeon the disposition, the passage is by that meansrendered more easy and natural betwixt them.

As in the foregoing experiment we found,that a relation of ideas, which, by any particu-lar circumstance, ceases to produce its usual ef-fect of facilitating the transition of ideas, ceaseslikewise to operate on the passions; so in the

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present experiment we find the same propertyof the impressions. Two different degrees ofthe same passion are surely related together;but if the smaller be first present, it has little orno tendency to introduce the greater; and thatbecause the addition of the great to the little,produces a more sensible alteration on the tem-per, than the addition of the little to the great.These phaenomena, when duly weighed, willbe found convincing proofs of this hypothesis.

And these proofs will be confirmed, if weconsider the manner in which the mind herereconciles the contradiction, I have observedbetwixt the passions and the imagination. Thefancy passes with more facility from the lessto the greater, than from the greater to theless: But on the contrary a violent passionproduces more easily a feeble, than that does

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a violent. In this opposition the passion inthe end prevails over the imagination; but itis commonly by complying with it, and byseeking another quality, which may counter-ballance that principle, from whence the oppo-sition arises. When we love the father or mas-ter of a family, we little think of his childrenor servants. But when these are present withus, or when it lies any ways in our power toserve them, the nearness and contiguity in thiscase encreases their magnitude, or at least re-moves that opposition, which the fancy makesto the transition of the affections. If the imagi-nation finds a difficulty in passing from greaterto less, it finds an equal facility in passing fromremote to contiguous, which brings the matterto an equality, and leaves the way open fromthe one passion to the other.

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Eighth Experiment. I have observed that thetransition from love or hatred to pride or hu-mility, is more easy than from pride or humilityto love or hatred; and that the difficulty, whichthe imagination finds in passing from contigu-ous to remote, is the cause why we scarce haveany instance of the latter transition of the af-fections. I must, however, make one exception,viz, when the very cause of the pride and hu-mility is placed in some other person. For inthat case the imagination is necessitated to con-sider the person, nor can it possibly confine itsview to ourselves. Thus nothing more readilyproduces kindness and affection to any person,than his approbation of our conduct and char-acter: As on the other hand, nothing inspires uswith a stronger hatred, than his blame or con-tempt. Here it is evident, that the original pas-sion is pride or humility, whose object is self;

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and that this passion is transfused into loveor hatred, whose object is some other person,notwithstanding the rule I have already estab-lished, that the imagination passes with difficultyfrom contiguous to remote. But the transition inthis case is not made merely on account of therelation betwixt ourselves and the person; butbecause that very person is the real cause ofour first passion, and of consequence is inti-mately connected with it. It is his approbationthat produces pride; and disapprobation, hu-mility. No wonder, then, the imagination re-turns back again attended with the related pas-sions of love and hatred. This is not a contra-diction, but an exception to the rule; and an ex-ception that arises from the same reason withthe rule itself.

Such an exception as this is, therefore, rather

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a confirmation of the rule. And indeed, if weconsider all the eight experiments I have ex-plained, we shall find that the same principleappears in all of them, and that it is by meansof a transition arising from a double relation ofimpressions and ideas, pride and humility, loveand hatred are produced. An object without(First Experiment.) a relation, or (Second andThird Experiments) with but one, never pro-duces either of these passions; and it is (FourthExperiment.) found that the passion alwaysvaries in conformity to the relation. Nay wemay observe, that where the relation, by anyparticular circumstance, has not its usual effectof producing a transition either of (Sixth Ex-periment.) ideas or of impressions, it ceasesto operate upon the passions, and gives riseneither to pride nor love, humility nor hatred.This rule we find still to hold good (Seventh

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and Eighth Experiments.) even under the ap-pearance of its contrary; and as relation is fre-quently experienced to have no effect; whichupon examination is found to proceed fromsome particular circumstance, that prevents thetransition; so even in instances, where that cir-cumstance, though present, prevents not thetransition, it is found to arise from some othercircumstance, which counter-balances it. Thusnot only the variations resolve themselves intothe general principle, but even the variations ofthese variations.

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SECTION III. DIFFICULTIES SOLVED

After so many and such undeniable proofsdrawn from daily experience and observation,it may seem superfluous to enter into a partic-ular examination of all the causes of love andhatred. I shall, therefore, employ the sequelof this part, First, In removing some difficul-ties, concerning particular causes of these pas-sions. Secondly, In examining the compoundaffections, which arise from the mixture of loveand hatred with other emotions.

Nothing is more evident, than that any per-son acquires our kindness, or is exposed to ourill-will, in proportion to the pleasure or uneasi-ness we receive from him, and that the passionskeep pace exactly with the sensations in alltheir changes and variations. Whoever can find

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the means either by his services, his beauty, orhis flattery, to render himself useful or agree-able to us, is sure of our affections: As on theother hand, whoever harms or displeases usnever fails to excite our anger or hatred. Whenour own nation is at war with any other, wedetest them under the character of cruel, per-fidious, unjust and violent: But always esteemourselves and allies equitable, moderate, andmerciful. If the general of our enemies be suc-cessful, it is with difficulty we allow him thefigure and character of a man. He is a sor-cerer: He has a communication with daemons;as is reported of Oliver Cromwell, and the Dukeof Luxembourg: He is bloody-minded, and takesa pleasure in death and destruction. But if thesuccess be on our side, our commander has allthe opposite good qualities, and is a pattern ofvirtue, as well as of courage and conduct. His

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treachery we call policy: His cruelty is an evilinseparable from war. In short, every one ofhis faults we either endeavour to extenuate, ordignify it with the name of that virtue, whichapproaches it. It is evident the same method ofthinking runs through common life.

There are some, who add another condition,and require not only that the pain and pleasurearise from the person, but likewise that it ariseknowingly, and with a particular design andintention. A man, who wounds and harms usby accident, becomes not our enemy upon thataccount, nor do we think ourselves bound byany ties of gratitude to one, who does us anyservice after the same manner. By the intentionwe judge of the actions, and according as thatis good or bad, they become causes of love orhatred.

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But here we must make a distinction. Ifthat quality in another, which pleases or dis-pleases, be constant and inherent in his per-son and character, it will cause love or hatredindependent of the intention: But otherwise aknowledge and design is requisite, in order togive rise to these passions. One that is dis-agreeable by his deformity or folly is the ob-ject of our aversion, though nothing be morecertain, than that he has not the least inten-tion of displeasing us by these qualities. Butif the uneasiness proceed not from a quality,but an action, which is produced and annihi-lated in a moment, it is necessary, in order toproduce some relation, and connect this actionsufficiently with the person, that it be derivedfrom a particular fore-thought and design. Itis not enough, that the action arise from theperson, and have him for its immediate cause

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and author. This relation alone is too feebleand inconstant to be a foundation for these pas-sions. It reaches not the sensible and think-ing part, and neither proceeds from any thingdurable in him, nor leaves any thing behind it;but passes in a moment, and is as if it had neverbeen. On the other hand, an intention shewscertain qualities, which remaining after the ac-tion is performed, connect it with the person,and facilitate the transition of ideas from oneto the other. We can never think of him with-out reflecting on these qualities; unless repen-tance and a change of life have produced an al-teration in that respect: In which case the pas-sion is likewise altered. This therefore is onereason, why an intention is requisite to exciteeither love or hatred.

But we must farther consider, that an inten-

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tion, besides its strengthening the relation ofideas, is often necessary to produce a relationof impressions, and give rise to pleasure anduneasiness. For it is observable, that the prin-cipal part of an injury is the contempt and ha-tred, which it shews in the person, that injuresus; and without that, the mere harm gives us aless sensible uneasiness. In like manner, a goodoffice is agreeable, chiefly because it flatters ourvanity, and is a proof of the kindness and es-teem of the person, who performs it. The re-moval of the intention, removes the mortifica-tion in the one case, and vanity in the other, andmust of course cause a remarkable diminutionin the passions of love and hatred.

I grant, that these effects of the removal ofdesign, in diminishing the relations of impres-sions and ideas, are not entire, nor able to re-

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move every degree of these relations. But thenI ask, if the removal of design be able entirelyto remove the passion of love and hatred? Ex-perience, I am sure, informs us of the contrary,nor is there any thing more certain, than thatmen often fall into a violent anger for injuries,which they themselves must own to be entirelyinvoluntary and accidental. This emotion, in-deed, cannot be of long continuance; but stillis sufficient to shew, that there is a natural con-nexion betwixt uneasiness and anger, and thatthe relation of impressions will operate upon avery small relation of ideas. But when the vi-olence of the impression is once a little abated,the defect of the relation begins to be better felt;and as the character of a person is no wise in-terested in such injuries as are casual and in-voluntary, it seldom happens that on their ac-count, we entertain a lasting enmity.

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To illustrate this doctrine by a parallel in-stance, we may observe, that not only the un-easiness, which proceeds from another by acci-dent, has but little force to excite our passion,but also that which arises from an acknowl-edged necessity and duty. One that has a realdesign of harming us, proceeding not from ha-tred and ill-will, but from justice and equity,draws not upon him our anger, if we be in anydegree reasonable; notwithstanding he is boththe cause, and the knowing cause of our suffer-ings. Let us examine a little this phaenomenon.

It is evident in the first place, that this cir-cumstance is not decisive; and though it maybe able to diminish the passions, it is seldom itcan entirely remove them. How few criminalsare there, who have no ill-will to the person,that accuses them, or to the judge, that con-

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demns them, even though they be conscious oftheir own deserts? In like manner our antago-nist in a law-suit, and our competitor for anyoffice, are commonly regarded as our enemies;though we must acknowledge, if we would butreflect a moment, that their motive is entirely asjustifiable as our own.

Besides we may consider, that when we re-ceive harm from any person, we are apt toimagine him criminal, and it is with extremedifficulty we allow of his justice and innocence.This is a clear proof, that, independent of theopinion of iniquity, any harm or uneasinesshas a natural tendency to excite our hatred,and that afterwards we seek for reasons uponwhich we may justify and establish the passion.Here the idea of injury produces not the pas-sion, but arises from it.

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Nor is it any wonder that passion shouldproduce the opinion of injury; since otherwiseit must suffer a considerable diminution, whichall the passions avoid as much as possible. Theremoval of injury may remove the anger, with-out proving that the anger arises only from theinjury. The harm and the justice are two con-trary objects, of which the one has a tendencyto produce hatred, and the other love; and itis according to their different degrees, and ourparticular turn of thinking, that either of the ob-jects prevails, and excites its proper passion.

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SECTION IV. OF THE LOVE OF RELATIONS

Having given a reason, why several actions,that cause a real pleasure or uneasiness, excitenot any degree, or but a small one, of the pas-sion of love or hatred towards the actors; itwill be necessary to shew, wherein consists thepleasure or uneasiness of many objects, whichwe find by experience to produce these pas-sions.

According to the preceding system there isalways required a double relation of impres-sions and ideas betwixt the cause and effect,in order to produce either love or hatred. Butthough this be universally true, it is remarkablethat the passion of love may be excited by onlyone relation of a different kind, viz, betwixtourselves and the object; or more properly

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speaking, that this relation is always attendedwith both the others. Whoever is united to usby any connexion is always sure of a share ofour love, proportioned to the connexion, with-out enquiring into his other qualities. Thus therelation of blood produces the strongest tie themind is capable of in the love of parents to theirchildren, and a lesser degree of the same affec-tion, as the relation lessens. Nor has consan-guinity alone this effect, but any other relationwithout exception. We love our country-men,our neighbours, those of the same trade, pro-fession, and even name with ourselves. Everyone of these relations is esteemed some tie, andgives a title to a share of our affection.

There is another phaenomenon, which isparallel to this, viz, that acquaintance, with-out any kind of relation, gives rise to love and

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kindness. When we have contracted a habitudeand intimacy with any person; though in fre-quenting his company we have not been ableto discover any very valuable quality, of whichhe is possessed; yet we cannot forebear prefer-ring him to strangers, of whose superior meritwe are fully convinced. These two phaenom-ena of the effects of relation and acquaintancewill give mutual light to each other, and maybe both explained from the same principle.

Those, who take a pleasure in declaimingagainst human nature, have observed, thatman is altogether insufficient to support him-self; and that when you loosen all the holds,which he has of external objects, he immedi-ately drops down into the deepest melancholyand despair. From this, say they, proceeds thatcontinual search after amusement in gaming,

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in hunting, in business; by which we endeav-our to forget ourselves, and excite our spiritsfrom the languid state, into which they fall,when not sustained by some brisk and livelyemotion. To this method of thinking I so faragree, that I own the mind to be insufficient, ofitself, to its own entertainment, and that it nat-urally seeks after foreign objects, which mayproduce a lively sensation, and agitate the spir-its. On the appearance of such an object itawakes, as it were, from a dream: The bloodflows with a new tide: The heart is elevated:And the whole man acquires a vigour, whichhe cannot command in his solitary and calmmoments. Hence company is naturally so re-joicing, as presenting the liveliest of all objects,viz, a rational and thinking Being like our-selves, who communicates to us all the actionsof his mind; makes us privy to his inmost sen-

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timents and affections; and lets us see, in thevery instant of their production, all the emo-tions, which are caused by any object. Everylively idea is agreeable, but especially that of apassion, because such an idea becomes a kindof passion, and gives a more sensible agitationto the mind, than any other image or concep-tion.

This being once admitted, all the rest is easy.For as the company of strangers is agreeable tous for a short time, by inlivening our thought;so the company of our relations and acquain-tance must be peculiarly agreeable, because ithas this effect in a greater degree, and is ofmore durable influence. Whatever is related tous is conceived in a lively manner by the easytransition from ourselves to the related object.Custom also, or acquaintance facilitates the en-

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trance, and strengthens the conception of anyobject. The first case is parallel to our reason-ings from cause and effect; the second to edu-cation. And as reasoning and education concuronly in producing a lively and strong idea ofany object; so is this the only particular, whichis common to relation and acquaintance. Thismust, therefore, be the influencing quality, bywhich they produce all their common effects;and love or kindness being one of these effects,it must be from the force and liveliness of con-ception, that the passion is derived. Such a con-ception is peculiarly agreeable, and makes ushave an affectionate regard for every thing, thatproduces it, when the proper object of kindnessand goodwill.

It is obvious, that people associate togetheraccording to their particular tempers and dis-

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positions, and that men of gay tempers natu-rally love the gay; as the serious bear an af-fection to the serious. This not only happens,where they remark this resemblance betwixtthemselves and others, but also by the natu-ral course of the disposition, and by a certainsympathy, which always arises betwixt simi-lar characters. Where they remark the resem-blance, it operates after the manner of a rela-tion, by producing a connexion of ideas. Wherethey do not remark it, it operates by some otherprinciple; and if this latter principle be similarto the former, it must be received as a confirma-tion of the foregoing reasoning.

The idea of ourselves is always intimatelypresent to us, and conveys a sensible degreeof vivacity to the idea of any other object, towhich we are related. This lively idea changes

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by degrees into a real impression; these twokinds of perception being in a great measurethe same, and differing only in their degreesof force and vivacity. But this change must beproduced with the greater ease, that our nat-ural temper gives us a propensity to the sameimpression, which we observe in others, andmakes it arise upon any slight occasion. In thatcase resemblance converts the idea into an im-pression, not only by means of the relation, andby transfusing the original vivacity into the re-lated idea; but also by presenting such materi-als as take fire from the least spark. And as inboth cases a love or affection arises from the re-semblance, we may learn that a sympathy withothers is agreeable only by giving an emotionto the spirits, since an easy sympathy and cor-respondent emotions are alone common to re-lation, acquaintance, and resemblance.

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The great propensity men have to pridemay be considered as another similarphaenomenon. It often happens, that af-ter we have lived a considerable time in anycity; however at first it might be disagreeable tous; yet as we become familiar with the objects,and contact an acquaintance, though merelywith the streets and buildings, the aversiondiminishes by degrees, and at last changesinto the opposite passion. The mind finds asatisfaction and ease in the view of objects, towhich it is accustomed, and naturally prefersthem to others, which, though, perhaps, inthemselves more valuable, are less known toit. By the same quality of the mind we areseduced into a good opinion of ourselves,and of all objects, that belong to us. Theyappear in a stronger light; are more agreeable;and consequently fitter subjects of pride and

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vanity, than any other.

It may not be amiss, in treating of the affec-tion we bear our acquaintance and relations,to observe some pretty curious phaenomena,which attend it. It is easy to remark in commonlife, that children esteem their relation to theirmother to be weakened, in a great measure,by her second marriage, and no longer regardher with the same eye, as if she had contin-ued in her state of widow-hood. Nor does thishappen only, when they have felt any inconve-niences from her second marriage, or when herhusband is much her inferior; but even with-out any of these considerations, and merely be-cause she has become part of another family.This also takes place with regard to the secondmarriage of a father; but in a much less degree:And it is certain the ties of blood are not so

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much loosened in the latter case as by the mar-riage of a mother. These two phaenomena areremarkable in themselves, but much more sowhen compared.

In order to produce a perfect relation be-twixt two objects, it is requisite, not only thatthe imagination be conveyed from one to theother by resemblance, contiguity or causation,but also that it return back from the second tothe first with the same ease and facility. At firstsight this may seem a necessary and unavoid-able consequence. If one object resemble an-other, the latter object must necessarily resem-ble the former. If one object be the cause ofanother, the second object is effect to its cause.It is the same case with contiguity: And there-fore the relation being always reciprocal, it maybe thought, that the return of the imagination

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from the second to the first must also, in everycase, be equally natural as its passage from thefirst to the second. But upon farther examina-tion we shall easily discover our mistake. Forsupposing the second object, beside its recipro-cal relation to the first, to have also a strong re-lation to a third object; in that case the thought,passing from the first object to the second, re-turns not back with the same facility, thoughthe relation continues the same; but is readilycarryed on to the third object, by means of thenew relation, which presents itself, and givesa new impulse to the imagination. This newrelation, therefore, weakens the tie betwixt thefirst and second objects. The fancy is by its verynature wavering and inconstant; and considersalways two objects as more strongly related to-gether, where it finds the passage equally easyboth in going and returning, than where the

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transition is easy only in one of these motions.The double motion is a kind of a double tie,and binds the objects together in the closest andmost intimate manner.

The second marriage of a mother breaks notthe relation of child and parent; and that re-lation suffices to convey my imagination frommyself to her with the greatest ease and facility.But after the imagination is arrived at this pointof view, it finds its object to be surrounded withso many other relations, which challenge its re-gard, that it knows not which to prefer, and is ata loss what new object to pitch upon. The tiesof interest and duty bind her to another fam-ily, and prevent that return of the fancy fromher to myself, which is necessary to supportthe union. The thought has no longer the vi-bration, requisite to set it perfectly at ease, and

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indulge its inclination to change. It goes withfacility, but returns with difficulty; and by thatinterruption finds the relation much weakenedfrom what it would be were the passage openand easy on both sides.

Now to give a reason, why this effect followsnot in the same degree upon the second mar-riage of a father: we may reflect on what hasbeen proved already, that though the imagina-tion goes easily from the view of a lesser ob-ject to that of a greater, yet it returns not withthe same facility from the greater to the less.When my imagination goes from myself to myfather, it passes not so readily from him to hissecond wife, nor considers him as entering intoa different family, but as continuing the headof that family, of which I am myself a part. Hissuperiority prevents the easy transition of the

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thought from him to his spouse, but keeps thepassage still open for a return to myself alongthe same relation of child and parent. He is notsunk in the new relation he acquires; so thatthe double motion or vibration of thought isstill easy and natural. By this indulgence of thefancy in its inconstancy, the tie of child and par-ent still preserves its full force and influence. Amother thinks not her tie to a son weakened,because it is shared with her husband: Nor ason his with a parent, because it is shared witha brother. The third object is here related to thefirst, as well as to the second; so that the imag-ination goes and comes along all of them withthe greatest facility.

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SECTION V. OF OUR ESTEEM FOR THE RICHAND POWERFUL

Nothing has a greater tendency to give usan esteem for any person, than his power andriches; or a contempt, than his poverty andmeanness: And as esteem and contempt areto be considered as species of love and hatred,it will be proper in this place to explain thesephaenomena.

Here it happens most fortunately, that thegreatest difficulty is not to discover a princi-ple capable of producing such an effect, but tochoose the chief and predominant among sev-eral, that present themselves. The satisfactionwe take in the riches of others, and the esteemwe have for the possessors may be ascribed tothree different causes. First, To the objects they

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possess; such as houses, gardens, equipages;which, being agreeable in themselves, neces-sarily produce a sentiment of pleasure in ev-ery one; that either considers or surveys them.Secondly, To the expectation of advantage fromthe rich and powerful by our sharing their pos-sessions. Thirdly, To sympathy, which makesus partake of the satisfaction of every one, thatapproaches us. All these principles may concurin producing the present phaenomenon. Thequestion is, to which of them we ought princi-pally to ascribe it.

It is certain, that the first principle, viz, thereflection on agreeable objects, has a greater in-fluence, than what, at first sight, we may beapt to imagine. We seldom reflect on whatis beautiful or ugly, agreeable or disagreeable,without an emotion of pleasure or uneasiness;

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and though these sensations appear not muchin our common indolent way of thinking, it iseasy, either in reading or conversation, to dis-cover them. Men of wit always turn the dis-course on subjects that are entertaining to theimagination; and poets never present any ob-jects but such as are of the same nature. MrPhilips has chosen cyder for the subject of anexcellent poem. Beer would not have beenso proper, as being neither so agreeable to thetaste nor eye. But he would certainly have pre-ferred wine to either of them, coued his na-tive country have afforded him so agreeable aliquor. We may learn from thence, that everything, which is agreeable to the senses, is also insome measure agreeable to the fancy, and con-veys to the thought an image of that satisfac-tion, which it gives by its real application to thebodily organs.

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But though these reasons may induce us tocomprehend this delicacy of the imaginationamong the causes of the respect, which we paythe rich and powerful, there are many otherreasons, that may keep us from regarding it asthe sole or principal. For as the ideas of plea-sure can have an influence only by means oftheir vivacity, which makes them approach im-pressions, it is most natural those ideas shouldhave that influence, which are favoured bymost circumstances, and have a natural ten-dency to become strong and lively; such as ourideas of the passions and sensations of any hu-man creature. Every human creature resemblesourselves, and by that means has an advan-tage above any other object, in operating on theimagination.

Besides, if we consider the nature of that fac-

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ulty, and the great influence which all relationshave upon it, we shall easily be persuaded, thathowever the ideas of the pleasant wines, music,or gardens, which the rich man enjoys, may be-come lively and agreeable, the fancy will notconfine itself to them, but will carry its viewto the related objects; and in particular, to theperson, who possesses them. And this is themore natural, that the pleasant idea or imageproduces here a passion towards the person,by means of his relation to the object; so thatit is unavoidable but he must enter into theoriginal conception, since he makes the objectof the derivative passion: But if he enters intothe original conception, and is considered asenjoying these agreeable objects, it is sympa-thy, which is properly the cause of the affec-tion; and the third principle is more powerfuland universal than the first.

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Add to this, that riches and power alone,even though unemployed, naturally cause es-teem and respect: And consequently these pas-sions arise not from the idea of any beautifulor agreeable objects. It is true; money impliesa kind of representation of such objects, by thepower it affords of obtaining them; and for thatreason may still be esteemed proper to conveythose agreeable images, which may give rise tothe passion. But as this prospect is very dis-tant, it is more natural for us to take a con-tiguous object, viz, the satisfaction, which thispower affords the person, who is possest ofit. And of this we shall be farther satisfyed, ifwe consider, that riches represent the goods oflife, only by means of the will; which employsthem; and therefore imply in their very naturean idea of the person, and cannot be consideredwithout a kind of sympathy with his sensations

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and enjoyments.

This we may confirm by a reflection, whichto some will, perhaps, appear too subtile andrefined. I have already observed, that power,as distinguished from its exercise, has either nomeaning at all, or is nothing but a possibilityor probability of existence; by which any ob-ject approaches to reality, and has a sensibleinfluence on the mind. I have also observed,that this approach, by an illusion of the fancy,appears much greater, when we ourselves arepossest of the power, than when it is enjoyedby another; and that in the former case the ob-jects seem to touch upon the very verge of re-ality, and convey almost an equal satisfaction,as if actually in our possession. Now I assert,that where we esteem a person upon accountof his riches, we must enter into this sentiment

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of the proprietor, and that without such a sym-pathy the idea of the agreeable objects, whichthey give him the power to produce, wouldhave but a feeble influence upon us. An avari-tious man is respected for his money, thoughhe scarce is possest of a power; that is, therescarce is a probability or even possibility of hisemploying it in the acquisition of the pleasuresand conveniences of life. To himself alone thispower seems perfect and entire; and thereforewe must receive his sentiments by sympathy,before we can have a strong intense idea ofthese enjoyments, or esteem him upon accountof them.

Thus we have found, that the first principle,viz, the agreeable idea of those objects, whichriches afford the enjoyment of; resolves itself ina great measure into the third, and becomes a

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sympathy with the person we esteem or love.Let us now examine the second principle, viz,the agreeable expectation of advantage, andsee what force we may justly attribute to it.

It is obvious, that though riches and author-ity undoubtedly give their owner a power ofdoing us service, yet this power is not to beconsidered as on the same footing with that,which they afford him, of pleasing himself,and satisfying his own appetites. Self-love ap-proaches the power and exercise very near eachother in the latter case; but in order to pro-duce a similar effect in the former, we mustsuppose a friendship and good-will to be con-joined with the riches. Without that circum-stance it is difficult to conceive on what we canfound our hope of advantage from the richesof others, though there is nothing more certain,

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than that we naturally esteem and respect therich, even before we discover in them any suchfavourable disposition towards us.

But I carry this farther, and observe, not onlythat we respect the rich and powerful, wherethey shew no inclination to serve us, but alsowhen we lie so much out of the sphere of theiractivity, that they cannot even be supposed tobe endowed with that power. Prisoners of warare always treated with a respect suitable totheir condition; and it is certain riches go veryfar towards fixing the condition of any person.If birth and quality enter for a share, this stillaffords us an argument of the same kind. Forwhat is it we call a man of birth, but one who isdescended from a long succession of rich andpowerful ancestors, and who acquires our es-teem by his relation to persons whom we es-

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teem? His ancestors, therefore, though dead,are respected, in some measure, on accountof their riches, and consequently without anykind of expectation.

But not to go so far as prisoners of war andthe dead to find instances of this disinterestedesteem for riches, let us observe with a little at-tention those phaenomena that occur to us incommon life and conversation. A man, who ishimself of a competent fortune, upon cominginto a company of strangers, naturally treatsthem with different degrees of respect and def-erence, as he is informed of their different for-tunes and conditions; though it is impossiblehe can ever propose, and perhaps would notaccept of any advantage from them. A travelleris always admitted into company, and meetswith civility, in proportion as his train and

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equipage speak him a man of great or moder-ate fortune. In short, the different ranks of menare, in a great measure, regulated by riches, andthat with regard to superiors as well as inferi-ors, strangers as well as acquaintance.

There is, indeed, an answer to these argu-ments, drawn from the influence of generalrules. It may be pretended, that being accus-tomed to expect succour and protection fromthe rich and powerful, and to esteem themupon that account, we extend the same senti-ments to those, who resemble them in their for-tune, but from whom we can never hope forany advantage. The general rule still prevails,and by giving a bent to the imagination drawsalong the passion, in the same manner as if itsproper object were real and existent.

But that this principle does not here take

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place, will easily appear, if we consider, thatin order to establish a general rule, and extendit beyond its proper bounds, there is requireda certain uniformity in our experience, and agreat superiority of those instances, which areconformable to the rule, above the contrary.But here the case is quite otherwise. Of a hun-dred men of credit and fortune I meet with,there is not, perhaps, one from whom I can ex-pect advantage; so that it is impossible any cus-tom can ever prevail in the present case.

Upon the whole, there remains nothing,which can give us an esteem for power andriches, and a contempt for meanness andpoverty, except the principle of sympathy, bywhich we enter into the sentiments of the richand poor, and partake of their pleasure and un-easiness. Riches give satisfaction to their pos-

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sessor; and this satisfaction is conveyed to thebeholder by the imagination, which producesan idea resembling the original impression inforce and vivacity. This agreeable idea or im-pression is connected with love, which is anagreeable passion. It proceeds from a think-ing conscious being, which is the very objectof love. From this relation of impressions, andidentity of ideas, the passion arises, accordingto my hypothesis.

The best method of reconciling us to thisopinion is to take a general survey of theuniverse, and observe the force of sympathythrough the whole animal creation, and theeasy communication of sentiments from onethinking being to another. In all creatures, thatprey not upon others, and are not agitated withviolent passions, there appears a remarkable

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desire of company, which associates them to-gether, without any advantages they can everpropose to reap from their union. This is stillmore conspicuous in man, as being the crea-ture of the universe, who has the most ardentdesire of society, and is fitted for it by the mostadvantages. We can form no wish, which hasnot a reference to society. A perfect solitude is,perhaps, the greatest punishment we can suf-fer. Every pleasure languishes when enjoyeda-part from company, and every pain becomesmore cruel and intolerable. Whatever otherpassions we may be actuated by; pride, ambi-tion, avarice, curiosity, revenge or lust; the soulor animating principle of them all is sympa-thy; nor would they have any force, were weto abstract entirely from the thoughts and sen-timents of others. Let all the powers and ele-ments of nature conspire to serve and obey one

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man: Let the sun rise and set at his command:The sea and rivers roll as he pleases, and theearth furnish spontaneously whatever may beuseful or agreeable to him: He will still be mis-erable, till you give him some one person atleast, with whom he may share his happiness,and whose esteem and friendship he may en-joy.

This conclusion from a general view of hu-man nature, we may confirm by particular in-stances, wherein the force of sympathy is veryremarkable. Most kinds of beauty are derivedfrom this origin; and though our first object besome senseless inanimate piece of matter, it isseldom we rest there, and carry not our view toits influence on sensible and rational creatures.A man, who shews us any house or build-ing, takes particular care among other things

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to point out the convenience of the apartments,the advantages of their situation, and the littleroom lost in the stairs, antichambers and pas-sages; and indeed it is evident, the chief part ofthe beauty consists in these particulars. The ob-servation of convenience gives pleasure, sinceconvenience is a beauty. But after what mannerdoes it give pleasure? It is certain our own in-terest is not in the least concerned; and as this isa beauty of interest, not of form, so to speak, itmust delight us merely by communication, andby our sympathizing with the proprietor of thelodging. We enter into his interest by the forceof imagination, and feel the same satisfaction,that the objects naturally occasion in him.

This observation extends to tables, chairs,scritoires, chimneys, coaches, sadles, ploughs,and indeed to every work of art; it being an uni-

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versal rule, that their beauty is chiefly derivedfrom their utility, and from their fitness for thatpurpose, to which they are destined. But thisis an advantage, that concerns only the owner,nor is there any thing but sympathy, which caninterest the spectator.

It is evident, that nothing renders a fieldmore agreeable than its fertility, and that scarceany advantages of ornament or situation willbe able to equal this beauty. It is the same casewith particular trees and plants, as with thefield on which they grow. I know not but aplain, overgrown with furze and broom, maybe, in itself, as beautiful as a hill covered withvines or olive-trees; though it will never appearso to one, who is acquainted with the value ofeach. But this is a beauty merely of imagina-tion, and has no foundation in what appears to

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the senses. Fertility and value have a plain ref-erence to use; and that to riches, joy, and plenty;in which though we have no hope of partaking,yet we enter into them by the vivacity of thefancy, and share them, in some measure, withthe proprietor.

There is no rule in painting more reasonablethan that of ballancing the figures, and plac-ing them with the greatest exactness on theirproper centers of gravity. A figure, which isnot justly ballanced, is disagreeable; and thatbecause it conveys the ideas of its fall, of harm,and of pain: Which ideas are painful, when bysympathy they acquire any degree of force andvivacity.

Add to this, that the principal part of per-sonal beauty is an air of health and vigour, andsuch a construction of members as promises

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strength and activity. This idea of beauty can-not be accounted for but by sympathy.

In general we may remark, that the mindsof men are mirrors to one another, not onlybecause they reflect each others emotions, butalso because those rays of passions, sentimentsand opinions may be often reverberated, andmay decay away by insensible degrees. Thusthe pleasure, which a rich man receives fromhis possessions, being thrown upon the be-holder, causes a pleasure and esteem; whichsentiments again, being perceived and sympa-thized with, encrease the pleasure of the pos-sessor; and being once more reflected, becomea new foundation for pleasure and esteem inthe beholder. There is certainly an originalsatisfaction in riches derived from that power,which they bestow, of enjoying all the plea-

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sures of life; and as this is their very nature andessence, it must be the first source of all the pas-sions, which arise from them. One of the mostconsiderable of these passions is that of loveor esteem in others, which therefore proceedsfrom a sympathy with the pleasure of the pos-sessor. But the possessor has also a secondarysatisfaction in riches arising from the love andesteem he acquires by them, and this satisfac-tion is nothing but a second reflexion of thatoriginal pleasure, which proceeded from him-self. This secondary satisfaction or vanity be-comes one of the principal recommendationsof riches, and is the chief reason, why we ei-ther desire them for ourselves, or esteem themin others. Here then is a third rebound of theoriginal pleasure; after which it is difficult todistinguish the images and reflexions, by rea-son of their faintness and confusion.

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SECTION VI. OF BENEVOLENCE ANDANGER

Ideas may be compared to the extension andsolidity of matter, and impressions, especiallyreflective ones, to colours, tastes, smells andother sensible qualities. Ideas never admit ofa total union, but are endowed with a kindof impenetrability, by which they exclude eachother, and are capable of forming a compoundby their conjunction, not by their mixture. Onthe other hand, impressions and passions aresusceptible of an entire union; and like colours,may be blended so perfectly together, that eachof them may lose itself, and contribute onlyto vary that uniform impression, which arisesfrom the whole. Some of the most curiousphaenomena of the human mind are derivedfrom this property of the passions.

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In examining those ingredients, which arecapable of uniting with love and hatred, I be-gin to be sensible, in some measure, of a mis-fortune, that has attended every system of phi-losophy, with which the world has been yetacquainted. It is commonly found, that in ac-counting for the operations of nature by anyparticular hypothesis; among a number of ex-periments, that quadrate exactly with the prin-ciples we would endeavour to establish; thereis always some phaenomenon, which is morestubborn, and will not so easily bend to ourpurpose. We need not be surprized, that thisshould happen in natural philosophy. Theessence and composition of external bodies areso obscure, that we must necessarily, in our rea-sonings, or rather conjectures concerning them,involve ourselves in contradictions and absur-dities. But as the perceptions of the mind are

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perfectly known, and I have used all imagin-able caution in forming conclusions concern-ing them, I have always hoped to keep clearof those contradictions, which have attendedevery other system. Accordingly the difficulty,which I have at present in my eye, is nowisecontrary to my system; but only departs a littlefrom that simplicity, which has been hithertoits principal force and beauty.

The passions of love and hatred are al-ways followed by, or rather conjoined withbenevolence and anger. It is this conjunc-tion, which chiefly distinguishes these affec-tions from pride and humility. For pride andhumility are pure emotions in the soul, unat-tended with any desire, and not immediatelyexciting us to action. But love and hatred arenot compleated within themselves, nor rest in

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that emotion, which they produce, but carrythe mind to something farther. Love is alwaysfollowed by a desire of the happiness of theperson beloved, and an aversion to his mis-ery: As hatred produces a desire of the miseryand an aversion to the happiness of the personhated. So remarkable a difference betwixt thesetwo sets of passions of pride and humility, loveand hatred, which in so many other particularscorrespond to each other, merits our attention.

The conjunction of this desire and aversionwith love and hatred may be accounted for bytwo different hypotheses. The first is, that loveand hatred have not only a cause, which ex-cites them, viz, pleasure and pain; and an ob-ject, to which they are directed, viz, a person orthinking being; but likewise an end, which theyendeavour to attain, viz, the happiness or mis-

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ery of the person beloved or hated; all whichviews, mixing together, make only one passion.According to this system, love is nothing butthe desire of happiness to another person, andhatred that of misery. The desire and aversionconstitute the very nature of love and hatred.They are not only inseparable but the same.

But this is evidently contrary to experience.For though it is certain we never love any per-son without desiring his happiness, nor hateany without wishing his misery, yet these de-sires arise only upon the ideas of the happinessor misery of our friend or enemy being pre-sented by the imagination, and are not abso-lutely essential to love and hatred. They are themost obvious and natural sentiments of theseaffections, but not the only ones. The passionsmay express themselves in a hundred ways,

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and may subsist a considerable time, withoutour reflecting on the happiness or misery oftheir objects; which clearly proves, that thesedesires are not the same with love and hatred,nor make any essential part of them.

We may, therefore, infer, that benevolenceand anger are passions different from love andhatred, and only conjoined with them, by theoriginal constitution of the mind. As naturehas given to the body certain appetites and in-clinations, which she encreases, diminishes, orchanges according to the situation of the fluidsor solids; she has proceeded in the same man-ner with the mind. According as we are pos-sessed with love or hatred, the correspondentdesire of the happiness or misery of the per-son, who is the object of these passions, arisesin the mind, and varies with each variation of

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these opposite passions. This order of things,abstractedly considered, is not necessary. Loveand hatred might have been unattended withany such desires, or their particular connexionmight have been entirely reversed. If naturehad so pleased, love might have had the sameeffect as hatred, and hatred as love. I see nocontradiction in supposing a desire of produc-ing misery annexed to love, and of happinessto hatred. If the sensation of the passion anddesire be opposite, nature coued have alteredthe sensation without altering the tendency ofthe desire, and by that means made them com-patible with each other.

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SECTION VII. OF COMPASSION

But though the desire of the happiness ormisery of others, according to the love or ha-tred we bear them, be an arbitrary and originalinstinct implanted in our nature, we find it maybe counterfeited on many occasions, and mayarise from secondary principles. Pity is a con-cern for, and malice a joy in the misery of oth-ers, without any friendship or enmity to occa-sion this concern or joy. We pity even strangers,and such as are perfectly indifferent to us: Andif our ill-will to another proceed from any harmor injury, it is not, properly speaking, malice,but revenge. But if we examine these affec-tions of pity and malice we shall find them tobe secondary ones, arising from original affec-tions, which are varied by some particular turnof thought and imagination.

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It will be easy to explain the passion of pity,from the precedent reasoning concerning sym-pathy. We have a lively idea of every thingrelated to us. All human creatures are relatedto us by resemblance. Their persons, there-fore, their interests, their passions, their painsand pleasures must strike upon us in a livelymanner, and produce an emotion similar to theoriginal one; since a lively idea is easily con-verted into an impression. If this be true in gen-eral, it must be more so of affliction and sorrow.These have always a stronger and more lastinginfluence than any pleasure or enjoyment.

A spectator of a tragedy passes through along train of grief, terror, indignation, andother affections, which the poet represents inthe persons he introduces. As many tragediesend happily, and no excellent one can be

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composed without some reverses of fortune,the spectator must sympathize with all thesechanges, and receive the fictitious joy as wellas every other passion. Unless, therefore, it beasserted, that every distinct passion is commu-nicated by a distinct original quality, and is notderived from the general principle of sympathyabove-explained, it must be allowed, that all ofthem arise from that principle. To except anyone in particular must appear highly unreason-able. As they are all first present in the mind ofone person, and afterwards appear in the mindof another; and as the manner of their appear-ance, first as an idea, then as an impression, isin every case the same, the transition must arisefrom the same principle. I am at least sure, thatthis method of reasoning would be consideredas certain, either in natural philosophy or com-mon life.

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Add to this, that pity depends, in a greatmeasure, on the contiguity, and even sight ofthe object; which is a proof, that it is derivedfrom the imagination. Not to mention thatwomen and children are most subject to pity,as being most guided by that faculty. The sameinfirmity, which makes them faint at the sightof a naked sword, though in the hands of theirbest friend, makes them pity extremely those,whom they find in any grief or affliction. Thosephilosophers, who derive this passion from Iknow not what subtile reflections on the insta-bility of fortune, and our being liable to thesame miseries we behold, will find this obser-vation contrary to them among a great manyothers, which it were easy to produce.

There remains only to take notice of apretty remarkable phaenomenon of this pas-

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sion; which is, that the communicated passionof sympathy sometimes acquires strength fromthe weakness of its original, and even arisesby a transition from affections, which have noexistence. Thus when a person obtains anyhonourable office, or inherits a great fortune,we are always the more rejoiced for his pros-perity, the less sense he seems to have of it,and the greater equanimity and indifferencehe shews in its enjoyment. In like manner aman, who is not dejected by misfortunes, isthe more lamented on account of his patience;and if that virtue extends so far as utterly toremove all sense of uneasiness, it still fartherencreases our compassion. When a person ofmerit falls into what is vulgarly esteemed agreat misfortune, we form a notion of his con-dition; and carrying our fancy from the causeto the usual effect, first conceive a lively idea

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of his sorrow, and then feel an impression ofit, entirely over-looking that greatness of mind,which elevates him above such emotions, oronly considering it so far as to encrease ouradmiration, love and tenderness for him. Wefind from experience, that such a degree of pas-sion is usually connected with such a misfor-tune; and though there be an exception in thepresent case, yet the imagination is affected bythe general rule, and makes us conceive a livelyidea of the passion, or rather feel the passion it-self, in the same manner, as if the person werereally actuated by it. From the same princi-ples we blush for the conduct of those, who be-have themselves foolishly before us; and thatthough they shew no sense of shame, nor seemin the least conscious of their folly. All this pro-ceeds from sympathy; but it is of a partial kind,and views its objects only on one side, without

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considering the other, which has a contrary ef-fect, and would entirely destroy that emotion,which arises from the first appearance.

We have also instances, wherein an indif-ference and insensibility under misfortune en-creases our concern for the misfortunate, eventhough the indifference proceed not from anyvirtue and magnanimity. It is an aggravationof a murder, that it was committed upon per-sons asleep and in perfect security; as histori-ans readily observe of any infant prince, whois captive in the hands of his enemies, that he isthe more worthy of compassion the less sensi-ble he is of his miserable condition. As we our-selves are here acquainted with the wretchedsituation of the person, it gives us a lively ideaand sensation of sorrow, which is the passionthat generally attends it; and this idea becomes

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still more lively, and the sensation more violentby a contrast with that security and indiffer-ence, which we observe in the person himself.A contrast of any kind never fails to affect theimagination, especially when presented by thesubject; and it is on the imagination that pityentirely depends.11

11To prevent all ambiguity, I must observe, thatwhere I oppose the imagination to the memory, I meanin general the faculty that presents our fainter ideas. Inall other places, and particularly when it is opposed tothe understanding, I understand the same faculty, ex-cluding only our demonstrative and probable reason-ings.

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SECTION VIII. OF NALICE AND ENVY

We must now proceed to account for the pas-sion of malice, which imitates the effects of ha-tred, as pity does those of love; and gives usa joy in the sufferings and miseries of others,without any offence or injury on their part.

So little are men governed by reason intheir sentiments and opinions, that they alwaysjudge more of objects by comparison than fromtheir intrinsic worth and value. When the mindconsiders, or is accustomed to, any degree ofperfection, whatever falls short of it, though re-ally esteemable, has notwithstanding the sameeffect upon the passions; as what is defectiveand ill. This is an original quality of the soul,and similar to what we have every day expe-rience of in our bodies. Let a man heat one

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band and cool the other; the same water will,at the same time, seem both hot and cold, ac-cording to the disposition of the different or-gans. A small degree of any quality, succeed-ing a greater, produces the same sensation, asif less than it really is, and even sometimes asthe opposite quality. Any gentle pain, that fol-lows a violent one, seems as nothing, or ratherbecomes a pleasure; as on the other hand a vi-olent pain, succeeding a gentle one, is doublygrievous and uneasy.

This no one can doubt of with regard to ourpassions and sensations. But there may arisesome difficulty with regard to our ideas andobjects. When an object augments or dimin-ishes to the eye or imagination from a compar-ison with others, the image and idea of the ob-ject are still the same, and are equally extended

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in the retina, and in the brain or organ of per-ception. The eyes refract the rays of light, andthe optic nerves convey the images to the brainin the very same manner, whether a great orsmall object has preceded; nor does even theimagination alter the dimensions of its objecton account of a comparison with others. Thequestion then is, how from the same impres-sion and the same idea we can form such dif-ferent judgments concerning the same object,and at one time admire its bulk, and at anotherdespise its littleness. This variation in our judg-ments must certainly proceed from a variationin some perception; but as the variation lies notin the immediate impression or idea of the ob-ject, it must lie in some other impression, thataccompanies it.

In order to explain this matter, I shall just

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touch upon two principles, one of which shallbe more fully explained in the progress of thistreatise; the other has been already accountedfor. I believe it may safely be established fora general maxim, that no object is presentedto the senses, nor image formed in the fancy,but what is accompanyed with some emotionor movement of spirits proportioned to it; andhowever custom may make us insensible ofthis sensation and cause us to confound it withthe object or idea, it will be easy, by carefuland exact experiments, to separate and distin-guish them. For to instance only in the cases ofextension and number; it is evident, that anyvery bulky object, such as the ocean, an ex-tended plain, a vast chain of mountains, a wideforest: or any very numerous collection of ob-jects, such as an army, a fleet, a crowd, excitein the mind a sensible emotion; and that the

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admiration, which arises on the appearance ofsuch objects, is one of the most lively pleasures,which human nature is capable of enjoying.Now as this admiration encreases or dimin-ishes by the encrease or diminution of the ob-jects, we may conclude, according to our fore-going (Book I. Part III. Sect. 15.) principles, thatit is a compound effect, proceeding from theconjunction of the several effects, which arisefrom each part of the cause. Every part, then,of extension, and every unite of number has aseparate emotion attending it; and though thatemotion be not always agreeable, yet by its con-junction with others, and by its agitating thespirits to a just pitch, it contributes to the pro-duction of admiration, which is always agree-able. If this be allowed with respect to exten-sion and number, we can make no difficultywith respect to virtue and vice, wit and folly,

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riches and poverty, happiness and misery, andother objects of that kind, which are always at-tended with an evident emotion.

The second principle I shall take noticeof is that of our adherence to general rules;which has such a mighty influence on the ac-tions and understanding, and is able to im-pose on the very senses. When an object isfound by-experience to be always accompa-nyed with another; whenever the first objectappears, though changed in very material cir-cumstances; we naturally fly to the conceptionof the second, and form an idea of it in as livelyand strong a manner, as if we had infered itsexistence by the justest and most authentic con-clusion of our understanding. Nothing can un-deceive us, not even our senses, which, insteadof correcting this false judgment, are often per-

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verted by it, and seem to authorize its errors.

The conclusion I draw from these two prin-ciples, joined to the influence of comparisonabove-mentioned, is very short and decisive.Every object is attended with some emotionproportioned to it; a great object with a greatemotion, a small object with a small emotion.A great object, therefore, succeeding a smallone makes a great emotion succeed a small one.Now a great emotion succeeding a small onebecomes still greater, and rises beyond its ordi-nary proportion. But as there is a certain degreeof an emotion, which commonly attends everymagnitude of an object; when the emotion en-creases, we naturally imagine that the objecthas likewise encreased. The effect conveys ourview to its usual cause, a certain degree of emo-tion to a certain magnitude of the object; nor do

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we consider, that comparison may change theemotion without changing anything in the ob-ject. Those who are acquainted with the meta-physical part of optics and know how we trans-fer the judgments and conclusions of the un-derstanding to the senses, will easily conceivethis whole operation.

But leaving this new discovery of an impres-sion, that secretly attends every idea; we mustat least allow of that principle, from whence thediscovery arose, that objects appear greater orless by a comparison with others. We have somany instances of this, that it is impossible wecan dispute its veracity; and it is from this prin-ciple I derive the passions of malice and envy.

It is evident we must receive a greater or lesssatisfaction or uneasiness from reflecting onour own condition and circumstances, in pro-

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portion as they appear more or less fortunate orunhappy, in proportion to the degrees of riches,and power, and merit, and reputation, whichwe think ourselves possest of. Now as we sel-dom judge of objects from their intrinsic value,but form our notions of them from a compari-son with other objects; it follows, that accord-ing as we observe a greater or less share ofhappiness or misery in others, we must makean estimate of our own, and feel a consequentpain or pleasure. The misery of another givesus a more lively idea of our happiness, and hishappiness of our misery. The former, therefore,produces delight; and the latter uneasiness.

Here then is a kind of pity reverst, or con-trary sensations arising in the beholder, fromthose which are felt by the person, whom heconsiders. In general we may observe, that

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in all kinds of comparison an object makesus always receive from another, to which it iscompared, a sensation contrary to what arisesfrom itself in its direct and immediate survey.A small object makes a great one appear stillgreater. A great object makes a little one appearless. Deformity of itself produces uneasiness;but makes us receive new pleasure by its con-trast with a beautiful object, whose beauty isaugmented by it; as on the other hand, beauty,which of itself produces pleasure, makes usreceive a new pain by the contrast with anything ugly, whose deformity it augments. Thecase, therefore, must be the same with happi-ness and misery. The direct survey of another’spleasure naturally gives us plcasure, and there-fore produces pain when cornpared with ourown. His pain, considered in itself, is painfulto us, but augments the idea of our own happi-

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ness, and gives us pleasure.

Nor will it appear strange, that we may feel areverst sensation from the happiness and mis-ery of others; since we find the same compari-son may give us a kind of malice against our-selves, and make us rejoice for our pains, andgrieve for our pleasures. Thus the prospectof past pain is agreeable, when we are sat-isfyed with our present condition; as on theother hand our past pleasures give us uneasi-ness, when we enjoy nothing at present equalto them. The comparison being the same, aswhen we reflect on the sentiments of others,must be attended with the same effects.

Nay a person may extend this malice againsthimself, even to his present fortune, and carryit so far as designedly to seek affliction, and en-crease his pains and sorrows. This may happen

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upon two occasions. First, Upon the distressand misfortune of a friend, or person dear tohim. Secondly, Upon the feeling any remorsesfor a crime, of which he has been guilty. Itis from the principle of comparison that boththese irregular appetites for evil arise. A per-son, who indulges himself in any pleasure,while his friend lies under affliction, feels thereflected uneasiness from his friend more sen-sibly by a comparison with the original plea-sure, which he himself enjoys. This contrast,indeed, ought also to inliven the present plea-sure. But as grief is here supposed to be the pre-dominant passion, every addition falls to thatside, and is swallowed up in it, without operat-ing in the least upon the contrary affection. It isthe same case with those penances, which meninflict on themselves for their past sins and fail-ings. When a criminal reflects on the punish-

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ment he deserves, the idea of it is magnifyed bya comparison with his present ease and satis-faction; which forces him, in a manner, to seekuneasiness, in order to avoid so disagreeable acontrast.

This reasoning will account for the origin ofenvy as well as of malice. The only differencebetwixt these passions lies in this, that envy isexcited by some present enjoyment of another,which by comparison diminishes our idea ofour own: Whereas malice is the unprovokeddesire of producing evil to another, in order toreap a pleasure from the comparison. The en-joyment, which is the object of envy, is com-monly superior to our own. A superiority nat-urally seems to overshade us, and presents adisagreeable comparison. But even in the caseof an inferiority, we still desire a greater dis-

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tance, in order to augment, still more the ideaof ourself. When this distance diminishes, thecomparison is less to our advantage; and con-sequently gives us less pleasure, and is evendisagreeable. Hence arises that species of envy,which men feel, when they perceive their in-feriors approaching or overtaking them in thepursuits of glory or happiness. In this envywe may see the effects of comparison twice re-peated. A man, who compares himself to hisinferior, receives a pleasure from the compar-ison: And when the inferiority decreases bythe elevation of the inferior, what should onlyhave been a decrease of pleasure, becomes areal pain, by a new comparison with its pre-ceding condition.

It is worthy of observation concerning thatenvy, which arises from a superiority in oth-

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ers, that it is not the great disproportion be-twixt ourself and another, which produces it;but on the contrary, our proximity. A com-mon soldier bears no such envy to his gen-eral as to his sergeant or corporal; nor does aneminent writer meet with so great jealousy incommon hackney scriblers, as in authors, thatmore nearly approach him. It may, indeed, bethought, that the greater the disproportion is,the greater must be the uneasiness from thecomparison. But we may consider on the otherhand, that the great disproportion cuts off therelation, and either keeps us from comparingourselves with what is remote from us, or di-minishes the effects of the comparison. Resem-blance and proximity always produce a rela-tion of ideas; and where you destroy these ties,however other accidents may bring two ideastogether; as they have no bond or connecting

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quality to join them in the imagination; it is im-possible they can remain long united, or haveany considerable influence on each other.

I have observed in considering the nature ofambition, that the great feel a double pleasurein authority from the comparison of their owncondition with that of their slaves; and that thiscomparison has a double influence, because itis natural, and presented by the subject. Whenthe fancy, in the comparison of objects, passesnot easily from the one object to the other, theaction of the mind is, in a great measure, broke,and the fancy, in considering the second object,begins, as it were, upon a new footing. The im-pression, which attends every object, seems notgreater in that case by succeeding a less of thesame kind; but these two impressions are dis-tinct, and produce their distinct effects, with-

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out any communication together. The want ofrelation in the ideas breaks the relation of theimpressions, and by such a separation preventstheir mutual operation and influence.

To confirm this we may observe, that theproximity in the degree of merit is not alonesufficient to give rise to envy, but must be as-sisted by other relations. A poet is not aptto envy a philosopher, or a poet of a differ-ent kind, of a different nation, or of a differentage. All these differences prevent or weakenthe comparison, and consequently the passion.

This too is the reason, why all objects appeargreat or little, merely by a comparison withthose of the same species. A mountain neithermagnifies nor diminishes a horse in our eyes;but when a Flemish and a Welsh horse are seentogether, the one appears greater and the other

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less, than when viewed apart.

From the same principle we may accountfor that remark of historians, that any partyin a civil war always choose to call in a for-eign enemy at any hazard rather than submit totheir fellow-citizens. Guicciardin applies thisremark to the wars in Italy, where the relationsbetwixt the different states are, properly speak-ing, nothing but of name, language, and con-tiguity. Yet even these relations, when joinedwith superiority, by making the comparisonmore natural, make it likewise more grievous,and cause men to search for some other superi-ority, which may be attended with no relation,and by that means may have a less sensible in-fluence on the imagination. The mind quicklyperceives its several advantages and disadvan-tages; and finding its situation to be most un-

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easy, where superiority is conjoined with otherrelations, seeks its repose as much as possible,by their separation, and by breaking that asso-ciation of ideas, which renders the comparisonso much more natural and efficacious. When itcannot break the association, it feels a strongerdesire to remove the superiority; and this is thereason why travellers are commonly so lavishof their praises to the Chinese and Persians,at the same time, that they depreciate thoseneighbouring nations, which may stand upona foot of rivalship with their native country.

These examples from history and commonexperience are rich and curious; but we mayfind parallel ones in the arts, which are noless remarkable. should an author composea treatise, of which one part was serious andprofound, another light and humorous, every

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one would condemn so strange a mixture, andwould accuse him of the neglect of all rules ofart and criticism. These rules of art are foundedon the qualities of human nature; and the qual-ity of human nature, which requires a consis-tency in every performance is that which ren-ders the mind incapable of passing in a mo-ment from one passion and disposition to aquite different one. Yet this makes us not blameMr Prior for joining his Alma and his Solomonin the same volume; though that admirablepoet has succeeded perfectly well in the gai-ety of the one, as well as in the melancholy ofthe other. Even supposing the reader shouldperuse these two compositions without any in-terval, he would feel little or no difficulty inthe change of passions: Why, but because heconsiders these performances as entirely differ-ent, and by this break in the ideas, breaks the

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progress of the affections, and hinders the onefrom influencing or contradicting the other?

An heroic and burlesque design, united inone picture, would be monstrous; though weplace two pictures of so opposite a characterin the same chamber, and even close by eachother, without any scruple or difficulty.

In a word, no ideas can affect each other, ei-ther by comparison, or by the passions theyseparately produce, unless they be united to-gether by some relation, which may cause aneasy transition of the ideas, and consequentlyof the emotions or impressions, attending theideas; and may preserve the one impression inthe passage of the imagination to the object ofthe other. This principle is very remarkable,because it is analogous to what we have ob-served both concerning the understanding and

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the passions. Suppose two objects to be pre-sented to me, which are not connected by anykind of relation. Suppose that each of these ob-jects separately produces a passion; and thatthese two passions are in themselves contrary:We find from experience, that the want of rela-tion in the objects or ideas hinders the naturalcontrariety of the passions, and that the breakin the transition of the thought removes theaffections from each other, and prevents theiropposition. It is the same case with compari-son; and from both these phaenomena we maysafely conclude, that the relation of ideas mustforward the transition of impressions; since itsabsence alone is able to prevent it, and to sepa-rate what naturally should have operated uponeach other. When the absence of an object orquality re moves any usual or natural effect, wemay certalnly conclude that its presence con-

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tributes to the production of the effect.

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SECTION IX. OF THE MIXTURE OFBENEVOLENCE AND ANGER WITH

COMPASSION AND MALICE

Thus we have endeavoured to account forpity and malice. Both these affections arisefrom the imagination, according to the light,in which it places its object. When our fancyconsiders directly the sentiments of others, andenters deep into them, it makes us sensible ofall the passions it surveys, but in a particularmanner of grief or sorrow. On the contrary,when we compare the sentiments of others toour own, we feel a sensation directly oppositeto the original one, viz. a joy from the griefof others, and a grief from their joy. But theseare only the first foundations of the affectionsof pity and malice. Other passions are after-wards confounded with them. There is always

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a mixture of love or tenderness with pity, andof hatred or anger with malice. But it must beconfessed, that this mixture seems at first sightto be contradictory to my system. For as pityis an uneasiness, and malice a joy, arising fromthe misery of others, pity should naturally, asin all other cases, produce hatred; and malice,love. This contradiction I endeavour to recon-cile, after the following manner.

In order to cause a transition of passions,there is required a double relation of impres-sions and ideas, nor is one relation sufficientto produce this effect. But that we may un-derstand the full force of this double relation,we must consider, that it is not the present sen-sation alone or momentary pain or pleasure,which determines the character of any passion,but the whole bent or tendency of it from the

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beginning to the end. One impression may berelated to another, not only when their sensa-tions are resembling, as we have all along sup-posed in the preceding cases; but also whentheir im pulses or directions are similar andcorrespondent. This cannot take place with re-gard to pride and humility; because these areonly pure sensations, without any direction ortendency to action. We are, therefore, to lookfor instances of this peculiar relation of impres-sions only in such affections, as are attendedwith a certain appetite or desire; such as thoseof love and hatred.

Benevolence or the appetite, which attendslove, is a desire of the happiness of the per-son beloved, and an aversion to his misery; asanger or the appetite, which attends hatred, isa desire of the misery of the person hated, and

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an aversion to his happiness. A desire, there-fore, of the happiness of another, and aversionto his misery, are similar to benevolence; and adesire of his misery and aversion to his happi-ness are correspondent to anger. Now pity is adesire of happiness to another, and aversion tohis misery; as malice is the contrary appetite.Pity, then, is related to benevolence; and maliceto anger: And as benevolence has been alreadyfound to be connected with love, by a naturaland original quality, and anger with hatred; itis by this chain the passions of pity and maliceare connected with love and hatred.

This hypothesis is founded on sufficient ex-perience. A man, who from any motives hasentertained a resolution of performing an ac-tion, naturally runs into every other view ormotive, which may fortify that resolution, and

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give it authority and influence on the mind. Toconfirm us in any design, we search for motivesdrawn from interest, from honour, from duty.What wonder, then, that pity and benevolence,malice, and anger, being the same desires aris-ing from different principles, should so totallymix together as to be undistinguishable? Asto the connexion betwixt benevolence and love,anger and hatred, being original and primary,it admits of no difficulty.

We may add to this another experiment, viz,that benevolence and anger, and consequentlylove and hatred, arise when our happiness ormisery have any dependance on the happinessor misery of another person, without any far-ther relation. I doubt not but this experimentwill appear so singular as to excuse us for stop-ping a moment to consider it.

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Suppose, that two persons of the same tradeshould seek employment in a town, that is notable to maintain both, it is plain the success ofone is perfectly incompatible with that of theother, and that whatever is for the interest ofeither is contrary to that of his rival, and sovice versa. Suppose again, that two merchants,though living in different parts of the world,should enter into co-partnership together, theadvantage or loss of one becomes immediatelythe advantage or loss of his partner, and thesame fortune necessarily attends both. Now itis evident, that in the first case, hatred alwaysfollows upon the contrariety of interests; as inthe second, love arises from their union. Let usconsider to what principle we can ascribe thesepassions.

It is plain they arise not from the double re-

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lations of impressions and ideas, if we regardonly the present sensation. For takeing the firstcase of rivalship; though the pleasure and ad-vantage of an antagonist necessarily causes mypain and loss, yet to counter-ballance this, hispain and loss causes my pleasure and advan-tage; and supposing him to be unsuccessful, Imay by this means receive from him a supe-rior degree of satisfaction. In the same man-ner the success of a partner rejoices me, butthen his misfortunes afflict me in an equal pro-portion; and it is easy to imagine, that the lat-ter sentiment may in many cases preponderate.But whether the fortune of a rival or partner begood or bad, I always hate the former and lovethe latter.

This love of a partner cannot proceed fromthe relation or connexion betwixt us; in the

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same manner as I love a brother or country-man. A rival has almost as close a relation tome as a partner. For as the pleasure of the lattercauses my pleasure, and his pain my pain; sothe pleasure of the former causes my pain, andhis pain my pleasure. The connexion, then, ofcause and effect is the same in both cases; andif in the one case, the cause and effect have afarther relation of resemblance, they have thatof contrariety in the other; which, being also aspecies of resemblance, leaves the matter prettyequal.

The only explication, then, we can give ofthis phaenomenon is derived from that prin-ciple of a parallel direction above-mentioned.Our concern for our own interest gives us apleasure in the pleasure, and a pain in thepain of a partner, after the same manner as by

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sympathy we feel a sensation correspondentto those, which appear in any person, who ispresent with us. On the other hand, the sameconcern for our interest makes us feel a painin the pleasure, and a pleasure in the pain of arival; and in short the same contrariety of sen-timents as arises from comparison and malice.Since, therefore, a parallel direction of the af-fections, proceeding from interest, can give riseto benevolence or anger, no wonder the sameparallel direction, derived from sympathy andfrom comparison, should have the same effect.

In general we may observe, that it is impos-sible to do good to others, from whatever mo-tive, without feeling some touches of kindnessand good-will towards them; as the injurieswe do, not only cause hatred in the person,who suffers them, but even in ourselves. These

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phaenomena, indeed, may in part be accountedfor from other principles.

But here there occurs a considerable objec-tion, which it will be necessary to examinebefore we proceed any farther. I have en-deavoured to prove, that power and riches, orpoverty and meanness; which give rise to loveor hatred, without producing any original plea-sure or uneasiness; operate upon us by meansof a secondary sensation derived from a sym-pathy with that pain or satisfaction, which theyproduce in the person, who possesses them.From a sympathy with his pleasure there ariseslove; from that with his uneasiness, hatred. Butit is a maxim, which I have just now estab-lished, and which is absolutely necessary to theexplication of the phaenomena of pity and mal-ice, that it is not the present sensation or mo-

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mentary pain or pleasure, which determinesthe character of any passion, but the generalbent or tendency of it from the beginning to theend. For this reason, pity or a sympathy withpain produces love, and that because it inter-ests us in the fortunes of others, good or bad,and gives us a secondary sensation correspon-dent to the primary; in which it has the same in-fluence with love and benevolence. Since thenthis rule holds good in one case, why does itnot prevail throughout, and why does sympa-thy in uneasiness ever produce any passion be-side good-will and kindness? Is it becoming aphilosopher to alter his method of reasoning,and run from one principle to its contrary, ac-cording to the particular phaenomenon, whichhe would explain?

I have mentioned two different causes, from

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which a transition of passion may arise, viz, adouble relation of ideas and impressions, andwhat is similar to it, a conformity in the ten-dency and direction of any two desires, whicharise from different principles. Now I assert,that when a sympathy with uneasiness is weak,it produces hatred or contempt by the formercause; when strong, it produces love or ten-derness by the latter. This is the solution ofthe foregoing difficulty, which seems so urgent;and this is a principle founded on such evidentarguments, that we ought to have establishedit, even though it were not necessary to the ex-plication of any phaenomenon.

It is certain, that sympathy is not always lim-ited to the present moment, but that we oftenfeel by communication the pains and pleasuresof others, which are not in being, and which we

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only anticipate by the force of imagination. Forsupposing I saw a person perfectly unknown tome, who, while asleep in the fields, was in dan-ger of being trod under foot by horses, I shouldimmediately run to his assistance; and in thisI should be actuated by the same principle ofsympathy, which makes me concerned for thepresent sorrows of a stranger. The bare men-tion of this is sufficient. Sympathy being noth-ing but a lively idea converted into an impres-sion, it is evident, that, in considering the fu-ture possible or probable condition of any per-son, we may enter into it with so vivid a con-ception as to make it our own concern; and bythat means be sensible of pains and pleasures,which neither belong to ourselves, nor at thepresent instant have any real existence.

But however we may look forward to the fu-

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ture in sympathizing with any person, the ex-tending of our sympathy depends in a greatmeasure upon our sense of his present condi-tion. It is a great effort of imagination, to formsuch lively ideas even of the present sentimentsof others as to feel these very sentiments; but itis impossible we coued extend this sympathyto the future, without being aided by some cir-cumstance in the present, which strikes uponus in a lively manner. When the present miseryof another has any strong influence upon me,the vivacity of the conception is not confinedmerely to its immediate object, but diffuses itsinfluence over all the related ideas, and givesme a lively notion of all the circumstances ofthat person, whether past, present, or future;possible, probable or certain. By means of thislively notion I am interested in them; take partwith them; and feel a sympathetic motion in

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my breast, conformable to whatever I imaginein his. If I diminish the vivacity of the firstconception, I diminish that of the related ideas;as pipes can convey no more water than whatarises at the fountain. By this diminution I de-stroy the future prospect, which is necessaryto interest me perfectly in the fortune of an-other. I may feel the present impression, butcarry my sympathy no farther, and never trans-fuse the force of the first conception into myideas of the related objects. If it be another’smisery, which is presented in this feeble man-ner, I receive it by communication, and am af-fected with all the passions related to it: But as Iam not so much interested as to concern myselfin his good fortune, as well as his bad, I neverfeel the extensive sympathy, nor the passionsrelated to it.

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Now in order to know what passions arerelated to these different kinds of sympathy,we must consider, that benevolence is an orig-inal pleasure arising from the pleasure of theperson beloved, and a pain proceeding fromhis pain: From which correspondence of im-pressions there arises a subsequent desire ofhis pleasure, and aversion to his pain. In or-der, then, to make a passion run parallel withbenevolence, it is requisite we should feel thesedouble impressions, correspondent to those ofthe person, whom we consider; nor is any oneof them alone sufficient for that purpose. Whenwe sympathize only with one impression, andthat a painful one, this sympathy is related toanger and to hatred, upon account of the un-easiness it conveys to us. But as the extensiveor limited sympathy depends upon the forceof the first sympathy; it follows, that the pas-

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sion of love or hatred depends upon the sameprinciple. A strong impression, when commu-nicated, gives a double tendency of the pas-sions; which is related to benevolence and loveby a similarity of direction; however painfulthe first impression might have been. A weakimpression, that is painful, is related to angerand hatred by the resemblance of sensations.Benevolence, therefore, arises from a great de-gree of misery, or any degree strongly sym-pathized with: Hatred or contempt from asmall degree, or one weakly sympathized with;which is the principle I intended to prove andexplain.

Nor have we only our reason to trust to forthis principle, but also experience. A certaindegree of poverty produces contempt; but adegree beyond causes compassion and good-

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will. We may under-value a peasant or servant;but when the misery of a beggar appears verygreat, or is painted in very lively colours, wesympathize with him in his afflictions; and feelin our heart evident touches of pity and benev-olence. The same object causes contrary pas-sions according to its different degrees. Thepassions, therefore, must depend upon princi-ples, that operate in such certain degrees, ac-cording to my hypothesis. The encrease of thesympathy has evidently the same effect as theencrease of the misery.

A barren or desolate country always seemsugly and disagreeable, and commonly inspiresus with contempt for the inhabitants. This de-formity, however, proceeds in a great measurefrom a sympathy with the inhabitants, as hasbeen already observed; but it is only a weak

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one, and reaches no farther than the immediatesensation, which is disagreeable. The view ofa city in ashes conveys benevolent sentiments;because we there enter so deep into the inter-ests of the miserable inhabitants, as to wish fortheir prosperity, as well as feel their adversity.

But though the force of the impression gen-erally produces pity and benevolence, it is cer-tain, that by being carryed too far it ceases tohave that effect. This, perhaps, may be worthour notice. When the uneasiness is either smallin itself, or remote from us, it engages not theimagination, nor is able to convey an equalconcern for the future and contingent good, asfor the present and real evil Upon its acquir-ing greater force, we become so interested inthe concerns of the person, as to be sensibleboth of his good and had fortune; and from

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that compleat sympathy there arises pity andbenevolence. But it will easily be imagined,that where the present evil strikes with morethan ordinary force, it may entirely engage ourattention, and prevent that double sympathy,above-mentioned. Thus we find, that thoughevery one, but especially women, are apt tocontract a kindness for criminals, who go tothe scaffold, and readily imagine them to beuncommonly handsome and wellshaped; yetone, who is present at the cruel execution ofthe rack, feels no such tender emotions; but isin a manner overcome with horror, and has noleisure to temper this uneasy sensation by anyopposite sympathy.

But the instance, which makes the mostclearly for my hypothesis, is that wherein bya change of the objects we separate the dou-

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ble sympathy even from a midling degree ofthe passion; in which case we find, that pity,instead of producing love and tenderness asusual, always gives rise to the contrary affec-tion. When we observe a person in misfor-tunes, we are affected with pity and love; butthe author of that misfortune becomes the ob-ject of our strongest hatred, and is the more de-tested in proportion to the degree of our com-passion. Now for what reason should the samepassion of pity produce love to the person, whosuffers the misfortune, and hatred to the per-son, who causes it; unless it be because in thelatter case the author bears a relation only tothe misfortune; whereas in considering the suf-ferer we carry our view on every side, and wishfor his prosperity, as well as are sensible of hisaffliction?

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I. shall just observe, before I leave the presentsubject, that this phaenomenon of the doublesympathy, and its tendency to cause love, maycontribute to the production of the kindness,which we naturally bear our relations and ac-quaintance. Custom and relation make us enterdeeply into the sentiments of others; and what-ever fortune we suppose to attend them, is ren-dered present to us by the imagination, and op-erates as if originally our own. We rejoice intheir pleasures, and grieve for their sorrows,merely from the force of sympathy. Nothingthat concerns them is indifferent to us; and asthis correspondence of sentiments is the natu-ral attendant of love, it readily produces thataffection.

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SECTION X. OF RESPECT AND CONTEMPT

There now remains only to explain the pas-sion of respect and contempt, along with theamorous affection, in order to understand allthe passions which have any mixture of loveor hatred. Let us begin with respect and con-tempt.

In considering the qualities and circum-stances of others, we may either regard themas they really are in themselves; or may makea comparison betwixt them and our own qual-ities and circumstances; or may join these twomethods of consideration. The good qualitiesof others, from the first point of view, producelove; from the second, humility; and from thethird, respect; which is a mixture of these twopassions. Their bad qualities, after the same

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manner, cause either hatred, or pride, or con-tempt, according to the light in which we sur-vey them.

That there is a mixture of pride in contempt,and of humility in respect, is, I think, too evi-dent, from their very feeling or appearance, torequire any particular proof. That this mixturearises from a tacit comparison of the personcontemned or respected with ourselves is noless evident. The same man may cause eitherrespect, love, or contempt by his condition andtalents, according as the person, who considershim, from his inferior becomes his equal or su-perior. In changing the point of view, thoughthe object may remain the same, its proportionto ourselves entirely alters; which is the causeof an alteration in the passions. These passions,therefore, arise from our observing the propor-

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tion; that is, from a comparison.

I have already observed, that the mind has amuch stronger propensity to pride than to hu-mility, and have endeavoured, from the prin-ciples of human nature, to assign a cause forthis phaenomenon. Whether my reasoning bereceived or not, the phaenomenon is undis-puted, and appears in many instances. Amongthe rest, it is the reason why there is a muchgreater mixture of pride in contempt, than ofhumility in respect, and why we are more el-evated with the view of one below us, thanmortifyed with the presence of one above us.Contempt or scorn has so strong a tincture ofpride, that there scarce is any other passion dis-cernable: Whereas in esteem or respect, lovemakes a more considerable ingredient than hu-mility. The passion of vanity is so prompt, that

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it rouzes at the least call; while humility re-quires a stronger impulse to make it exert itself.

But here it may reasonably be asked, whythis mixture takes place only in some cases, andappears not on every occasion. All those ob-jects, which cause love, when placed on an-other person, are the causes of pride, whentransfered to ourselves; and consequentlyought to be causes of humility, as well as love,while they belong to others, and are only com-pared to those, which we ourselves possess. Inlike manner every quality, which, by being di-rectly considered, produces hatred, ought al-ways to give rise to pride by comparison, andby a mixture of these passions of hatred andpride ought to excite contempt or scorn. Thedifficulty then is, why any objects ever causepure love or hatred, and produce not always

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the mixt passions of respect and contempt.

I have supposed all along, that the passionsof love and pride, and those of humility andhatred are similar in their sensations, and thatthe two former are always agreeable, and thetwo latter painful. But though this be univer-sally true, it is observable, that the two agree-able, as well as the two painful passions, havesome difference, and even contrarieties, whichdistinguish them. Nothing invigorates and ex-alts the mind equally with pride and vanity;though at the same time love or tenderness israther found to weaken and infeeble it. Thesame difference is observable betwixt the un-easy passions. Anger and hatred bestow a newforce on all our thoughts and actions; while hu-mility and shame deject and discourage us. Ofthese qualities of the passions, it will be neces-

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sary to form a distinct idea. Let us remember,that pride and hatred invigorate the soul; andlove and humility infeeble it.

From this it follows, that though the confor-mity betwixt love and hatred in the agreeable-ness of their sensation makes them always beexcited by the same objects, yet this other con-trariety is the reason, why they are excited invery different degrees. Genius and learning arepleasant and magnificent objects, and by boththese circumstances are adapted to pride andvanity; but have a relation to love by their plea-sure only. Ignorance and simplicity are dis-agreeable and mean, which in the same man-ner gives them a double connexion with hu-mility, and a single one with hatred. We may,therefore, consider it as certain, that though thesame object always produces love and pride,

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humility and hatred, according to its differentsituations, yet it seldom produces either thetwo former or the two latter passions, in thesame proportion.

It is here we must seek for a solution ofthe difficulty above-mentioned, why any ob-ject ever excites pure love or hatred, and doesnot always produce respect or contempt, by amixture of humility or pride. No quality inanother gives rise to humility by comparison,unless it would have produced pride by beingplaced in ourselves; and vice versa no objectexcites pride by comparison, unless it wouldhave produced humility by the direct survey.This is evident, objects always produce by com-parison a sensation directly contrary to theiroriginal one. Suppose, therefore, an object tobe presented, which is peculiarly fitted to pro-

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duce love, but imperfectly to excite pride; thisobject, belonging to another, gives rise directlyto a great degree of love, but to a small one ofhumility by comparison; and consequently thatlatter passion is scarce felt in the compound,nor is able to convert the love into respect. Thisis the case with good nature, good humour, fa-cility, generosity, beauty, and many other quali-ties. These have a peculiar aptitude to producelove in others; but not so great a tendency toexcite pride in ourselves: For which reason theview of them, as belonging to another person,produces pure love, with but a small mixtureof humility and respect. It is easy to extend thesame reasoning to the opposite passions.

Before we leave this subject, it may notbe amiss to account for a pretty curiousphaenomenon, viz, why we commonly keep at

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a distance such as we contemn, and allow notour inferiors to approach too near even in placeand situation. It has already been observed,that almost every kind of idea is attended withsome emotion, even the ideas of number andextension, much more those of such objects asare esteemed of consequence in life, and fix ourattention. It is not with entire indifference wecan survey either a rich man or a poor one, butmust feel some faint touches at least, of respectin the former case, and of contempt in the latter.These two passions are contrary to each other;but in order to make this contrariety be felt,the objects must be someway related; other-wise the affections are totally separate and dis-tinct, and never encounter. The relation takesplace wherever the persons become contigu-ous; which is a general reason why we are un-easy at seeing such disproportioned objects, as

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a rich man and a poor one, a nobleman and aporter, in that situation.

This uneasiness, which is common to everyspectator, must be more sensible to the supe-rior; and that because the near approach of theinferior is regarded as a piece of ill-breeding,and shews that he is not sensible of the dis-proportion, and is no way affected by it. Asense of superiority in another breeds in allmen an inclination to keep themselves at a dis-tance from him, and determines them to redou-ble the marks of respect and reverence, whenthey are obliged to approach him; and wherethey do not observe that conduct, it is a proofthey are not sensible of his superiority. Fromhence too it proceeds, that any great differencein the degrees of any quality is called a distanceby a common metaphor, which, however triv-

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ial it may appear, is founded on natural prin-ciples of the imagination. A great differenceinclines us to produce a distance. The ideasof distance and difference are, therefore, con-nected together. Connected ideas are readilytaken for each other; and this is in general thesource of the metaphor, as we shall have occa-sion to observe afterwards.

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SECTION XI. OF THE AMOROUS PASSION,OR LOVE BETWIXT THE SEXES

Of all the compound passions, which pro-ceed from a mixture of love and hatred withother affections, no one better deserves our at-tention, than that love, which arises betwixt thesexes, as well on account of its force and vi-olence, as those curious principles of philoso-phy, for which it affords us an uncontestableargument. It is plain, that this affection, inits most natural state, is derived from the con-junction of three different impressions or pas-sions, viz. The pleasing sensation arising frombeauty; the bodily appetite for generation; anda generous kindness or good-will. The origin ofkindness from beauty may be explained fromthe foregoing reasoning. The question is howthe bodily appetite is excited by it.

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The appetite of generation, when confinedto a certain degree, is evidently of the pleas-ant kind, and has a strong connexion with, allthe agreeable emotions. Joy, mirth, vanity, andkindness are all incentives to this desire; as wellas music, dancing, wine, and good cheer. Onthe other hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty,humility are destructive of it. From this qual-ity it is easily conceived why it should be con-nected with the sense of beauty.

But there is another principle that con-tributes to the same effect. I have observedthat the parallel direction of the desires is areal relation, and no less than a resemblance intheir sensation, produces a connexion amongthem. That we may fully comprehend the ex-tent of this relation, we must consider, that anyprincipal desire may be attended with subordi-

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nate ones, which are connected with it, and towhich if other desires are parallel, they are bythat means related to the principal one. Thushunger may oft be considered as the primaryinclination of the soul, and the desire of ap-proaching the meat as the secondary one; sinceit is absolutely necessary to the satisfying thatappetite. If an object, therefore, by any sepa-rate qualities, inclines us to approach the meat,it naturally encreases our appetite; as on thecontrary, whatever inclines us to set our vict-uals at a distance, is contradictory to hunger,and diminishes our inclination to them. Nowit is plain that beauty has the first effect, anddeformity the second: Which is the reason whythe former gives us a keener appetite for ourvictuals, and the latter is sufficient to disgustus at the most savoury dish that cookery hasinvented. All this is easily applicable to the ap-

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petite for generation.

From these two relations, viz, resemblanceand a parallel desire, there arises such a con-nexion betwixt the sense of beauty, the bodilyappetite, and benevolence, that they become ina manner inseparable: And we find from expe-rience that it is indifferent which of them ad-vances first; since any of them is almost sureto be attended with the related affections. One,who is inflamed with lust, feels at least a mo-mentary kindness towards the object of it, andat the same time fancies her more beautifulthan ordinary; as there are many, who beginwith kindness and esteem for the wit and meritof the person, and advance from that to theother passions. But the most common speciesof love is that which first arises from beauty,and afterwards diffuses itself into kindness and

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into the bodily appetite. Kindness or esteem,and the appetite to generation, are too remoteto unite easily together. The one is, perhaps,the most refined passion of the soul; the otherthe most gross and vulgar. The love of beautyis placed in a just medium betwixt them, andpartakes of both their natures: From whence itproceeds, that it is so singularly fitted to pro-duce both.

This account of love is not peculiar to mysystem, but is unavoidable on any hypothe-sis. The three affections, which compose thispassion, are evidently distinct, and has each ofthem its distinct object. It is certain, therefore,that it is only by their relation they produceeach other. But the relation of passions is notalone sufficient. It is likewise necessary, thereshould be a relation of ideas. The beauty of one

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person never inspires us with love for another.This then is a sensible proof of the double re-lation of impressions and ideas. From one in-stance so evident as this we may form a judg-ment of the rest.

This may also serve in another view to il-lustrate what I have insisted on concerning theorigin of pride and humility, love and hatred.I have observed, that though self be the ob-ject of the first set of passions, and some otherperson of the second, yet these objects cannotalone be the causes of the passions; as havingeach of them a relation to two contrary affec-tions, which must from the very first momentdestroy each other. Here then is the situationof the mind, as I have already described it. Ithas certain organs naturally fitted to producea passion; that passion, when produced, nat-

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urally turns the view to a certain object. Butthis not being sufficient to produce the passion,there is required some other emotion, whichby a double relation of impressions and ideasmay set these principles in action, and bestowon them their first impulse. This situation isstill more remarkable with regard to the ap-petite of generation. Sex is not only the object,but also the cause of the appetite. We not onlyturn our view to it, when actuated by that ap-petite; but the reflecting on it suffices to excitethe appetite. But as this cause loses its forceby too great frequency, it is necessary it shouldbe quickened by some new impulse; and thatimpulse we find to arise from the beauty ofthe person; that is, from a double relation ofimpressions and ideas. Since this double rela-tion is necessary where an affection has both adistinct cause, and object, how much more so,

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where it has only a distinct object, without anydeterminate cause?

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SECTION XII. OF THE LOVE AND HATREDOF ANIMALS

But to pass from the passions of love andhatred, and from their mixtures and composi-tions, as they appear m man, to the same affec-tions, as they display themselves in brutes; wemay observe, not only that love and hatred arecommon to the whole sensitive creation, butlikewise that their causes, as above-explained,are of so simple a nature, that they may easilybe supposed to operate on mere animals. Thereis no force of reflection or penetration required.Every thing is conducted by springs and princi-ples, which are not peculiar to man, or any onespecies of animals. The conclusion from this isobvious in favour of the foregoing system.

Love in animals, has not for its only objectanimals of the same species, but extends itself

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farther, and comprehends almost every sensi-ble and thinking being. A dog naturally lovesa man above his own species, and very com-monly meets with a return of affection.

As animals are but little susceptible either ofthe pleasures or pains of the imagination, theycan judge of objects only by the sensible goodor evil, which they produce, and from thatmust regulate their affections towards them.Accordingly we find, that by benefits or in-juries we produce their love or hatred; andthat by feeding and cherishing any animal, wequickly acquire his affections; as by beatingand abusing him we never fail to draw on ushis enmity and ill-will.

Love in beasts is not caused so much by re-lation, as in our species; and that because theirthoughts are not so active as to trace relations,

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except in very obvious instances. Yet it is easyto remark, that on some occasions it has a con-siderable influence upon them. Thus acquain-tance, which has the same effect as relation, al-ways produces love in animals either to men orto each other. For the same reason any likenessamong them is the source of affection. An oxconfined to a park with horses, will naturallyjoin their company, if I may so speak, but al-ways leaves it to enjoy that of his own species,where he has the choice of both.

The affection of parents to their young pro-ceeds from a peculiar instinct in animals, aswell as in our species.

It is evident, that sympathy, or the communi-cation of passions, takes place among animals,no less than among men. Fear, anger, courage,and other affections are frequently communi-

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cated from one animal to another, without theirknowledge of that cause, which produced theoriginal passion. Grief likewise is received bysympathy; and produces almost all the sameconsequences, and excites the same emotionsas in our species. The howlings and lamenta-tions of a dog produce a sensible concern inhis fellows. And it is remarkable, that thoughalmost all animals use in play the same mem-ber, and nearly the same action as in fighting; alion, a tyger, a cat their paws; an ox his horns;a dog his teeth; a horse his heels: Yet theymost carefully avoid harming their companion,even though they have nothing to fear from hisresentment; which is an evident proof of thesense brutes have of each other’s pain and plea-sure.

Every one has observed how much more

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dogs are animated when they hunt in a pack,than when they pursue their game apart; andit is evident this can proceed from nothingbut from sympathy. It is also well known tohunters, that this effect follows in a greater de-gree, and even in too great a degree, wheretwo packs, that are strangers to each other, arejoined together. We might, perhaps, be at a lossto explain this phaenomenon, if we had not ex-perience of a similar in ourselves.

Envy and malice are passions very remark-able in animals. They are perhaps more com-mon than pity; as requiring less effort ofthought and imagination.

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OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS

SECTION I. OF LIBERTY AND NECESSITY

We come now to explain the direct passions,or the impressions, which arise immediatelyfrom good or evil, from pain or pleasure. Ofthis kind are, desire and aversion, grief and joy,hope and fear.

Of all the immediate effects of pain and plea-sure, there is none more remarkable than thewill; and though properly speaking, it be notcomprehended among the passions, yet as thefull understanding of its nature and proper-ties, is necessary to the explanation of them, weshall here make it the subject of our enquiry. I

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desire it may be observed, that by the will, Imean nothing but the internal impression wefeel and are conscious of, when we knowinglygive rise to any new motion of our body, or newperception of our mind. This impression, likethe preceding ones of pride and humility, loveand hatred, it is impossible to define, and need-less to describe any farther; for which reasonwe shall cut off all those definitions and dis-tinctions, with which philosophers are wont toperplex rather than dear up this question; andentering at first upon the subject, shall exam-ine that long disputed question concerning lib-erty and necessity; which occurs so naturally intreating of the will.

It is universally acknowledged, that the op-erations of external bodies are necessary, andthat in the communication of their motion, in

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their attraction, and mutual cohesion, there arenor the least traces of indifference or liberty.Every object is determined by an absolute fatetoa certain degree and direction of irs motion,and can no more depart from that precise line,in which it moves, than it can convert itself intoan angel, or spirit, or any superior substance.The actions, therefore, of matter are to be re-garded as instances of necessary actions; andwhatever is in this respect on the same footingwith matter, must be acknowledged to be nec-essary. That we may know whether this be thecase with the actions of the mind, we shall be-gin with examining matter, and considering onwhat the idea of a necessity in its operationsare founded, and why we conclude one bodyor action to be the infallible cause of another.

It has been observed already, that in no sin-

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gle instance the ultimate connexion of any ob-jects is discoverable, either by our senses or rea-son, and that we can never penetrate so far intothe essence and construction of bodies, as toperceive the principle, on which their mutualinfluence depends. It is their constant unionalone, with which we are acquainted; and itis from the constant union the necessity arises.If objects had nor an uniform and regular con-junction with each other, we should never ar-rive at any idea of cause and effect; and even af-ter all, the necessity, which enters into that idea,is nothing but a determination of the mind topass from one object to its usual attendant, andinfer the existence of one from that of the other.Here then are two particulars, which we are toconsider as essential to necessity, viz, the con-stant union and the inference of the mind; andwherever we discover these we must acknowl-

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edge a necessity. As the actions of matter haveno necessity, but what is derived from these cir-cumstances, and it is not by any insight intothe essence of bodies we discover their connex-ion, the absence of this insight, while the unionand inference remain, will never, in any case,remove the necessity. It is the observation ofthe union, which produces the inference; forwhich reason it might be thought sufficient, ifwe prove a constant union in the actions of themind, in order to establish the inference, alongwith the necessity of these actions. But thatI may bestow a greater force on my reason-ing, I shall examine these particulars apart, andshall first prove from experience that our ac-tions have a constant union with our motives,tempers, and circumstances, before I considerthe inferences we draw from it.

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To this end a very slight and general viewof the common course of human affairs will besufficient. There is no light, in which we cantake them, that does nor confirm this principle.Whether we consider mankind according tothe difference of sexes, ages, governments, con-ditions, or methods of education; the same uni-formity and regular operation of natural prin-ciples are discernible. Uke causes still producelike effects; in the same manner as in the mu-tual action of the elements and powers of na-ture.

There are different trees, which regularlyproduce fruit, whose relish is different fromeach other; and this regularity will be admit-ted as an instance of necessity and causes inexternal bodies. But are the products of Gui-enne and of Champagne more regularly differ-

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ent than the sentiments, actions, and passionsof the two sexes, of which the one are distin-guished by their force and maturity, the otherby their delicacy and softness?

Are the changes of our body from infancyto old age more regular and certain than thoseof our mind and conduct? And would a manbe more ridiculous, who would expect that aninfant of four years old will raise a weight ofthree hundred pound, than one, who from aperson of the same age would look for a philo-sophical reasoning, or a prudent and well-concerted action?

We must certainly allow, that the cohesion ofthe parts of matter arises from natural and nec-essary principles, whatever difficulty we mayfind in explaining them: And for a reason wemust allow, that human society is founded on

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like principles; and our reason in the lattercase, is better than even that in the former; be-cause we not only observe, that men alwaysseek society, but can also explain the principles,on which this universal propensity is founded.For is it more certain, that two flat pieces ofmarble will unite together, than that two youngsavages of different sexes will copulate? Dothe children arise from this copulation moreuniformly, than does the parents care for theirsafety and preservation? And after they havearrived at years of discretion by the care of theirparents, are the inconveniencies attending theirseparation more certain than their foresight ofthese inconveniencies and their care of avoid-ing them by a close union and confederacy?

The skin, pores, muscles, and nerves of aday-labourer are different from those of a man

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of quality: So are his sentiments, actions andmanners. The different stations of life influencethe whole fabric, external and internal; and dif-ferent stations arise necessarily, because uni-formly, from the necessary and uniform prin-ciples of human nature. Men cannot live with-out society, and cannot be associated withoutgovernment. Government makes a distinctionof property, and establishes the different ranksof men. This produces industry, traffic, manu-factures, law-suits, war, leagues, alliances, voy-ages, travels, cities, fleets, ports, and all thoseother actions and objects, which cause such adiversity, and at the same time maintain suchan uniformity in human life.

Should a traveller, returning from a far coun-try, tell us, that he had seen a climate in the fifti-eth degree of northern latitude, where all the

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fruits ripen and come to perfection in the win-ter, and decay in the summer, after the samemanner as in England they are produced anddecay in the contrary seasons, he would findfew so credulous as to believe him. I am aptto think a travellar would meet with as littlecredit, who should inform us of people exactlyof the same character with those in Plato’s re-public on the one hand, or those in Hobbes’sLeviathan on the other. There is a generalcourse of nature in human actions, as well as inthe operations of the sun and the climate. Thereare also characters peculiar to different nationsand particular persons, as well as common tomankind. The knowledge of these characters isfounded on the observation of an uniformity inthe actions, that flow from them; and this uni-formity forms the very essence of necessity.

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I can imagine only one way of eluding thisargument, which is by denying that uniformityof human actions, on which it is founded. Aslong as actions have a constant union and con-nexion with the situation and temper of theagent, however we may in words refuse to ac-knowledge the necessity, we really allow thething. Now some may, perhaps, find a pretextto deny this regular union and connexion. Forwhat is more capricious than human actions?What more inconstant than the desires of man?And what creature departs more widely, notonly from right reason, but from his own char-acter and disposition? An hour, a moment issufficient to make him change from one ex-treme to another, and overturn what cost thegreatest pain and labour to establish. Necessityis regular and certain. Human conduct is ir-regular and uncertain. The one, therefore, pro-

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ceeds not from the other.

To this I reply, that in judging of the ac-tions of men we must proceed upon the samemaxims, as when we reason concerning exter-nal objects. When any phaenomena are con-stantly and invariably conjoined together, theyacquire such a connexion in the imagination,that it passes from one to the other, without anydoubt or hesitation. But below this there aremany inferior degrees of evidence and proba-bility, nor does one single contrariety of exper-iment entirely destroy all our reasoning. Themind ballances the contrary experiments, anddeducting the inferior from the superior, pro-ceeds with that degree of assurance or evi-dence, which remains. Even when these con-trary experiments are entirely equal, we re-move not the notion of causes and necessity;

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but supposing that the usual contrariety pro-ceeds from the operation of contrary and con-cealed causes, we conclude, that the chanceor indifference lies only in our judgment onaccount of our imperfect knowledge, not inthe things themselves, which are in every caseequally necessary, though to appearance notequally constant or certain. No union can bemore constant and certain, than that of someactions with some motives and characters; andif in other cases the union is uncertain, it is nomore than what happens in the operations ofbody, nor can we conclude any thing from theone irregularity, which will not follow equallyfrom the other.

It is commonly allowed that mad-men haveno liberty. But were we to judge by their ac-tions, these have less regularity and constancy

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than the actions of wise-men, and consequentlyare farther removed from necessity. Our wayof thinking in this particular is, therefore, ab-solutely inconsistent; but is a natural conse-quence of these confused ideas and undefinedterms, which we so commonly make use of inour reasonings, especially on the present sub-ject.

We must now shew, that as the union betwixtmotives and actions has the same constancy, asthat in any natural operations, so its influenceon the understanding is also the same, in de-termining us to infer the existence of one fromthat of another. If this shall appear, there is noknown circumstance, that enters into the con-nexion and production of the actions of matter,that is not to be found in all the operations ofthe mind; and consequently we cannot, with-

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out a manifest absurdity, attribute necessity tothe one, and refuse into the other.

There is no philosopher, whose judgment isso riveted to this fantastical system of liberty,as not to acknowledge the force of moral ev-idence, and both in speculation and practiceproceed upon it, as upon a reasonable founda-tion. Now moral evidence is nothing but a con-clusion concerning the actions of men, derivedfrom the consideration of their motives, temperand situation. Thus when we see certain char-acters or figures described upon paper, we inferthat the person, who produced them, would af-firm such facts, the death of Caesar, the successof Augustus, the cruelty of Nero; and remem-bering many other concurrent testimonies weconclude, that those facts were once really ex-istant, and that so many men, without any in-

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terest, would never conspire to deceive us; es-pecially since they must, in the attempt, exposethemselves to the derision of all their contem-poraries, when these facts were asserted to berecent and universally known. The same kindof reasoning runs through politics, war, com-merce, economy, and indeed mixes itself so en-tirely in human life, that it is impossible to actor subsist a moment without having recourseto it. A prince, who imposes a tax upon hissubjects, expects their compliance. A general,who conducts an army, makes account of a cer-tain degree of courage. A merchant looks forfidelity and skill in his factor or super-cargo. Aman, who gives orders for his dinner, doubtsnot of the obedience of his servants. In short, asnothing more nearly interests us than our ownactions and those of others, the greatest part ofour reasonings is employed in judgments con-

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cerning them. Now I assert, that whoever rea-sons after this manner, does ipso facto believethe actions of the will to arise from necessity,and that he knows not what he means, whenhe denies it.

All those objects, of which we call the onecause and the other effect, considered in them-selves, are as distinct and separate from eachother, as any two things in nature, nor can weever, by the most accurate survey of them, in-fer the existence of the one from that of theother. It is only from experience and the obser-vation of their constant union, that we are ableto form this inference; and even after all, the in-ference is nothing but the effects of custom onthe imagination. We must not here be contentwith saying, that the idea of cause and effectarises from objects constantly united; but must

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affirm, that it is the very same with the idea ofthose objects, and that the necessary connex-ion is not discovered by a conclusion of theunderstanding, but is merely a perception ofthe mind. Wherever, therefore, we observe thesame union, and wherever the union operatesin the same manner upon the belief and opin-ion, we have the idea of causes and necessity,though perhaps we may avoid those expres-sions. Motion in one body in all past instances,that have fallen under our observation, is fol-lowed upon impulse by motion in another. Itis impossible for the mind to penetrate farther.From this constant union it forms the idea ofcause and effect, and by its influence feels thenecessity. As there is the same constancy, andthe same influence in what we call moral evi-dence, I ask no more. What remains can onlybe a dispute of words.

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And indeed, when we consider how aptlynatural and moral evidence cement together,and form only one chain of argument betwixtthem, we shall make no scruple to allow, thatthey are of the same nature, and derived fromthe same principles. A prisoner, who has nei-ther money nor interest, discovers the impossi-bility of his escape, as well from the obstinacyof the goaler, as from the walls and bars withwhich he is surrounded; and in all attemptsfor his freedom chuses rather to work uponthe stone and iron of the one, than upon theinflexible nature of the other. The same pris-oner, when conducted to the scaffold, foreseeshis death as certainly from the constancy andfidelity of his guards as from the operation ofthe ax or wheel. His mind runs along a certaintrain of ideas: The refusal of the soldiers to con-sent to his escape, the action of the executioner;

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the separation of the head and body; bleeding,convulsive motions, and death. Here is a con-nected chain of natural causes and voluntaryactions; but the mind feels no difference be-twixt them in passing from one link to another;nor is less certain of the future event than if itwere connected with the present impressionsof the memory and senses by a train of causescemented together by what we are pleased tocall a physical necessity. The same experiencedunion has the same effect on the mind, whetherthe united objects be motives, volitions and ac-tions; or figure and motion. We may changethe names of things; but their nature and theiroperation on the understanding never change.

I dare be positive no one will ever endeavourto refute these reasonings otherwise than by al-tering my definitions, and assigning a different

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meaning to the terms of cause, and effect, andnecessity, and liberty, and chance. Accordingto my definitions, necessity makes an essentialpart of causation; and consequently liberty, byremoving necessity, removes also causes, andis the very same thing with chance. As chanceis commonly thought to imply a contradiction,and is at least directly contrary to experience,there are always the same arguments againstliberty or free-will. If any one alters the defini-tions, I cannot pretend to argue with him, untilI know the meaning he assigns to these terms.

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SECTION II. THE SAME SUBJECTCONTINUED

I believe we may assign the three followingreasons for the prevalance of the doctrine of lib-erty, however absurd it may be in one sense,and unintelligible in any other. First, After wehave performed any action; though we confesswe were influenced by particular views andmotives; it is difficult for us to persuade our-selves we were governed by necessity, and thatit was utterly impossible for us to have actedotherwise; the idea of necessity seeming to im-ply something of force, and violence, and con-straint, of which we are not sensible. Few arecapable of distinguishing betwixt the liberty ofspontaniety, as it is called in the schools, andthe liberty of indifference; betwixt that whichis opposed to violence, and that which means

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a negation of necessity and causes. The first iseven the most common sense of the word; andas it is only that species of liberty, which it con-cerns us to preserve, our thoughts have beenprincipally turned towards it, and have almostuniversally confounded it with the other.

Secondly, There is a false sensation or experi-ence even of the liberty of indifference; which isregarded as an argument for its real existence.The necessity of any action, whether of mat-ter or of the mind, is not properly a quality inthe agent, but in any thinking or intelligent be-ing, who may consider the action, and consistsin the determination of his thought to infer itsexistence from some preceding objects: As lib-erty or chance, on the other hand, is nothingbut the want of that determination, and a cer-tain looseness, which we feel in passing or not

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passing from the idea of one to that of the other.Now we may observe, that though in reflect-ing on human actions we seldom feel such alooseness or indifference, yet it very commonlyhappens, that in performing the actions them-selves we are sensible of something like it: Andas all related or resembling objects are readilytaken for each other, this has been employed asa demonstrative or even an intuitive proof ofhuman liberty. We feel that our actions are sub-ject to our will on most occasions, and imag-ine we feel that the will itself is subject to noth-ing; because when by a denial of it we are pro-voked to try, we feel that it moves easily everyway, and produces an image of itself even onthat side, on which it did not settle. This imageor faint motion, we persuade ourselves, couedhave been compleated into the thing itself; be-cause, should that be denyed, we find, upon a

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second trial, that it can. But these efforts areall in vain; and whatever capricious and irreg-ular actions we may perform; as the desire ofshowing our liberty is the sole motive of ouractions; we can never free ourselves from thebonds of necessity. We may imagine we feela liberty within ourselves; but a spectator cancommonly infer our actions from our motivesand character; and even where he cannot, heconcludes in general, that he might, were heperfectly acquainted with every circumstanceof our situation and temper, and the most se-cret springs of our complexion and disposition.Now this is the very essence of necessity, ac-cording to the foregoing doctrine.

A third reason why the doctrine of libertyhas generally been better received in the world,than its antagonist, proceeds from religion,

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which has been very unnecessarily interestedin this question. There is no method of reason-ing more common, and yet none more blame-able, than in philosophical debates to endeav-our to refute any hypothesis by a pretext of itsdangerous consequences to religion and moral-ity. When any opinion leads us into absurdi-ties, it is certainly false; but it is not certain anopinion is false, because it is of dangerous con-sequence. Such topics, therefore, ought entirelyto be foreborn, as serving nothing to the dis-covery of truth, but only to make the personof an antagonist odious. This I observe in gen-eral, without pretending to draw any advan-tage from it. I submit myself frankly to an ex-amination of this kind, and dare venture to af-firm, that the doctrine of necessity, accordingto my explication of it, is not only innocent, buteven advantageous to religion and morality.

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I define necessity two ways, conformable tothe two definitions of cause, of which it makesan essential part. I place it either in the con-stant union and conjunction of like objects, orin the inference of the mind from the one to theother. Now necessity, in both these senses, hasuniversally, though tacitely, in the schools, inthe pulpit, and in common life, been allowed tobelong to the will of man, and no one has everpretended to deny, that we can draw inferencesconcerning human actions, and that those in-ferences are founded on the experienced unionof like actions with like motives and circum-stances. The only particular in which any onecan differ from me, is either, that perhaps hewill refuse to call this necessity. But as longas the meaning is understood, I hope the wordcan do no harm. Or that he will maintain thereis something else in the operations of matter.

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Now whether it be so or not is of no conse-quence to religion, whatever it may be to natu-ral philosophy. I may be mistaken in asserting,that we have no idea of any other connexion inthe actions of body, and shall be glad to be far-ther instructed on that head: But sure I am, Iascribe nothing to the actions of the mind, butwhat must readily be allowed of. Let no one,therefore, put an invidious construction on mywords, by saying simply, that I assert the neces-sity of human actions, and place them on thesame footing with the operations of senselessmatter. I do not ascribe to the will that unin-telligible necessity, which is supposed to lie inmatter. But I ascribe to matter, that intelligiblequality, call it necessity or not, which the mostrigorous orthodoxy does or must allow to be-long to the will. I change, therefore, nothing inthe received systems, with regard to the will,

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but only with regard to material objects.

Nay I shall go farther, and assert, that thiskind of necessity is so essential to religion andmorality, that without it there must ensue anabsolute subversion of both, and that everyother supposition is entirely destructive to alllaws both divine and human. It is indeed cer-tain, that as all human laws are founded onrewards and punishments, it is supposed as afundamental principle, that these motives havean influence on the mind, and both produce thegood and prevent the evil actions. We may giveto this influence what name we please; but as itis usually conjoined with the action, commonsense requires it should be esteemed a cause,and be booked upon as an instance of that ne-cessity, which I would establish.

This reasoning is equally solid, when ap-

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plied to divine laws, so far as the deity is con-sidered as a legislator, and is supposed to in-flict punishment and bestow rewards with adesign to produce obedience. But I also main-tain, that even where he acts not in his magiste-rial capacity, but is regarded as the avenger ofcrimes merely on account of their odiousnessand deformity, not only it is impossible, with-out the necessary connexion of cause and ef-fect in human actions, that punishments couedbe inflicted compatible with justice and moralequity; but also that it coued ever enter intothe thoughts of any reasonable being to in-flict them. The constant and universal objectof hatred or anger is a person or creature en-dowed with thought and consciousness; andwhen any criminal or injurious actions excitethat passion, it is only by their relation to theperson or connexion with him. But according

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to the doctrine of liberty or chance, this connex-ion is reduced to nothing, nor are men more ac-countable for those actions, which are designedand premeditated, than for such as are the mostcasual and accidental. Actions are by their verynature temporary and perishing; and wherethey proceed not from some cause in the char-acters and disposition of the person, who per-formed them, they infix not themselves uponhim, and can neither redound to his honour,if good, nor infamy, if evil. The action itselfmay be blameable; it may be contrary to all therules of morality and religion: But the person isnot responsible for it; and as it proceeded fromnothing in him, that is durable or constant, andleaves nothing of that nature behind it, it is im-possible he can, upon its account, become theobject of punishment or vengeance. Accordingto the hypothesis of liberty, therefore, a man

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is as pure and untainted, after having commit-ted the most horrid crimes, as at the first mo-ment of his birth, nor is his character any wayconcerned in his actions; since they are not de-rived from it, and the wickedness of the onecan never be used as a proof of the depravityof the other. It is only upon the principles ofnecessity, that a person acquires any merit ordemerit from his actions, however the commonopinion may incline to the contrary.

But so inconsistent are men with themselves,that though they often assert, that necessity ut-terly destroys all merit and demerit either to-wards mankind or superior powers, yet theycontinue still to reason upon these very princi-ples of necessity in all their judgments concern-ing this matter. Men are not blamed for suchevil actions as they perform ignorantly and ca-

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sually, whatever may be their consequences.Why? but because the causes of these actionsare only momentary, and terminate in themalone. Men are less blamed for such evil ac-tions, as they perform hastily and unpremed-itately, than for such as proceed from thoughtand deliberation. For what reason? but be-cause a hasty temper, though a constant causein the mind, operates only by intervals, and in-fects not the whole character. Again, repen-tance wipes off every crime, especially if at-tended with an evident reformation of life andmanners. How is this to be accounted for? Butby asserting that actions render a person crim-inal, merely as they are proofs of criminal pas-sions or principles in the mind; and when byany alteration of these principles they cease tobe just proofs, they likewise cease to be crimi-nal. But according to the doctrine of liberty or

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chance they never were just proofs, and conse-quently never were criminal.

Here then I turn to my adversary, and desirehim to free his own system from these odiousconsequences before he charge them upon oth-ers. Or if he rather chuses, that this questionshould be decided by fair arguments beforephilosophers, than by declamations before thepeople, let him return to what I have advancedto prove that liberty and chance are synoni-mous; and concerning the nature of moral ev-idence and the regularity of human actions.Upon a review of these reasonings, I cannotdoubt of an entire victory; and therefore hav-ing proved, that all actions of the will have par-ticular causes, I proceed to explain what thesecauses are, and how they operate.

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SECTION III. OF THE INFLUENCINGMOTIVES OF THE WILL

Nothing is more usual in philosophy, andeven in common life, than to talk of the com-bat of passion and reason, to give the prefer-ence to reason, and assert that men are onlyso far virtuous as they conform themselvesto its dictates. Every rational creature, it issaid, is obliged to regulate his actions by rea-son; and if any other motive or principle chal-lenge the direction of his conduct, he oughtto oppose it, till it be entirely subdued, or atleast brought to a conformity with that supe-rior principle. On this method of thinking thegreatest part of moral philosophy, antient andmodern, seems to be founded; nor is there anampler field, as well for metaphysical argu-ments, as popular declamations, than this sup-

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posed pre-eminence of reason above passion.The eternity, invariableness, and divine originof the former have been displayed to the bestadvantage: The blindness, unconstancy, anddeceitfulness of the latter have been as stronglyinsisted on. In order to shew the fallacy ofall this philosophy, I shall endeavour to provefirst, that reason alone can never be a motiveto any action of the will; and secondly, that itcan never oppose passion in the direction of thewill.

The understanding exerts itself after two dif-ferent ways, as it judges from demonstrationor probability; as it regards the abstract rela-tions of our ideas, or those relations of objects,of which experience only gives us information.I believe it scarce will be asserted, that the firstspecies of reasoning alone is ever the cause of

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any action. As its proper province is the worldof ideas, and as the will always places us in thatof realities, demonstration and volition seem,upon that account, to be totally removed, fromeach other. Mathematics, indeed, are useful inall mechanical operations, and arithmetic in al-most every art and profession: But it is not ofthemselves they have any influence: Mechan-ics are the art of regulating the motions of bod-ies to some designed end or purpose; and thereason why we employ arithmetic in fixing theproportions of numbers, is only that we maydiscover the proportions of their influence andoperation. A merchant is desirous of knowingthe sum total of his accounts with any person:Why? but that he may learn what sum willhave the same effects in paying his debt, andgoing to market, as all the particular articlestaken together. Abstract or demonstrative rea-

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soning, therefore, never influences any of ouractions, but only as it directs our judgment con-cerning causes and effects; which leads us tothe second operation of the understanding.

It is obvious, that when we have the prospectof pain or pleasure from any object, we feel aconsequent emotion of aversion or propensity,and are carryed to avoid or embrace what willgive us this uneasines or satisfaction. It is alsoobvious, that this emotion rests not here, butmaking us cast our view on every side, compre-hends whatever objects are connected with itsoriginal one by the relation of cause and effect.Here then reasoning takes place to discover thisrelation; and according as our reasoning varies,our actions receive a subsequent variation. Butit is evident in this case that the impulse arisesnot from reason, but is only directed by it. It is

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from the prospect of pain or pleasure that theaversion or propensity arises towards any ob-ject: And these emotions extend themselves tothe causes and effects of that object, as they arepointed out to us by reason and experience. Itcan never in the least concern us to know, thatsuch objects are causes, and such others effects,if both the causes and effects be indifferent tous. Where the objects themselves do not affectus, their connexion can never give them any in-fluence; and it is plain, that as reason is nothingbut the discovery of this connexion, it cannotbe by its means that the objects are able to af-fect us.

Since reason alone can never produce anyaction, or give rise to volition, I infer, thatthe same faculty is as incapable of preventingvolition, or of disputing the preference with

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any passion or emotion. This consequence isnecessary. It is impossible reason coued havethe latter effect of preventing volition, but bygiving an impulse in a contrary direction toour passion; and that impulse, had it operatedalone, would have been able to produce vo-lition. Nothing can oppose or retard the im-pulse of passion, but a contrary impulse; and ifthis contrary impulse ever arises from reason,that latter faculty must have an original influ-ence on the will, and must be able to cause, aswell as hinder any act of volition. But if rea-son has no original influence, it is impossibleit can withstand any principle, which has suchan efficacy, or ever keep the mind in suspencea moment. Thus it appears, that the principle,which opposes our passion, cannot be the samewith reason, and is only called so in an im-proper sense. We speak not strictly and philo-

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sophically when we talk of the combat of pas-sion and of reason. Reason is, and ought onlyto be the slave of the passions, and can neverpretend to any other office than to serve andobey them. As this opinion may appear some-what extraordinary, it may not be improper toconfirm it by some other considerations.

A passion is an original existence, or, if youwill, modification of existence, and containsnot any representative quality, which renders ita copy of any other existence or modification.When I am angry, I am actually possest withthe passion, and in that emotion have no morea reference to any other object, than when I amthirsty, or sick, or more than five foot high. Itis impossible, therefore, that this passion canbe opposed by, or be contradictory to truth andreason; since this contradiction consists in the

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disagreement of ideas, considered as copies,with those objects, which they represent.

What may at first occur on this head, is, thatas nothing can be contrary to truth or reason,except what has a reference to it, and as thejudgments of our understanding only have thisreference, it must follow, that passions can becontrary to reason only so far as they are ac-companyed with some judgment or opinion.According to this principle, which is so obviousand natural, it is only in two senses, that any af-fection can be called unreasonable. First, Whena passion, such as hope or fear, grief or joy, de-spair or security, is founded on the supposi-tion or the existence of objects, which really donot exist. Secondly, When in exerting any pas-sion in action, we chuse means insufficient forthe designed end, and deceive ourselves in our

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judgment of causes and effects. Where a pas-sion is neither founded on false suppositions,nor chuses means insufficient for the end, theunderstanding can neither justify nor condemnit. It is not contrary to reason to prefer the de-struction of the whole world to the scratchingof my finger. It is not contrary to reason forme to chuse my total ruin, to prevent the leastuneasiness of an Indian or person wholly un-known to me. It is as little contrary to reasonto prefer even my own acknowledgeed lessergood to my greater, and have a more ardent af-fection for the former than the latter. A trivialgood may, from certain circumstances, producea desire superior to what arises from the great-est and most valuable enjoyment; nor is thereany thing more extraordinary in this, than inmechanics to see one pound weight raise upa hundred by the advantage of its situation.

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In short, a passion must be accompanyed withsome false judgment in order to its being un-reasonable; and even then it is not the passion,properly speaking, which is unreasonable, butthe judgment.

The consequences are evident. Since a pas-sion can never, in any sense, be called unrea-sonable, but when founded on a false suppo-sition or when it chuses means insufficient forthe designed end, it is impossible, that reasonand passion can ever oppose each other, or dis-pute for the government of the will and actions.The moment we perceive the falshood of anysupposition, or the insufficiency of any meansour passions yield to our reason without anyopposition. I may desire any fruit as of an ex-cellent relish; but whenever you convince meof my mistake, my longing ceases. I may will

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the performance of certain actions as means ofobtaining any desired good; but as my willingof these actions is only secondary, and foundedon the supposition, that they are causes of theproposed effect; as soon as I discover the fal-shood of that supposition, they must becomeindifferent to me.

It is natural for one, that does not examineobjects with a strict philosophic eye, to imag-ine, that those actions of the mind are entirelythe same, which produce not a different sensa-tion, and are not immediately distinguishableto the feeling and perception. Reason, for in-stance, exerts itself without producing any sen-sible emotion; and except in the more sublimedisquisitions of philosophy, or in the frivoloussubtilties of the school, scarce ever conveysany pleasure or uneasiness. Hence it proceeds,

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that every action of the mind, which operateswith the same calmness and tranquillity, is con-founded with reason by all those, who judgeof things from the first view and appearance.Now it is certain, there are certain calm desiresand tendencies, which, though they be real pas-sions, produce little emotion in the mind, andare more known by their effects than by theimmediate feeling or sensation. These desiresare of two kinds; either certain instincts origi-nally implanted in our natures, such as benev-olence and resentment, the love of life, andkindness to children; or the general appetite togood, and aversion to evil, considered merelyas such. When any of these passions are calm,and cause no disorder in the soul, they are veryreadily taken for the determinations of reason,and are supposed to proceed from the samefaculty, with that, which judges of truth and fal-

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shood. Their nature and principles have beensupposed the same, because their sensationsare not evidently different.

Beside these calm passions, which often de-termine the will, there are certain violent emo-tions of the same kind, which have likewisea great influence on that faculty. When I re-ceive any injury from another, I often feel a vi-olent passion of resentment, which makes medesire his evil and punishment, independentof all considerations of pleasure and advantageto myself. When I am immediately threatenedwith any grievous ill, my fears, apprehensions,and aversions rise to a great height, and pro-duce a sensible emotion.

The common error of metaphysicians haslain in ascribing the direction of the will en-tirely to one of these principles, and suppos-

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ing the other to have no influence. Men of-ten act knowingly against their interest: Forwhich reason the view of the greatest possiblegood does not always influence them. Men of-ten counter-act a violent passion in prosecutionof their interests and designs: It is not there-fore the present uneasiness alone, which deter-mines them. In general we may observe, thatboth these principles operate on the will; andwhere they are contrary, that either of themprevails, according to the general character orpresent disposition of the person. What wecall strength of mind, implies the prevalenceof the calm passions above the violent; thoughwe may easily observe, there is no man so con-stantly possessed of this virtue, as never on anyoccasion to yield to the sollicitations of pas-sion and desire. From these variations of tem-per proceeds the great difficulty of deciding

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concerning the actions and resolutions of men,where there is any contrariety of motives andpassions.

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SECTION IV. OF THE CAUSES OF THEVIOLENT PASSIONS

There is not-in philosophy a subject of morenice speculation than this of the differentcauses and effects of the calm and violent pas-sions. It is evident passions influence not thewill in proportion to their violence, or the dis-order they occasion in the temper; but on thecontrary, that when a passion has once becomea settled principle of action, and is the predom-inant inclination of the soul, it commonly pro-duces no longer any sensible agitation. As re-peated custom and its own force have madeevery thing yield to it, it directs the actionsand conduct without that opposition and emo-tion, which so naturally attend every momen-tary gust of passion. We must, therefore, distin-guish betwixt a calm and a weak passion; be-

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twixt a violent and a strong one. But notwith-standing this, it is certain, that when we wouldgovern a man, and push him to any action, itwill commonly be better policy to work uponthe violent than the calm passions, and rathertake him by his inclination, than what is vul-garly called his reason. We ought to placethe object in such particular situations as areproper to encrease the violence of the passion.For we may observe, that all depends upon thesituation of the object, and that a variation inthis particular will be able to change the calmand the violent passions into each other. Boththese kinds of passions pursue good, and avoidevil; and both of them are encreased or dimin-ished by the encrease or diminution of the goodor evil. But herein lies the difference betwixtthem: The same good, when near, will cause aviolent passion, which, when remote, produces

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only a calm one. As this subject belongs veryproperly to the present question concerning thewill, we shall here examine it to the bottom,and shall consider some of those circumstancesand situations of objects, which render a pas-sion either calm or violent.

It is a remarkable property of human na-ture, that any emotion, which attends a pas-sion, is easily converted into it, though in theirnatures they be originally different from, andeven contrary to each other. It is true; in orderto make a perfect union among passions, thereis always required a double relation of impres-sions and ideas; nor is one relation sufficientfor that purpose. But though this be confirmedby undoubted experience, we must understandit with its proper limitations, and must regardthe double relation, as requisite only to make

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one passion produce another. When two pas-sions are already produced by their separatecauses, and are both present in the mind, theyreadily mingle and unite, though they have butone relation, and sometimes without any. Thepredominant passion swallows up the inferior,and converts it into itself. The spirits, whenonce excited, easily receive a change in their di-rection; and it is natural to imagine this changewill come from the prevailing affection. Theconnexion is in many respects closer betwixtany two passions, than betwixt any passionand indifference.

When a person is once heartily in love, thelittle faults and caprices of his mistress, the jeal-ousies and quarrels, to which that commerceis so subject; however unpleasant and relatedto anger and hatred; are yet found to give ad-

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ditional force to the prevailing passion. It isa common artifice of politicians, when theywould affect any person very much by a matterof fact, of which they intend to inform him, firstto excite his curiosity; delay as long as possi-ble the satisfying it; and by that means raise hisanxiety and impatience to the utmost, beforethey give him a full insight into the business.They know that his curiosity will precipitatehim into the passion they design to raise, andassist the object in its influence on the mind. Asoldier advancing to the battle, is naturally in-spired with courage and confidence, when hethinks on his friends and fellow-soldiers; and isstruck with fear and terror, when he reflects onthe enemy. Whatever new emotion, therefore,proceeds from the former naturally encreasesthe courage; as the same emotion, proceedingfrom the latter, augments the fear; by the re-

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lation of ideas, and the conversion of the infe-rior emotion into the predominant. Hence it isthat in martial discipline, the uniformity andlustre of our habit, the regularity of our figuresand motions, with all the pomp and majesty ofwar, encourage ourselves and allies; while thesame objects in the enemy strike terror into us,though agreeable and beautiful in themselves.

Since passions, however independent, arenaturally transfused into each other, if they areboth present at the same time; it follows, thatwhen good or evil is placed in such a situation,as to cause any particular emotion, beside itsdirect passion of desire or aversion, that latterpassion must acquire new force and violence.

This happens, among other cases, wheneverany object excites contrary passions. For it isobservable that an opposition of passions com-

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monly causes a new emotion in the spirits, andproduces more disorder, than the concurrenceof any two affections of equal force. This newemotion is easily converted into the predom-inant passion, and encreases its violence, be-yond the pitch it would have arrived at hadit met with no opposition. Hence we natu-rally desire what is forbid, and take a pleasurein performing actions, merely because they areunlawful. The notion of duty, when opposite tothe passions, is seldom able to overcome them;and when it fails of that effect, is apt rather toencrease them, by producing an opposition inour motives and principles. The same effectfollows whether the opposition arises from in-ternal motives or external obstacles. The pas-sion commonly acquires new force and vio-lence in both cases.

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The efforts, which the mind makes to sur-mount the obstacle, excite the spirits and in-liven the passion.

Uncertainty has the same influence as oppo-sition. The agitation of the thought; the quickturns it makes from one view to another; thevariety of passions, which succeed each other,according to the different views; All these pro-duce an agitation in the mind, and transfusethemselves into the predominant passion.

There is not in my opinion any other nat-ural cause, why security diminishes the pas-sions, than because it removes that uncertainty,which encreases them. The mind, when leftto itself, immediately languishes; and in orderto preserve its ardour, must be every momentsupported by a new flow of passion. For thesame reason, despair, though contrary to secu-

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rity, has a like influence.

It is certain nothing more powerfully ani-mates any affection, than to conceal some partof its object by throwing it into a kind of shade,which at the same time that it chews enoughto pre-possess us in favour of the object, leavesstill some work for the imagination. Besidesthat obscurity is always attended with a kind ofuncertainty; the effort, which the fancy makesto compleat the idea, rouzes the spirits, andgives an additional force to the passion.

As despair and security, though contrary toeach other, produce the same effects; so ab-sence is observed to have contrary effects, andin different circumstances either encreases ordiminishes our affections. The Duc de LaRochefoucault has very well observed, that ab-sence destroys weak passions, but encreases

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strong; as the wind extinguishes a candle, butblows up a fire. Long absence naturally weak-ens our idea, and diminishes the passion: Butwhere the idea is so strong and lively as tosupport itself, the uneasiness, arising from ab-sence, encreases the passion and gives it newforce and violence.

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SECTION V. OF THE EFFECTS OF CUSTOM

But nothing has a greater effect both to en-crease and diminish our passions, to convertpleasure into pain, and pain into pleasure, thancustom and repetition. Custom has two origi-nal effects upon the mind, in bestowing a fa-cility in the performance of any action or theconception of any object; and afterwards a ten-dency or inclination towards it; and from thesewe may account for all its other effects, how-ever extraordinary.

When the soul applies itself to the perfor-mance of any action, or the conception of anyobject, to which it is not accustomed, there isa certain unpliableness in the faculties, and adifficulty of the spirit’s moving in their new di-rection. As this difficulty excites the spirits, it

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is the source of wonder, surprize, and of all theemotions, which arise from novelty; and is initself very agreeable, like every thing, whichinlivens the mind to a moderate degree. Butthough surprize be agreeable in itself, yet as itputs the spirits in agitation, it not only aug-ments our agreeable affections, but also ourpainful, according to the foregoing principle,that every emotion, which precedes or attendsa passion, is easily converted into it. Hence ev-ery thing, that is new, is most affecting, andgives us either more pleasure or pain, thanwhat, strictly speaking, naturally belongs toit. When it often returns upon us, the noveltywears off; the passions subside; the hurry of thespirits is over; and we survey the objects withgreater tranquillity.

By degrees the repetition produces a facility

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of the human mind, and an infallible source ofpleasure, where the facility goes not beyonda certain degree. And here it is remarkablethat the pleasure, which arises from a mod-erate facility, has not the same tendency withthat which arises from novelty, to augment thepainful, as well as the agreeable affections. Thepleasure of facility does not so much consist inany ferment of the spirits, as in their orderlymotion; which will sometimes be so powerfulas even to convert pain into pleasure, and giveus a relish in time what at first was most harshand disagreeable.

But again, as facility converts pain into plea-sure, so it often converts pleasure into pain,when it is too great, and renders the actions ofthe mind so faint and languid, that they are nolonger able to interest and support it. And in-

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deed, scarce any other objects become disagree-able through custom; but such as are natu-rally attended with some emotion or affection,which is destroyed by the too frequent repeti-tion. One can consider the clouds, and heav-ens, and trees, and stones, however frequentlyrepeated, without ever feeling any aversion.But when the fair sex, or music, or good cheer,or any thing, that naturally ought to be agree-able, becomes indifferent, it easily produces theopposite affection.

But custom not only gives a facility to per-form any action, but likewise an inclinationand tendency towards it, where it is not en-tirely disagreeable, and can never be the ob-ject of inclination. And this is the reason whycustom encreases all active habits, but dimin-ishes passive, according to the observation of a

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late eminent philosopher. The facility takes offfrom the force of the passive habits by render-ing the motion of the spirits faint and languid.But as in the active, the spirits are sufficientlysupported of themselves, the tendency of themind gives them new force, and bends themmore strongly to the action.

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SECTION VI. OF THE INFLUENCE OF THEIMAGINATION ON THE PASSIONS

It is remarkable, that the imagination andaffections have close union together, and thatnothing, which affects the former, can be en-tirely indifferent to the latter. Wherever ourideas of good or evil acquire a new vivac-ity, the passions become more violent; andkeep pace with the imagination in all its varia-tions. Whether this proceeds from the principleabove-mentioned, that any attendant emotionis easily converted into the predominant, I shallnot determine. It is sufficient for my presentpurpose, that we have many instances to con-firm this influence of the imagination upon thepassions.

Any pleasure, with which we are ac-quainted, affects us more than any other, which

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we own to be superior, but of whose nature weare wholly ignorant. Of the one we can forma particular and determinate idea: The otherwe conceive under the general notion of plea-sure; and it is certain, that the more general anduniversal any of our ideas are, the less influ-ence they have upon the imagination. A gen-eral idea, though it be nothing but a particularone considered in a certain view, is commonlymore obscure; and that because no particularidea, by which we represent a general one, isever fixed or determinate, but may easily bechanged for other particular ones, which willserve equally in the representation.

There is a noted passage in the history ofGreece, which may serve for our present pur-pose. Themistocles told the Athenians, that hehad formed a design, which would be highly

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useful to the public, but which it was impos-sible for him to communicate to them with-out ruining the execution, since its success de-pended entirely on the secrecy with which itshould be conducted. The Athenians, insteadof granting him full power to act as he thoughtfitting, ordered him to communicate his de-sign to Aristides, in whose prudence they hadan entire confidence, and whose opinion theywere resolved blindly to submit to. The designof Themistocles was secretly to set fire to thefleet of all the Grecian commonwealths, whichwas assembled in a neighbouring port, andwhich being once destroyed would give theAthenians the empire of the sea without anyrival Aristides returned to the assembly, andtold them, that nothing coued be more advan-tageous than the design of Themistocles but atthe same time that nothing coued be more un-

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just: Upon which the people unanimously re-jected the project.

A late celebrated historian (Mons. RollinCharles Rollin, Histroire Ancienne.(Paris 1730-38).) admires this passage of antient history, asone of the most singular that is any where to bemet.

“Here,” says he, “they are not philosophers,to whom it is easy in their schools to establishthe finest maxims and most sublime rules ofmorality, who decide that interest ought neverto prevail above justice. It is a whole peopleinterested in the proposal which is made tothem, who consider it as of importance to thepublic good, and who notwithstanding rejectit unanimously, and without hesitation, merelybecause it is contrary to justice.”

For my part I see nothing so extraordinary

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in this proceeding of the Athenians. The samereasons, which render it so easy for philoso-phers to establish these sublime maxims, tend,in part, to diminish the merit of such a conductin that people. Philosophers never ballancebetwixt profit and honesty, because their de-cisions are general, and neither their passionsnor imaginations are interested in the objects.And though in the present case the advantagewas immediate to the Athenians, yet as it wasknown only under the general notion of advan-tage, without being conceived by any particu-lar idea, it must have had a less considerableinfluence on their imaginations, and have beena less violent temptation, than if they had beenacquainted with all its circumstances: Other-wise it is difficult to conceive, that a whole peo-ple, unjust and violent as men commonly are,should so unanimously have adhered to jus-

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tice, and rejected any considerable advantage.

Any satisfaction, which we lately enjoyed,and of which the memory is fresh and recent,operates on the will with more violence, thananother of which the traces are decayed, andalmost obliterated. From whence does this pro-ceed, but that the memory in the first case as-sists the fancy and gives an additional forceand vigour to its conceptions? The image ofthe past pleasure being strong and violent, be-stows these qualities on the idea of the futurepleasure, which is connected with it by the re-lation of resemblance.

A pleasure, which is suitable to the way oflife, in which we are engaged, excites more ourdesires and appetites than another, which isforeign to it. This phaenomenon may be ex-plained from the same principle.

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Nothing is more capable of infusing any pas-sion into the mind, than eloquence, by whichobjects are represented in their strongest andmost lively colours. We may of ourselves ac-knowledge, that such an object is valuable, andsuch another odious; but until an orator excitesthe imagination, and gives force to these ideas,they may have but a feeble influence either onthe will or the affections.

But eloquence is not always necessary. Thebare opinion of another, especially when in-forced with passion, will cause an idea of goodor evil to have an influence upon us, whichwould otherwise have been entirely neglected.This proceeds from the principle of sympathyor communication; and sympathy, as I have al-ready observed, is nothing but the conversionof an idea into an impression by the force of

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imagination.It is remarkable, that lively passions com-

monly attend a lively imagination. In this re-spect, as well as others, the force of the passiondepends as much on the temper of the person,as the nature or situation of the object.

I have already observed, that belief is noth-ing but a lively idea related to a present im-pression. This vivacity is a requisite circum-stance to the exciting all our passions, the calmas well as the violent; nor has a mere fictionof the imagination any considerable influenceupon either of them. It is too weak to take holdof the mind, or be attended with emotion.

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SECTION VII. OF CONTIGUITY ANDDISTANCE IN SPACE AND TIME

There is an easy reason, why every thingcontiguous to us, either in space or time,should be conceived with a peculiar force andvivacity, and excel every other object, in itsinfluence on the imagination. Ourself is inti-mately present to us, and whatever is related toself must partake of that quality. But where anobject is so far removed as to have lost the ad-vantage of this relation, why, as it is farther re-moved, its idea becomes still fainter and moreobscure, would, perhaps, require a more par-ticular examination.

It is obvious, that the imagination can nevertotally forget the points of space and time, inwhich we are existent; but receives such fre-

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quent advertisements of them from the pas-sions and senses, that however it may turnits attention to foreign and remote objects, itis necessitated every moment to reflect on thepresent. IOt is also remarkable, that in the con-ception of those objects, which we regard asreal and existent, we take them in their properorder and situation, and never leap from oneobject to another, which is distant from it, with-out running over, at least in a cursory manner,all those objects, which are interposed betwixtthem. When we reflect, therefore, on any ob-ject distant from ourselves, we are obliged notonly to reach it at first by passing through allthe intermediate space betwixt ourselves andthe object, but also to renew our progress ev-ery moment; being every moment recalled tothe consideration of ourselves and our presentsituation. It is easily conceived, that this inter-

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ruption must weaken the idea by breaking theaction of the mind, and hindering the concep-tion from being so intense and continued, aswhen we reflect on a nearer object. The fewersteps we make to arrive at the object, and thesmoother the road is, this diminution of vivac-ity is less sensibly felt, but still may be observedmore or less in proportion to the degrees of dis-tance and difficulty.

Here then we are to consider two kinds ofobjects, the contiguous and remote; of whichthe former, by means of their relation to our-selves, approach an impression in force and vi-vacity; the latter by reason of the interruptionin our manner of conceiving them, appear in aweaker and more imperfect light. This is theireffect on the imagination. If my reasoning bejust, they must have a proportionable effect on

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the will and passions. Contiguous objects musthave an influence much superior to the distantand remote. Accordingly we find in commonlife, that men are principally concerned aboutthose objects, which are not much removed ei-ther in space or time, enjoying the present, andleaving what is afar off to the care of chanceand fortune. Talk to a man of his conditionthirty years hence, and he will not regard you.Speak of what is to happen tomorrow, and hewill lend you attention. The breaking of a mir-ror gives us more concern when at home, thanthe burning of a house, when abroad, and somehundred leagues distant.

But farther; though distance both in spaceand time has a considerable effect on the imag-ination, and by that means on the will andpassions, yet the consequence of a removal in

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space are much inferior to those of a removalin time. Twenty years are certainly but a smalldistance of time in comparison of what his-tory and even the memory of some may informthem of, and yet I doubt if a thousand leagues,or even the greatest distance of place this globecan admit of, will so remarkably weaken ourideas, and diminish our passions. A West-Indian merchant will tell you, that he is notwithout concern about what passes in Jamaica;though few extend their views so far into futu-rity, as to dread very remote accidents.

The cause of this phaenomenon must evi-dently lie in the different properties of spaceand time. Without having recourse to meta-physics, any one may easily observe, that spaceor extension consists of a number of co-existentparts disposed in a certain order, and capable

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of being at once present to the sight or feeling.On the contrary, time or succession, though itconsists likewise of parts, never presents to usmore than one at once; nor is it possible for anytwo of them ever to be co-existent. These qual-ities of the objects have a suitable effect on theimagination. The parts of extension being sus-ceptible of an union to the senses, acquire anunion in the fancy; and as the appearance ofone part excludes not another, the transition orpassage of the thought through the contiguousparts is by that means rendered more smoothand easy. On the other hand, the incompat-ibility of the parts of time in their real exis-tence separates them in the imagination, andmakes it more difficult for that faculty to traceany long succession or series of events. Ev-ery part must appear single and alone, nor canregularly have entrance into the fancy without

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banishing what is supposed to have been im-mediately precedent. By this means any dis-tance in time causes a greater interruption inthe thought than an equal distance in space,and consequently weakens more considerablythe idea, and consequently the passions; whichdepend in a great measure, on the imagination,according to my system.

There is another phaenomenon of a like na-ture with the foregoing, viz, the superior effectsof the same distance in futurity above that inthe past. This difference with respect to the willis easily accounted for. As none of our actionscan alter the past, it is not strange it shouldnever determine the will. But with respect tothe passions the question is yet entire, and wellworth the examining.

Besides the propensity to a gradual progres-

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sion through the points of space and time,we have another peculiarity in our methodof thinking, which concurs in producing thisphaenomenon. We always follow the succes-sion of time in placing our ideas, and from theconsideration of any object pass more easily tothat, which follows immediately after it, thanto that which went before it. We may learn this,among other instances, from the order, which isalways observed in historical narrations. Noth-ing but an absolute necessity can oblige an his-torian to break the order of time, and in his nar-ration give the precedence to an event, whichwas in reality posterior to another.

This will easily be applied to the question inhand, if we reflect on what I have before ob-served, that the present situation of the personis always that of the imagination, and that it

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is from thence we proceed to the conception ofany distant object. When the object is past, theprogression of the thought in passing to it fromthe present is contrary to nature, as proceedingfrom one point of time to that which is preced-ing, and from that to another preceding, in op-position to the natural course of the succession.On the other hand, when we turn our thoughtto a future object, our fancy flows along thestream of time, and arrives at the object byan order, which seems most natural, passingalways from one point of time to that whichis immediately posterior to it. This easy pro-gression of ideas favours the imagination, andmakes it conceive its object in a stronger andfuller light, than when we are continually op-posed in our passage, and are obliged to over-come the difficulties arising from the naturalpropensity of the fancy. A small degree of dis-

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tance in the past has, therefore, a greater effect,in interupting and weakening the conception,than a much greater in the future. From thiseffect of it on the imagination is derived its in-fluence on the will and passions.

There is another cause, which both con-tributes to the same effect, and proceeds fromthe same quality of the fancy, by which we aredetermined to trace the succession of time bya similar succession of ideas. When from thepresent instant we consider two points of timeequally distant in the future and in the past, itis evident, that, abstractedly considered, theirrelation to the present is almost equal. Foras the future will sometime be present, so thepast was once present. If we coued, there-fore, remove this quality of the imagination,an equal distance in the past and in the fu-

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ture, would have a similar influence. Nor isthis only true, when the fancy remains fixed,and from the present instant surveys the fu-ture and the past; but also when it changes itssituation, and places us in different periods oftime. For as on the one hand, in supposing our-selves existent in a point of time interposed be-twixt the present instant and the future object,we find the future object approach to us, andthe past retire, and become more distant: soon the other hand, in supposing ourselves ex-istent in a point of time interposed betwixt thepresent and the past, the past approaches to us,and the future becomes more distant. But fromthe property of the fancy above-mentioned werather chuse to fix our thought on the pointof time interposed betwixt the present and thefuture, than on that betwixt the present andthe past. We advance, rather than retard our

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existence; and following what seems the nat-ural succession of time, proceed from past topresent, and from present to future. By whichmeans we conceive the future as flowing everymoment nearer us, and the past as retiring. Anequal distance, therefore, in the past and in thefuture, has not the same effect on the imagina-tion; and that because we consider the one ascontinually encreasing, and the other as con-tinually diminishing. The fancy anticipates thecourse of things, and surveys the object in thatcondition, to which it tends, as well as in that,which is regarded as the present.

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SECTION VIII. THE SAME SUBJECTCONTINUED

Thus we have accounted for three phaenom-ena, which seem pretty remarkable. Why dis-tance weakens the conception and passion:Why distance in time has a greater effect thanthat in space: And why distance in past timehas still a greater effect than that in future. Wemust now consider three phaenomena, whichseem to be, in a manner, the reverse of these:Why a very great distance encreases our es-teem and admiration for an object; Why such adistance in time encreases it more than that inspace: And a distance in past time more thanthat in future. The curiousness of the subjectwill, I hope, excuse my dwelling on it for sometime.

To begin with the first phaenomenon, why

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a great distance encreases our esteem and ad-miration for an object; it is evident that themere view and contemplation of any greatness,whether successive or extended, enlarges thesoul, and give it a sensible delight and plea-sure. A wide plain, the ocean, eternity, a suc-cession of several ages; all these are entertain-ing objects, and excel every thing, howeverbeautiful, which accompanies not its beautywith a suitable greatness. Now when any verydistant object is presented to the imagination,we naturally reflect on the interposed distance,and by that means, conceiving something greatand magnificent, receive the usual satisfaction.But as the fancy passes easily from one ideato another related to it, and transports to thesecond all the passions excited by the first, theadmiration, which is directed to the distance,naturally diffuses itself over the distant object.

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Accordingly we find, that it is not necessary theobject should be actually distant from us, in or-der to cause our admiration; but that it is suf-ficient, if, by the natural association of ideas, itconveys our view to any considerable distance.A great traveller, though in the same chamber,will pass for a very extraordinary person; as aGreek medal, even in our cabinet, is always es-teemed a valuable curiosity. Here the object,by a natural transition, conveys our views tothe distance; and the admiration, which arisesfrom that distance, by another natural transi-tion, returns back to the object.

But though every great distance produces anadmiration for the distant object, a distance intime has a more considerable effect than that inspace. Antient busts and inscriptions are morevalued than Japan tables: And not to mention

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the Greeks and Romans, it is certain we regardwith more veneration the old Chaldeans andEgyptians, than the modern Chinese and Per-sians, and bestow more fruitless pains to dearup the history and chronology of the former,than it would cost us to make a voyage, andbe certainly informed of the character, learningand government of the latter. I shall be obligedto make a digression in order to explain thisphaenomenon.

It is a quality very observable in human na-ture, that any opposition, which does not en-tirely discourage and intimidate us, has rathera contrary effect, and inspires us with a morethan ordinary grandeur and magnanimity. Incollecting our force to overcome the opposi-tion, we invigorate the soul, and give it an el-evation with which otherwise it would never

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have been acquainted. Compliance, by render-ing our strength useless, makes us insensible ofit: but opposition awakens and employs it.

This is also true in the universe. Oppositionnot only enlarges the soul; but the soul, whenfull of courage and magnanimity, in a mannerseeks opposition.

Spumantemque daru Pecora inter In-ertia Votis optat Aprum, aut Fulvumdescendere Mone Leonem(And, among the tamer beasts, (he)longs to be granted, in answer tohis prayers, a slavering boar, or tohave a tawny lion come down fromthe mountain.)

Whatever supports and fills the passions is

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agreeable to us; as on the contrary, what weak-ens and infeebles them is uneasy. As opposi-tion has the first effect, and facility the second,no wonder the mind, in certain dispositions,desires the former, and is averse to the latter.

These principles have an effect on the imag-ination as well as on the passions. To be con-vinced of this we need only consider the influ-ence of heights and depths on that faculty. Anygreat elevation of place communicates a kindof pride or sublimity of imagination, and givesa fancyed superiority over those that lie below;and, vice versa, a sublime and strong imagina-tion conveys the idea of ascent and elevation.Hence it proceeds, that we associate, in a man-ner, the idea of whatever is good with that ofheight, and evil with lowness. Heaven is sup-posed to be above, and hell below. A noble ge-

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nius is called an elevate and sublime one.

Atque Udam spernit Humumfugiente Penna(Spurns the dank soil in wingedflight.)

On the contrary, a vulgar and trivial conceptionis stiled indifferently low or mean. Prosperityis denominated ascent, and adversity descent.Kings and princes are supposed to be placed atthe top of human affairs; as peasants and day-labourers are said to be in the lowest stations.These methods of thinking, and of expressingourselves, are not of so little consequence asthey may appear at first sight.

It is evident to common sense, as well as phi-losophy, that there is no natural nor essential

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difference betwixt high and low, and that thisdistinction arises only from the gravitation ofmatter, which produces a motion from the oneto the other. The very same direction, which inthis part of the globe is called ascent, is denom-inated descent in our antipodes; which can pro-ceed from nothing but the contrary tendency ofbodies. Now it is certain, that the tendency ofbodies, continually operating upon our senses,must produce, from custom, a like tendency inthe fancy, and that when we consider any ob-ject situated in an ascent, the idea of its weightgives us a propensity to transport it from theplace, in which it is situated, to the place im-mediately below it, and so on, until we cometo the ground, which equally stops the bodyand our imagination. For a like reason we feela difficulty in mounting, and pass not withouta kind of reluctance from the inferior to that

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which is situated above it; as if our ideas ac-quired a kind of gravity from their objects. Asa proof of this, do we not find, that the facility,which is so much studyed in music and poetry,is called the fail or cadency of the harmony orperiod; the idea of facility communicating to usthat of descent, in the same manner as descentproduces a facility?

Since the imagination, therefore, in runningfrom low to high, finds an opposition in its in-ternal qualities and principles, and since thesoul, when elevated with joy and courage, ina manner seeks opposition, and throws itselfwith alacrity into any scene of thought or ac-tion, where its courage meets with matter tonourish and employ it; it follows, that every-thing, which invigorates and inlivens the soul,whether by touching the passions or imagina-

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tion naturally conveys to the fancy this inclina-tion for ascent, and determines it to run againstthe natural stream of its thoughts and concep-tions. This aspiring progress of the imagina-tion suits the present disposition of the mind;and the difficulty, instead of extinguishing itsvigour and alacrity, has the contrary affect, ofsustaining and encreasing it. Virtue, genius,power, and riches are for this reason associatedwith height and sublimity; as poverty, slav-ery, and folly are conjoined with descent andlowness. Were the case the same with us asMilton represents it to be with the angels, towhom descent is adverse, and who cannot sinkwithout labour and compulsion, this order ofthings would be entirely inverted; as appearshence, that the very nature of ascent and de-scent is derived from the difficulty and propen-sity, and consequently every one of their effects

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proceeds from that origin.

All this is easily applied to the present ques-tion, why a considerable distance in time pro-duces a greater veneration for the distant ob-jects than a like removal in space. The imag-ination moves with more difficulty in passingfrom one portion of time to another, than ina transition through the parts of space; andthat because space or extension appears unitedto our senses, while time or succession is al-ways broken and divided. This difficulty, whenjoined with a small distance, interrupts andweakens the fancy: But has a contrary effectin a great removal. The mind, elevated by thevastness of its object, is still farther elevatedby the difficulty of the conception; and beingobliged every moment to renew its efforts inthe transition from one part of time to another,

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feels a more vigorous and sublime disposition,than in a transition through the parts of space,where the ideas flow along with easiness andfacility. In this disposition, the imagination,passing, as is usual, from the consideration ofthe distance to the view of the distant objects,gives us a proportionable veneration for it; andthis is the reason why all the relicts of antiquityare so precious in our eyes, and appear morevaluable than what is brought even from theremotest parts of the world.

The third phaenomenon I have remarkedwill be a full confirmation of this. It is not ev-ery removal in time, which has the effect ofproducing veneration and esteem. We are notapt to imagine our posterity will excel us, orequal our ancestors. This phaenomenon is themore remarkable, because any distance in futu-

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rity weakens not our ideas so much as an equalremoval in the past. Though a removal in thepast, when very great, encreases our passionsbeyond a like removal in the future, yet a smallremoval has a greater influence in diminishingthem.

In our common way of thinking we areplaced in a kind of middle station betwixt thepast and future; and as our imagination finds akind of difficulty in running along the former,and a facility in following the course of the lat-ter, the difficulty conveys the notion of ascent,and the facility of the contrary. Hence we imag-ine our ancestors to be, in a manner, mountedabove us, and our posterity to lie below us. Ourfancy arrives not at the one without effort, buteasily reaches the other: Which effort weakensthe conception, where the distance is small; but

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enlarges and elevates the imagination, whenattended with a suitable object. As on the otherhand, the facility assists the fancy in a small re-moval, but takes off from its force when it con-templates any considerable distance.

It may not be improper, before we leave thissubject of the will, to resume, in a few words,all that has been said concerning it, in order toset the whole more distinctly before the eyesof the reader. What we commonly understandby passion is a violent and sensible emotionof mind, when any good or evil is presented,or any object, which, by the original formationof our faculties, is fitted to excite an appetite.By reason we mean affections of the very samekind with the former; but such as operate morecalmly, and cause no disorder in the temper:Which tranquillity leads us into a mistake con-

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cerning them, and causes us to regard themas conclusions only of our intellectual facul-ties. Both the causes and effects of these violentand calm passions are pretty variable, and de-pend, in a great measure, on the peculiar tem-per and disposition of every individual. Gener-ally speaking, the violent passions have a morepowerful influence on the will; though it is of-ten found, that the calm ones, when corrob-orated by reflection, and seconded by resolu-tion, are able to controul them in their mostfurious movements. What makes this wholeaffair more uncertain, is, that a calm passionmay easily be changed into a violent one, eitherby a change of temper, or of the circumstancesand situation of the object, as by the borrow-ing of force from any attendant passion, by cus-tom, or by exciting the imagination. Upon thewhole, this struggle of passion and of reason,

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as it is called, diversifies human life, and makesmen so different not only from each other, butalso from themselves in different times. Philos-ophy can only account for a few of the greaterand more sensible events of this war; but mustleave all the smaller and more delicate revolu-tions, as dependent on principles too fine andminute for her comprehension.

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SECTION IX. OF THE DIRECT PASSIONS

It is easy to observe, that the passions, bothdirect and indirect, are founded on pain andpleasure, and that in order to produce an affec-tion of any kind, it is only requisite to presentsome good or evil. Upon the removal of painand pleasure there immediately follows a re-moval of love and hatred, pride and humility,desire and aversion, and of most of our reflec-tive or secondary impressions.

The impressions, which arise from good andevil most naturally, and with the least prepara-tion are the direct passions of desire and aver-sion, grief and joy, hope and fear, along withvolition. The mind by an original instinct tendsto unite itself with the good, and to avoid theevil, though they be conceived merely in idea,

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and be considered as to exist in any future pe-riod of time.

But supposing that there is an immediateimpression of pain or pleasure, and that aris-ing from an object related to ourselves or oth-ers, this does not prevent the propensity oraversion, with the consequent emotions, butby concurring with certain dormant principlesof the human mind, excites the new impres-sions of pride or humility, love or hatred. Thatpropensity, which unites us to the object, orseparates us from it, still continues to operate,but in conjunction with the indirect passions,which arise from a double relation of impres-sions and ideas.

These indirect passions, being always agree-able or uneasy, give in their turn additionalforce to the direct passions, and encrease our

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desire and aversion to the object. Thus a suitof fine cloaths produces pleasure from theirbeauty; and this pleasure produces the directpassions, or the impressions of volition and de-sire. Again, when these cloaths are consideredas belonging to ourself, the double relation con-veys to us the sentiment of pride, which is anindirect passion; and the pleasure, which at-tends that passion, returns back to the directaffections, and gives new force to our desire orvolition, joy or hope.

When good is certain or probable, it pro-duces joy. When evil is in the same situationthere arises grief or sorrow.

When either good or evil is uncertain, itgives rise to fear or hope, according to the de-grees of uncertainty on the one side or theother.

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Desire arises from good considered simply,and aversion is derived from evil. The will ex-erts itself, when either the good or the absenceof the evil may be attained by any action of themind or body.

Beside good and evil, or in other words, painand pleasure, the direct passions frequentlyarise from a natural impulse or instinct, whichis perfectly unaccountable. Of this kind is thedesire of punishment to our enemies, and ofhappiness to our friends; hunger, lust, and afew other bodily appetites. These passions,properly speaking, produce good and evil, andproceed not from them, like the other affec-tions.

None of the direct affections seem to meritour particular attention, except hope and fear,which we shall here endeavour to account for.

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It is evident that the very same event, which byits certainty would produce grief or joy, givesalways rise to fear or hope, when only proba-ble and uncertain. In order, therefore, to under-stand the reason why this circumstance makessuch a considerable difference, we must reflecton what I have already advanced in the preced-ing book concerning the nature of probability.

Probability arises from an opposition of con-trary chances or causes, by which the mind isnot allowed to fix on either side, but is inces-santly tost from one to another, and at one mo-ment is determined to consider an object asexistent, and at another moment as the con-trary. The imagination or understanding, callit which you please, fluctuates betwixt the op-posite views; and though perhaps it may be of-tener turned to the one side than the other, it

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is impossible for it, by reason of the oppositionof causes or chances, to rest on either. The proand con of the question alternately prevail; andthe mind, surveying the object in its oppositeprinciples, finds such a contrariety as utterlydestroys all certainty and established opinion.

Suppose, then, that the object, concerningwhose reality we are doubtful, is an object ei-ther of desire or aversion, it is evident, that, ac-cording as the mind turns itself either to theone side or the other, it must feel a momen-tary impression of joy or sorrow. An object,whose existence we desire, gives satisfaction,when we reflect on those causes, which pro-duce it; and for the same reason excites grief oruneasiness from the opposite consideration: Sothat as the understanding, in all probable ques-tions, is divided betwixt the contrary points of

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view, the affections must in the same mannerbe divided betwixt opposite emotions.

Now if we consider the human mind, weshall find, that with regard to the passions,it is not the nature of a wind-instrumentof music, which in running over all thenotes immediately loses the sound after thebreath ceases; but rather resembles a string-instrument, where after each stroke the vibra-tions still retain some sound, which graduallyand insensibly decays. The imagination is ex-treme quick and agile; but the passions areslow and restive: For which reason, when anyobject is presented, that affords a variety ofviews to the one, and emotions to the other;though the fancy may change its views withgreat celerity; each stroke will not produce aclear and distinct note of passion, but the one

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passion will always be mixt and confoundedwith the other. According as the probabilityinclines to good or evil, the passion of joy orsorrow predominates in the composition: Be-cause the nature of probability is to cast a su-perior number of views or chances on one side;or, which is the same thing, a superior numberof returns of one passion; or since the dispersedpassions are collected into one, a superior de-gree of that passion. That is, in other words,the grief and joy being intermingled with eachother, by means of the contrary views of theimagination, produce by their union the pas-sions of hope and fear.

Upon this head there may be started a verycurious question concerning that contrariety ofpassions, which is our present subject. It isobservable, that where the objects of contrary

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passions are presented at once, beside the en-crease of the predominant passion (which hasbeen already explained, and commonly arisesat their first shock or rencounter) it sometimeshappens, that both the passions exist succes-sively, and by short intervals; sometimes, thatthey destroy each other, and neither of themtakes place; and sometimes that both of themremain united in the mind. It may, therefore,be asked, by what theory we can explain thesevariations, and to what general principle wecan reduce them.

When the contrary passions arise from ob-jects entirely different, they take place alter-nately, the want of relation in the ideas separat-ing the impressions from each other, and pre-venting their opposition. Thus when a man isafflicted for the loss of a law-suit, and joyful

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for the birth of a son, the mind running fromthe agreeable to the calamitous object, withwhatever celerity it may perform this motion,can scarcely temper the one affection with theother, and remain betwixt them in a state of in-difference.

It more easily attains that calm situation,when the same event is of a mixt nature, andcontains something adverse and somethingprosperous in its different circumstances. Forin that case, both the passions, mingling witheach other by means of the relation, becomemutually destructive, and leave the mind inperfect tranquility.

But suppose, in the third place, that the ob-ject is not a compound of good or evil, but isconsidered as probable or improbable in anydegree; in that case I assert, that the contrary

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passions will both of them be present at once inthe soul, and instead of destroying and temper-ing each other, will subsist together, and pro-duce a third impression or affection by theirunion. Contrary passions are not capable of de-stroying each other, except when their contrarymovements exactly rencounter, and are oppo-site in their direction, as well as in the sensa-tion they produce. This exact rencounter de-pends upon the relations of those ideas, fromwhich they are derived, and is more or less per-fect, according to the degrees of the relation.In the case of probability the contrary chancesare so far related, that they determine concern-ing the existence or non-existence of the sameobject. But this relation is far from being per-fect; since some of the chances lie on the side ofexistence, and others on that of non-existence;which are objects altogether incompatible. It is

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impossible by one steady view to survey theopposite chances, and the events dependenton them; but it is necessary, that the imagi-nation should run alternately from the one tothe other. Each view of the imagination pro-duces its peculiar passion, which decays awayby degrees, and is followed by a sensible vibra-tion after the stroke. The incompatibility of theviews keeps the passions from shocking in a di-rect line, if that expression may be allowed; andyet their relation is sufficient to mingle theirfainter emotions. It is after this manner thathope and fear arise from the different mixtureof these opposite passions of grief and joy, andfrom their imperfect union and conjunction.

Upon the whole, contrary passions succeedeach other alternately, when they arise fromdifferent objects: They mutually destroy each

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other, when they proceed from different partsof the same: And they subsist both of themand mingle together, when they are derivedfrom the contrary and incompatible chances orpossibilities, on which any one object depends.The influence of the relations of ideas is plainlyseen in this whole affair. If the objects of thecontrary passions be totally different, the pas-sions are like two opposite liquors in differentbottles, which have no influence on each other.If the objects be intimately connected, the pas-sions are like an alcali and an acid, which, be-ing mingled, destroy each other. If the relationbe more imperfect, and consists in the contra-dictory views of the same object, the passionsare like oil and vinegar, which, however min-gled, never perfectly unite and incorporate.

As the hypothesis concerning hope and fear

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carries its own evidence along with it, we shallbe the more concise in our proofs. A few strongarguments are better than many weak ones.

The passions of fear and hope may arisewhen the chances are equal on both sides, andno superiority can be discovered in the oneabove the other. Nay, in this situation the pas-sions are rather the strongest, as the mind hasthen the least foundation to rest upon, and istossed with the greatest uncertainty. Throwin a superior degree of probability to the sideof grief, you immediately see that passion dif-fuse itself over the composition, and tincture itinto fear. Encrease the probability, and by thatmeans the grief, the fear prevails still more andmore, till at last it runs insensibly, as the joycontinually diminishes, into pure grief. Afteryou have brought it to this situation, diminish

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the grief, after the same manner that you en-creased it; by diminishing the probability onthat side, and you’ll see the passion clear everymoment, until it changes insensibly into hope;which again runs, after the same manner, byslow degrees, into joy, as you encrease that partof the composition by the encrease of the prob-ability. Are not these as plain proofs, that thepassions of fear and hope are mixtures of griefand joy, as in optics it is a proof, that a colouredray of the sun passing through a prism, is acomposition of two others, when, as you di-minish or encrease the quantity of either, youfind it prevail proportionably more or less inthe composition? I am sure neither natural normoral philosophy admits of stronger proofs.

Probability is of two kinds, either when theobject is really in itself uncertain, and to be de-

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termined by chance; or when, though the ob-ject be already certain, yet it is uncertain to ourjudgment, which finds a number of proofs oneach side of the question. Both these kinds ofprobabilities cause fear and hope; which canonly proceed from that property, in which theyagree, viz, the uncertainty and fluctuation theybestow on the imagination by that contrarietyof views, which is common to both.

It is a probable good or evil, that commonlyproduces hope or fear; because probability, be-ing a wavering and unconstant method of sur-veying an object, causes naturally a like mix-ture and uncertainty of passion. But we mayobserve, that wherever from other causes thismixture can be produced, the passions of fearand hope will arise, even though there be noprobability; which must be allowed to be a con-

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vincing proof of the present hypothesis. Wefind that an evil, barely conceived as possible,does sometimes produce fear; especially if theevil be very great. A man cannot think of exces-sive pains and tortures without trembling, if hebe in the least danger of suffering them. Thesmallness of the probability is compensated bythe greatness of the evil; and the sensation isequally lively, as if the evil were more proba-ble. One view or glimpse of the former, has thesame effect as several of the latter.

But they are not only possible evils, thatcause fear, but even some allowed to be im-possible; as when we tremble on the brink ofa precipice, though we know ourselves to bein perfect security, and have it in our choicewhether we wili advance a step farther. Thisproceeds from the immediate presence of the

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evil, which influences the imagination in thesame manner as the certainty of it would do;but being encountered by the reflection on oursecurity, is immediately retracted, and causesthe same kind of passion, as when from a con-trariety of chances contrary passions are pro-duced.

Evils, that are certain, have sometimes thesame effect in producing fear, as the possible orimpossible. Thus a man in a strong prison well-guarded, without the least means of escape,trembles at the thought of the rack, to which heis sentenced. This happens only when the cer-tain evil is terrible and confounding; in whichcase the mind continually rejects it with hor-ror, while it continually presses in upon thethought. The evil is there flxed and established,but the mind cannot endure to fix upon it; from

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which fluctuation and uncertainty there arisesa passion of much the same appearance withfear.

But it is not only where good or evil is uncer-tain, as to its existence, but also as to its kind,that fear or hope arises. Let one be told by aperson, whose veracity he cannot doubt of, thatone of his sons is suddenly killed, it is evidentthe passion this event would occasion, wouldnot settle into pure grief, till he got certain in-formation, which of his sons he had lost. Herethere is an evil certain, but the kind of it uncer-tain. Consequently the fear we feel on this oc-casion is without the least mixture of joy, andarises merely from the fluctuation of the fancybetwixt its objects. And though each side of thequestion produces here the same passion, yetthat passion cannot settle, but receives from the

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imagination a tremulous and unsteady motion,resembling in its cause, as well as in its sensa-tion, the mixture and contention of grief andjoy.

From these principles we may account for aphaenomenon in the passions, which at firstsight seems very extraordinary, viz, that sur-prize is apt to change into fear, and every thingthat is unexpected affrights us. The most ob-vious conclusion from this is, that human na-ture is in general pusillanimous; since upon thesudden appearance of any object. we imme-diately conclude it to be an evil, and withoutwaiting till we can examine its nature, whetherit be good or bad, are at first affected with fear.This I say is the most obvious conclusion; butupon farther examination we shall find that thephaenomenon is otherwise to be accounted for.

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The suddenness and strangeness of an appear-ance naturally excite a commotion in the mind,like every thing for which we are not prepared,and to which we are not accustomed. Thiscommotion, again, naturally produces a curios-ity or inquisitiveness, which being very violent,from the strong and sudden impulse of the ob-ject, becomes uneasy, and resembles in its fluc-tuation and uncertainty, the sensation of fear orthe mixed passions of grief and joy. This imageof fear naturally converts into the thing itself,and gives us a real apprehension of evil, as themind always forms its judgments more from itspresent disposition than from the nature of itsobjects.

Thus all kinds of uncertainty have a strongconnexion with fear, even though they do notcause any opposition of passions by the oppo-

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site views and considerations they present tous. A person, who has left his friend in anymalady, will feel more anxiety upon his ac-count, than if he were present, though perhapshe is not only incapable of giving him assis-tance, but likewise of judging of the event ofhis sickness. In this case, though the principalobject of the passion, viz, the life or death ofhis friend, be to him equally uncertain whenpresent as when absent; yet there are a thou-sand little circumstances of his friend’s situa-tion and condition, the knowledge of whichfixes the idea, and prevents that fluctuationand uncertainty so near allyed to fear. Uncer-tainty is, indeed, in one respect as near allyedto hope as to fear, since it makes an essentialpart in the composition of the former passion;but the reason, why it inclines not to that side,is, that uncertainty alone is uneasy, and has a

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reladon of impressions to the uneasy passions.It is thus our uncertainty concerning any

minute circumstance relating to a personencreases our apprehensions of his deathor misfortune. Horace has remarked thisphaenomenon.

_Ut assidens implumi bus pullusAvis Serpentium allapsus tirnet,Magis relictis; not, ut adsit AuxiliLatura plus presentibus.(As a bird, watching over herfledgelings, is more afraid of theirbeing attacked by snakes if shewere to leave them even though,were she to stay, she would not beany more capable of helping them,when they were with her.)

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But this principle of the connexion of fear withuncertainty I carry farther, and observe thatany doubt produces that passion, even thoughit presents nothing to us on any side but whatis good and desireable. A virgin, on her bridal-night goes to bed full of fears and apprehen-sions, though she expects nothing but pleasureof the highest kind, and what she has longwished for. The newness and greatness of theevent, the confusion of wishes and joys so em-barrass the mind, that it knows not on whatpassion to fix itself; from whence arises a flut-tering or unsettledness of the spirits which be-ing, in some degree, uneasy, very naturally de-generates into fear.

Thus we still find, that whatever causes anyfluctuation or mixture of passions, with any de-gree of uneasiness, always produces fear, or at

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least a passion so like it, that they are scarcelyto be distinguished.

I have here confined myself to the examina-tion of hope and fear in their most simple andnatural situation, without considering all thevariations they may receive from the mixture ofdifferent views and reflections. Terror, conster-nation, astonishment, anxiety, and other pas-sions of that kind, are nothing but differentspecies and degrees of fear. It is easy to imag-ine how a different situation of the object, ora different turn of thought, may change eventhe sensation of a passion; and this may in gen-eral account for all the particular sub-divisionsof the other affections, as well as of fear. Lovemay shew itself in the shape of tenderness,friendship, intimacy, esteem, good-will, and inmany other appearances; which at the bottom

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are the same affections; and arise from the samecauses, though with a small variation, which itis not necessary to give any particular accountof. It is for this reason I have all along confinedmyself to the principal passion.

The same care of avoiding prolixity is thereason why I wave the examination of the willand direct passions, as they appear in animals;since nothing is more evident, than that theyare of the same nature, and excited by the samecauses as in human creatures. I leave this tothe reader’s own observation; desiring him atthe same time to consider the additional forcethis bestows on the present system.

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SECTION X. OF CURIOSITY, OR THE LOVEOF TRUTH

But methinks we have been not a little inat-tentive to run over so many different parts ofthe human mind, and examine so many pas-sions, without taking once into the consider-ation that love of truth, which was the firstsource of all our enquiries. Twill therefore beproper, before we leave this subject, to bestowa few reflections on that passion, and shew itsorigin in human nature. It is an affection of sopeculiar a kind, that it would have been impos-sible to have treated of it under any of thoseheads, which we have examined, without dan-ger of obscurity and confusion.

Truth is of two kinds, consisting either in thediscovery of the proportions of ideas, consid-ered as such, or in the conformity of our ideas

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of objects to their real existence. It is certain,that the former species of truth, is not desiredmerely as truth, and that it is not the justnessof our conclusions, which alone gives the plea-sure. For these conclusions are equally just,when we discover the equality of two bodiesby a pair of compasses, as when we learn it bya mathematical demonstration; and though inthe one case the proofs be demonstrative, andin the other only sensible, yet generally speak-ing, the mind acquiesces with equal assurancein the one as in the other. And in an arithmeti-cal operation, where both the truth and the as-surance are of the same nature, as in the mostprofound algebraical problem, the pleasure isvery inconsiderable, if rather it does not degen-erate into pain: Which is an evident proof, thatthe satisfaction, which we sometimes receivefrom the discovery of truth, proceeds not from

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it, merely as such, but only as endowed withcertain qualities.

The first and most considerable circum-stance requisite to render truth agreeable, is thegenius and capacity, which is employed in itsinvention and discovery. What is easy and ob-vious is never valued; and even what is in it-self difficult, if we come to the knowledge ofit without difficulty, and without any stretch ofthought or judgment, is but little regarded. Welove to trace the demonstrations of mathemati-cians; but should receive small entertainmentfrom a person, who should barely inform us ofthe proportions of lines and angles, though wereposed the utmost confidence both in his judg-ment and veracity. In this case it is sufficientto have ears to learn the truth. We never areobliged to fix our attention or exert our genius;

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which of all other exercises of the mind is themost pleasant and agreeable.

But though the exercise of genius be the prin-cipal source of that satisfaction we receive fromthe sciences, yet I doubt, if it be alone suffi-cient to give us any considerable enjoyment.The truth we discover must also be of someimportance. It is easy to multiply algebraicalproblems to infinity, nor is there any end in thediscovery of the proportions of conic sections;though few mathematicians take any pleasurein these researches, but turn their thoughtsto what is more useful and important. Nowthe question is, after what manner this utilityand importance operate upon us? The diffi-culty on this head arises from hence, that manyphilosophers have consumed their time, havedestroyed their health, and neglected their for-

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tune, in the search of such truths, as they es-teemed important and useful to the world,though it appeared from their whole conductand behaviour, that they were not endowedwith any share of public spirit, nor had anyconcern for the interests of mankind. Were theyconvinced, that their discoveries were of noconsequence, they would entirely lose all rel-ish for their studies, and that though the conse-quences be entirely indifferent to them; whichseems to be a contradiction.

To remove this contradiction, we must con-sider, that there are certain desires and incli-nations, which go no farther than the imagina-tion, and are rather the faint shadows and im-ages of passions, than any real affections. Thus,suppose a man, who takes a survey of the for-tifications of any city; considers their strength

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and advantages, natural or acquired; observesthe disposition and contrivance of the bastions,ramparts, mines, and other military works; itis plain, that in proportion as all these are fit-ted to attain their ends he will receive a suit-able pleasure and satisfaction. This pleasure,as it arises from the utility, not the form of theobjects, can be no other than a sympathy withthe inhabitants, for whose security all this art isemployed; though it is possible, that this per-son, as a stranger or an enemy, may in his hearthave no kindness for them, or may even enter-tain a hatred against them.

It may indeed be objected, that such a re-mote sympathy is a very slight foundation fora passion, and that so much industry and ap-plication, as we frequently observe in philoso-phers, can never be derived from so inconsid-

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erable an original. But here I return to whatI have already remarked, that the pleasure ofstudy conflicts chiefly in the action of the mind,and the exercise of the genius and understand-ing in the discovery or comprehension of anytruth. If the importance of the truth be requisiteto compleat the pleasure, it is not on accountof any considerable addition, which of itself itbrings to our enjoyment, but only because it is,in some measure, requisite to fix our attention.When we are careless and inattentive, the sameaction of the understanding has no effect uponus, nor is able to convey any of that satisfaction,which arises from it, when we are in anotherdisposition.

But beside the action of the mind, which isthe principal foundation of the pleasure, thereis likewise required a degree of success in the

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attainment of the end, or the discovery of thattruth we examine. Upon this head I shallmake a general remark, which may be usefulon many occasions, viz, that where the mindpursues any end with passion; though that pas-sion be not derived originally from the end, butmerely from the action and pursuit; yet by thenatural course of the affections, we acquire aconcern for the end itself, and are uneasy un-der any disappointment we meet with in thepursuit of it. This proceeds from the relationand parallel direction of the passions above-mentioned.

To illustrate all this by a similar instance, Ishall observe, that there cannot be two passionsmore nearly resembling each other, than thoseof hunting and philosophy, whatever dispro-portion may at first sight appear betwixt them.

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It is evident, that the pleasure of hunting con-flicts in the action of the mind and body; themotion, the attention, the difficulty, and the un-certainty. It is evident likewise, that these ac-tions must be attended with an idea of util-ity, in order to their having any effect uponus. A man of the greatest fortune, and the far-thest removed from avarice, though he takes apleasure in hunting after patridges and pheas-ants, feels no satisfaction in shooting crows andmagpies; and that because he considers the firstas fit for the table, and the other as entirely use-less. Here it is certain, that the utility or im-portance of itself causes no real passion, but isonly requisite to support the imagination; andthe same person, who over-looks a ten timesgreater profit in any other subject, is pleased tobring home half a dozen woodcocks or plovers,after having employed several hours in hunt-

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ing after them. To make the parallel betwixthunting and philosophy more compleat, wemay observe, that though in both cases the endof our action may in itself be despised, yet inthe heat of the action we acquire such an atten-tion to this end, that we are very uneasy underany disappointments, and are sorry when weeither miss our game, or fall into any error inour reasoning.

If we want another parallel to these affec-tions, we may consider the passion of gaming,which affords a pleasure from the same prin-ciples as hunting and philosophy. It has beenremarked, that the pleasure of gaming arisesnot from interest alone; since many leave a suregain for this entertainment: Neither is it de-rived from the game alone; since the same per-sons have no satisfaction, when they play for

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nothing: But proceeds from both these causesunited, though separately they have no effect.It is here, as in certain chymical preparations,where the mixture of two clear and transparentliquids produces a third, which is opaque andcoloured..

The interest, which we have in any game,engages our attention, without which we canhave no enjoyment, either in that or in anyother action. Our attention being once en-gaged, the difficulty, variety, and sudden re-verses of fortune, still farther interest us; andit is from that concern our satisfaction arises.Human life is so tiresome a scene, and mengenerally are of such indolent dispositions, thatwhatever amuses them, though by a passionmixt with pain, does in the main give them asensible pleasure. And this pleasure is here en-

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creased by the nature of the objects, which be-ing sensible, and of a narrow compass, are en-tered into with facility, and are agreeable to theimagination.

The same theory, that accounts for the loveof truth in mathematics and algebra may be ex-tended to morals, politics, natural philosophy,and other studies, where we consider not theother abstract relations of ideas, but their realconnexions and existence. But beside the loveof knowledge, which displays itself in the sci-ences, there is a certain curiosity implanted inhuman nature, which is a passion derived froma quite different principle. Some people havean insatiable desire of knowing the actions andcircumstances of their neighbours, though theirinterest be no way concerned in them, and theymust entirely depend on others for their in-

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formation; in which case there is no room forstudy or application. Let us search for the rea-son of this phaenomenon.

It has been proved at large, that the influenceof belief is at once to inliven and infix any ideain the imagination, and prevent all kind of hes-itation and uncertainty about it. Both these cir-cumstances are advantageous. By the vivacityof the idea we interest the fancy, and produce,though in a lesser degree, the same pleasure,which arises from a moderate passion. As thevivacity of the idea gives pleasure, so its cer-tainty prevents uneasiness, by fixing one par-ticular idea in the mind, and keeping it fromwavering in the choice of its objects. It is aquality of human nature, which is conspicuouson many occasions, and is common both to themind and body, that too sudden and violent a

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change is unpleasant to us, and that howeverany objects may in themselves be indifferent,yet their alteration gives uneasiness. As it isthe nature of doubt to cause a variation in thethought, and transport us suddenly from oneidea to another, it must of consequence be theoccasion of pain. This pain chiefly takes place,where interest, relation, or the greatness andnovelty of any event interests us in it. It is notevery matter of fact, of which we have a cu-riosity to be informed; neither are they suchonly as we have an interest to know. It is suf-ficient if the idea strikes on us with such force,and concerns us so nearly, as to give us an un-easiness in its instability and inconstancy. Astranger, when he arrives first at any town, maybe entirely indifferent about knowing the his-tory and adventures of the inhabitants; but ashe becomes farther acquainted with them, and

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has lived any considerable time among them,he acquires the same curiosity as the natives.When we are reading the history of a nation,we may have an ardent desire of clearing upany doubt or difficulty, that occurs in it; butbecome careless in such researches, when theideas of these events are, in a great measure,obliterated.

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OF MORALS

PART I

OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL FROMREASON

SECTION I. MORAL DISTINCTIONS NOTDERIVED FROM REASON

There is an inconvenience which attends allabstruse reasoning that it may silence, with-out convincing an antagonist, and requires thesame intense study to make us sensible of itsforce, that was at first requisite for its inven-tion. When we leave our closet, and engage inthe common affairs of life, its conclusions seemto vanish, like the phantoms of the night onthe appearance of the morning; and it is diffi-cult for us to retain even that conviction, which

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we had attained with difficulty. This is stillmore conspicuous in a long chain of reason-ing, where we must preserve to the end the ev-idence of the first propositions, and where weoften lose sight of all the most received max-ims, either of philosophy or common life. I amnot, however, without hopes, that the presentsystem of philosophy will acquire new forceas it advances; and that our reasonings con-cerning morals will corroborate whatever hasbeen said concerning the understanding and thepassions. Morality is a subject that interests usabove all others: We fancy the peace of societyto be at stake in every decision concerning it;and it is evident, that this concern must makeour speculations appear more real and solid,than where the subject is, in a great measure,indifferent to us. What affects us, we concludecan never be a chimera; and as our passion is

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engaged on the one side or the other, we nat-urally think that the question lies within hu-man comprehension; which, in other cases ofthis nature, we are apt to entertain some doubtof. Without this advantage I never should haveventured upon a third volume of such abstrusephilosophy, in an age, wherein the greatest partof men seem agreed to convert reading into anamusement, and to reject every thing that re-quires any considerable degree of attention tobe comprehended.

It has been observed, that nothing is everpresent to the mind but its perceptions; andthat all the actions of seeing, hearing, judging,loving, hating, and thinking, fall under this de-nomination. The mind can never exert itself inany action, which we may not comprehend un-der the term of perception; and consequently

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that term is no less applicable to those judg-ments, by which we distinguish moral goodand evil, than to every other operation of themind. To approve of one character, to con-demn another, are only so many different per-ceptions.

Now as perceptions resolve themselves intotwo kinds, viz. impressions and ideas, this dis-tinction gives rise to a question, with which weshall open up our present enquiry concerningmorals. Whether it is by means of our ideas or im-pressions we distinguish betwixt vice and virtue,and pronounce an action blamable or praiswor-thiy? This will immediately cut off all loosediscourses and declamations, and reduce usto something precise and exact on the presentsubject.

Those who affirm that virtue is nothing but

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a conformity to reason; that there are eternalfitnesses and unfitnesses of things, which arethe same to every rational being that consid-ers them; that the immutable measures of rightand wrong impose an obligation, not only onhuman creatures, but also on the Deity him-self: All these systems concur in the opinion,that morality, like truth, is discerned merely byideas, and by their juxta-position and compar-ison. In order, therefore, to judge of these sys-tems, we need only consider, whether it be pos-sible, from reason alone, to distinguish betwixtmoral good and evil, or whether there mustconcur some other principles to enable us tomake that distinction.

If morality had naturally no influence on hu-man passions and actions, it were in vain totake such pains to inculcate it; and nothing

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would be more fruitless than that multitudeof rules and precepts, with which all moralistsabound. Philosophy is commonly divided intospeculative and practical; and as morality is al-ways comprehended under the latter division,it is supposed to influence our passions and ac-tions, and to go beyond the calm and indolentjudgments of the understanding. And this isconfirmed by common experience, which in-forms us, that men are often governed by theirduties, and are detered from some actions bythe opinion of injustice, and impelled to othersby that of obligation.

Since morals, therefore, have an influence onthe actions and affections, it follows, that theycannot be derived from reason; and that be-cause reason alone, as we have already proved,can never have any such influence. Morals ex-

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cite passions, and produce or prevent actions.Reason of itself is utterly impotent in this par-ticular. The rules of morality therefore, are notconclusions of our reason.

No one, I believe, will deny the justness ofthis inference; nor is there any other means ofevading it, than by denying that principle, onwhich it is founded. As long as it is allowed,that reason has no influence on our passionsand action, it is in vain to pretend, that moral-ity is discovered only by a deduction of rea-son. An active principle can never be foundedon an inactive; and if reason be inactive in it-self, it must remain so in all its shapes and ap-pearances, whether it exerts itself in natural ormoral subjects, whether it considers the pow-ers of external bodies, or the actions of rationalbeings.

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It would be tedious to repeat all the argu-ments, by which I have proved (Book II. PartIII. Sect 3.), that reason is perfectly inert, andcan never either prevent or produce any actionor affection, it will be easy to recollect what hasbeen said upon that subject. I shall only recallon this occasion one of these arguments, whichI shall endeavour to render still more conclu-sive, and more applicable to the present sub-ject.

Reason is the discovery of truth or falshood.Truth or falshood consists in an agreementor disagreement either to the real relations ofideas, or to real existence and matter of fact.Whatever, therefore, is not susceptible of thisagreement or disagreement, is incapable of be-ing true or false, and can never be an object ofour reason. Now it is evident our passions, vo-

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litions, and actions, are not susceptible of anysuch agreement or disagreement; being origi-nal facts and realities, compleat in themselves,and implying no reference to other passions,volitions, and actions. It is impossible, there-fore, they can be pronounced either true orfalse, and be either contrary or conformable toreason.

This argument is of double advantage to ourpresent purpose. For it proves directly, that ac-tions do not derive their merit from a confor-mity to reason, nor their blame from a contrari-ety to it; and it proves the same truth more indi-rectly, by shewing us, that as reason can neverimmediately prevent or produce any action bycontradicting or approving of it, it cannot bethe source of moral good and evil, which arefound to have that influence. Actions may be

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laudable or blameable; but they cannot be rea-sonable: Laudable or blameable, therefore, arenot the same with reasonable or unreasonable.The merit and demerit of actions frequentlycontradict, and sometimes controul our natu-ral propensities. But reason has no such influ-ence. Moral distinctions, therefore, are not theoffspring of reason. Reason is wholly inactive,and can never be the source of so active a prin-ciple as conscience, or a sense of morals.

But perhaps it may be said, that though nowill or action can be immediately contradictoryto reason, yet we may find such a contradictionin some of the attendants of the action, that is,in its causes or effects. The action may cause ajudgment, or may be obliquely caused by one,when the judgment concurs with a passion;and by an abusive way of speaking, which phi-

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losophy will scarce allow of, the same contrari-ety may, upon that account, be ascribed to theaction. How far this truth or faishood may bethe source of morals, it will now be proper toconsider.

It has been observed, that reason, in a strictand philosophical sense, can have influence onour conduct only after two ways: Either whenit excites a passion by informing us of the exis-tence of something which is a proper object ofit; or when it discovers the connexion of causesand effects, so as to afford us means of exert-ing any passion. These are the only kinds ofjudgment, which can accompany our actions,or can be said to produce them in any manner;and it must be allowed, that these judgmentsmay often be false and erroneous. A personmay be affected with passion, by supposing a

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pain or pleasure to lie in an object, which hasno tendency to produce either of these sensa-tions, or which produces the contrary to whatis imagined. A person may also take false mea-sures for the attaining his end, and may retard,by his foolish conduct, instead of forwardingthe execution of any project. These false judg-ments may be thought to affect the passionsand actions, which are connected with them,and may be said to render them unreasonable,in a figurative and improper way of speaking.But though this be acknowledged, it is easy toobserve, that these errors are so far from be-ing the source of all immorality, that they arecommonly very innocent, and draw no man-ner of guilt upon the person who is so unfortu-nate as to fail into them. They extend not be-yond a mistake of fact, which moralists havenot generally supposed criminal, as being per-

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fectly involuntary. I am more to be lamentedthan blamed, if I am mistaken with regard tothe influence of objects in producing pain orpleasure, or if I know not the proper meansof satisfying my desires. No one can ever re-gard such errors as a defect in my moral charac-ter. A fruit, for instance, that is really disagree-able, appears to me at a distance, and throughmistake I fancy it to be pleasant and delicious.Here is one error. I choose certain means ofreaching this fruit, which are not proper for myend. Here is a second error; nor is there anythird one, which can ever possibly enter intoour reasonings concerning actions. I ask, there-fore, if a man, in this situation, and guilty ofthese two errors, is to be regarded as viciousand criminal, however unavoidable they mighthave been? Or if it be possible to imagine, thatsuch errors are the sources of all immorality?

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And here it may be proper to observe, thatif moral distinctions be derived from the truthor falshood of those judgments, they must takeplace wherever we form the judgments; norwill there be any difference, whether the ques-tion be concerning an apple or a kingdom, orwhether the error be avoidable or unavoidable.For as the very essence of morality is supposedto consist in an agreement or disagreement toreason, the other circumstances are entirely ar-bitrary, and can never either bestow on any ac-tion the character of virtuous or vicious, or de-prive it of that character. To which we may add,that this agreement or disagreement, not ad-mitting of degrees, all virtues and vices wouldof course be equal.

Should it be pretended, that though a mis-take of fact be not criminal, yet a mistake of

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right often is; and that this may be the sourceof immorality: I would answer, that it is im-possible such a mistake can ever be the orig-inal source of immorality, since it supposes areal right and wrong; that is, a real distinctionin morals, independent of these judgments.A mistake, therefore, of right may become aspecies of immorality; but it is only a secondaryone, and is founded on some other, antecedentto it.

As to those judgments which are the effectsof our actions, and which, when false, giveoccasion to pronounce the actions contrary totruth and reason; we may observe, that our ac-tions never cause any judgment, either true orfalse, in ourselves, and that it is only on oth-ers they have such an influence. It is certain,that an action, on many occasions, may give

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rise to false conclusions in others; and that aperson, who through a window sees any lewdbehaviour of mine with my neighbour’s wife,may be so simple as to imagine she is certainlymy own. In this respect my action resemblessomewhat a lye or falshood; only with this dif-ference, which is material, that I perform notthe action with any intention of giving rise to afalse judgment in another, but merely to satisfymy lust and passion. It causes, however, a mis-take and false judgment by accident; and thefalshood of its effects may be ascribed, by someodd figurative way of speaking, to the action it-self. But still I can see no pretext of reason forasserting, that the tendency to cause such anerror is the first spring or original source of allimmorality.12

12One might think it were entirely superfluous to

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One might think It were entirely superflu-ous to prove this, if a late author (William Wol-laston, The Religion of Nature Delineated (Lon-don 1722)), who has had the good fortune toobtain some reputation, had not seriously af-

prove this, if a late author (William Wollaston, The Re-ligion of Nature Delineated (London 1722)), who has hadthe good fortune to obtain some reputation, had not se-riously affirmed, that such a falshood is the foundationof all guilt and moral deformity. That we may discoverthe fallacy of his hypothesis, we need only consider,that a false conclusion is drawn from an action, onlyby means of an obscurity of natural principles, whichmakes a cause be secretly interrupted In its operation,by contrary causes, and renders the connexion betwixttwo objects uncertain and variable. Now, as a like uncer-tainty and variety of causes take place, even in naturalobjects, and produce a like error in our judgment, if thattendency to produce error were the very essence of viceand immorality, it should follow, that even inanimateobjects might be vicious and immoral.

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firmed, that such a falshood is the foundationof all guilt and moral deformity. That we maydiscover the fallacy of his hypothesis, we needonly consider, that a false conclusion is drawnfrom an action, only by means of an obscurityof natural principles, which makes a cause besecretly interrupted In its operation, by con-trary causes, and renders the connexion be-twixt two objects uncertain and variable. Now,as a like uncertainty and variety of causes takeplace, even in natural objects, and produce alike error in our judgment, if that tendency toproduce error were the very essence of vice andimmorality, it should follow, that even inani-mate objects might be vicious and immoral.

It is in vain to urge, that inanimate objects actwithout liberty and choice. For as liberty andchoice are not necessary to make an action pro-

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duce in us an erroneous conclusion, they canbe, in no respect, essential to morality; and Ido not readily perceive, upon this system, howthey can ever come to be regarded by it. Ifthe tendency to cause error be the origin of im-morality, that tendency and immorality wouldin every case be inseparable.

Add to this, that if I had used the precau-tion of shutting the windows, while I indulgedmyself in those liberties with my neighbour’swife, I should have been guilty of no immoral-ity; and that because my action, being perfectlyconcealed, would have had no tendency to pro-duce any false conclusion.

For the same reason, a thief, who steals In bya ladder at a window, and takes all imaginablecare to cause no disturbance, is in no respectcriminal. For either he will not be perceived, or

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if he be, it is impossible he can produce any er-ror, nor will any one, from these circumstances,take him to be other than what he really is.

It is well known, that those who are squint-sighted, do very readily cause mistakes in oth-ers, and that we Imagine they salute or are talk-ing to one person, while they address them-selves to anther. Are they therefore, upon thataccount, immoral?

Besides, we may easily observe, that in allthose arguments there is an evident reasoningin a circle. A person who takes possession ofanother’s goods, and uses them as his own, ina manner declares them to be his own; and thisfalshood is the source of the immorality of in-justice. But is property, or right, or obligation,intelligible, without an antecedent morality?

A man that is ungrateful to his benefactor, in

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a manner affirms, that he never received anyfavours from him. But in what manner? Is itbecause it is his duty to be grateful? But thissupposes, that there is some antecedent rule ofduty and morals. Is it because human nature isgenerally grateful, and makes us conclude, thata man who does any harm never received anyfavour from the person he harmed? But humannature is not so generally grateful, as to justifysuch a conclusion. Or if it were, is an exceptionto a general rule in every case criminal, for noother reason than because it is an exception?

But what may suffice entirely to destroy thiswhimsical system is, that it leaves us under thesame difficulty to give a reason why truth isvirtuous and falshood vicious, as to accountfor the merit or turpitude of any other action.I shall allow, if you please, that all immoral-

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ity is derived from this supposed falshood inaction, provided you can give me any plausi-ble reason, why such a falshood is immoral. Ifyou consider rightly of the matter, you will findyourself in the same difficulty as at the begin-ning.

This last argument is very conclusive; be-cause, if there be not an evident merit or turpi-tude annexed to this species of truth or fala-hood, It can never have any influence uponour actions. For, who ever thought of forbear-ing any action, because others might possiblydraw false conclusions from it? Or, who everperformed any, that he might give rise to trueconclusions?)

Thus upon the whole, it is impossible, thatthe distinction betwixt moral good and evil,can be made to reason; since that distinction

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has an influence upon our actions, of whichreason alone is incapable. Reason and judg-ment may, indeed, be the mediate cause of anaction, by prompting, or by directing a passion:But it is not pretended, that a judgment of thiskind, either in its truth or falshood, is attendedwith virtue or vice. And as to the judgments,which are caused by our judgments, they canstill less bestow those moral qualities on the ac-tions, which are their causes.

But to be more particular, and to shew, thatthose eternal immutable fitnesses and unfit-nesses of things cannot be defended by soundphilosophy, we may weigh the following con-siderations.

If the thought and understanding were alonecapable of fixing the boundaries of right andwrong, the character of virtuous and vicious

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either must lie in some relations of objects, ormust be a matter of fact, which is discoveredby our reasoning. This consequence is evi-dent. As the operations of human understand-ing divide themselves into two kinds, the com-paring of ideas, and the inferring of matter offact; were virtue discovered by the understand-ing; it must be an object of one of these oper-ations, nor is there any third operation of theunderstanding. which can discover it. Therehas been an opinion very industriously prop-agated by certain philosophers, that moralityis susceptible of demonstration; and thoughno one has ever been able to advance a sin-gle step in those demonstrations; yet it is takenfor granted, that this science may be broughtto an equal certainty with geometry or alge-bra. Upon this supposition vice and virtuemust consist in some relations; since it is al-

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lowed on all hands, that no matter of fact is ca-pable of being demonstrated. Let us, therefore,begin with examining this hypothesis, and en-deavour, if possible, to fix those moral qual-ities, which have been so long the objects ofour fruitless researches. Point out distinctly therelations, which constitute morality or obliga-tion, that we may know wherein they consist,and after what manner we must judge of them.

If you assert, that vice and virtue consist inrelations susceptible of certainty and demon-stration, you must confine yourself to thosefour relations, which alone admit of that de-gree of evidence; and in that case you run intoabsurdities, from which you will never be ableto extricate yourself. For as you make the veryessence of morality to lie in the relations, andas there is no one of these relations but what is

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applicable, not only to an irrational, but also toan inanimate object; it follows, that even suchobjects must be susceptible of merit or demerit.Resemblance, contrariety, degrees in quality, andproportions in quantitiy and number; all these re-lations belong as properly to matter, as to ouractions, passions, and volitions. It is unques-tionable, therefore, that morality lies not in anyof these relations, nor the sense of it in their dis-covery.13

13As a proof, how confused our way of thinking onthis subject commonly is, we may observe, that thosewho assert, that morality is demonstrable, do not say,that morality lies in the relations, and that the relationsare distinguishable by reason. They only say, that rea-son can discover such an action, In such relations, tobe virtuous, and such another vicious. It seems theythought it sufficient, if they could bring the word, Rela-tion, into the proposition, without troubling themselves

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Should it be asserted, that the sense of moral-ity consists in the discovery of some relation,distinct from these, and that our enumerationwas not compleat, when we comprehendedall demonstrable relations under four generalheads: To this I know not what to reply, tillsome one be so good as to point out to me thisnew relation. It is impossible to refute a system,

whether it was to the purpose or not. But here, I think,is plain argument. Demonstrative reason discovers onlyrelations. But that reason, according to this hypothesis,discovers also vice and virtue. These moral qualities,therefore, must be relations. When we blame any action,in any situation, the whole complicated object, of actionand situation, must form certain relations, wherein theessence of vice consists. This hypothesis is not other-wise intelligible. For what does reason discover, whenit pronounces any action vicious? Does it discover a re-lation or a matter of fact? These questions are decisive,and must not be eluded.

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which has never yet been explained. In such amanner of fighting in the dark, a man loses hisblows in the air, and often places them wherethe enemy is not present.

I must, therefore, on this occasion, rest con-tented with requiring the two following con-ditions of any one that would undertake toclear up this system. First, As moral good andevil belong only to the actions of the mind,and are derived from our situation with regardto external objects, the relations, from whichthese moral distinctions arise, must lie only be-twixt internal actions, and external objects, andmust not be applicable either to internal ac-tions, compared among themselves, or to exter-nal objects, when placed in opposition to otherexternal objects. For as morality is supposed toattend certain relations, if these relations coued

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belong to internal actions considered singly, itwould follow, that we might be guilty of crimesin ourselves, and independent of our situa-tion, with respect to the universe: And in likemanner, if these moral relations coued be ap-plied to external objects, it would follow, thateven inanimate beings would be susceptible ofmoral beauty and deformity. Now it seems dif-ficult to imagine, that any relation can be dis-covered betwixt our passions, volitions and ac-tions, compared to external objects, which re-lation might not belong either to these pas-sions and volitions, or to these external objects,compared among themselves. But it will bestill more difficult to fulfil the second condi-tion, requisite to justify this system. Accord-ing to the principles of those who maintain anabstract rational difference betwixt moral goodand evil, and a natural fitness and unfitness of

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things, it is not only supposed, that these re-lations, being eternal and immutable, are thesame, when considered by every rational crea-ture, but their effects are also supposed to benecessarily the same; and it is concluded theyhave no less, or rather a greater, influence in di-recting the will of the deity, than in governingthe rational and virtuous of our own species.These two particulars are evidently distinct. Itis one thing to know virtue, and another toconform the will to it. In order, therefore, toprove, that the measures of right and wrongare eternal laws, obligatory on every rationalmind, it is not sufficient to shew the relationsupon which they are founded: We must alsopoint out the connexion betwixt the relationand the will; and must prove that this connex-ion is so necessary, that in every well-disposedmind, it must take place and have its influence;

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though the difference betwixt these minds be inother respects immense and infinite. Now be-sides what I have already proved, that even inhuman nature no relation can ever alone pro-duce any action: besides this, I say, it has beenshewn, in treating of the understanding, thatthere is no connexion of cause and effect, suchas this is supposed to be, which is discoverableotherwise than by experience, and of which wecan pretend to have any security by the simpleconsideration of the objects. All beings in theuniverse, considered in themselves, appear en-tirely loose and independent of each other. It isonly by experience we learn their influence andconnexion; and this influence we ought neverto extend beyond experience.

Thus it will be impossible to fulfil the firstcondition required to the system of eternal

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measures of right and wrong; because it is im-possible to shew those relations, upon whichsuch a distinction may be founded: And it isas impossible to fulfil the second condition; be-cause we cannot prove a priori, that these rela-tions, if they really existed and were perceived,would be universally forcible and obligatory.

But to make these general reflections moredear and convincing, we may illustrate themby some particular instances, wherein thischaracter of moral good or evil is the most uni-versally acknowledged. Of all crimes that hu-man creatures are capable of committing, themost horrid and unnatural is ingratitude, es-pecially when it is committed against parents,and appears in the more flagrant instances ofwounds and death. This is acknowledged byall mankind, philosophers as well as the peo-

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ple; the question only arises among philoso-phers, whether the guilt or moral deformityof this action be discovered by demonstrativereasoning, or be felt by an internal sense, andby means of some sentiment, which the reflect-ing on such an action naturally occasions. Thisquestion will soon be decided against the for-mer opinion, if we can shew the same relationsin other objects, without the notion of any guiltor iniquity attending them. Reason or scienceis nothing but the comparing of ideas, and thediscovery of their relations; and if the same re-lations have different characters, it must evi-dently follow, that those characters are not dis-covered merely by reason. To put the affair,therefore, to this trial, let us chuse any inani-mate object, such as an oak or elm; and let ussuppose, that by the dropping of its seed, itproduces a sapling below it, which springing

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up by degrees, at last overtops and destroysthe parent tree: I ask, if in this instance therebe wanting any relation, which is discoverablein parricide or ingratitude? Is not the one treethe cause of the other’s existence; and the lat-ter the cause of the destruction of the former, inthe same manner as when a child murders hisparent? It is not sufficient to reply, that a choiceor will is wanting. For in the case of parricide,a will does not give rise to any different rela-tions, but is only the cause from which the ac-tion is derived; and consequently produces thesame relations, that in the oak or elm arise fromsome other principles. It is a will or choice,that determines a man to kill his parent; andthey are the laws of matter and motion, thatdetermine a sapling to destroy the oak, fromwhich it sprung. Here then the same relationshave different causes; but still the relations are

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the same: And as their discovery is not in bothcases attended with a notion of immorality, itfollows, that that notion does not arise fromsuch a discovery.

But to chuse an instance, still more resem-bling; I would fain ask any one, why incestin the human species is criminal, and why thevery same action, and the same relations in an-imals have not the smallest moral turpitudeand deformity? If it be answered, that this ac-tion is innocent in animals, because they havenot reason sufficient to discover its turpitude;but that man, being endowed with that facultywhich ought to restrain him to his duty, thesame action instantly becomes criminal to him;should this be said, I would reply, that this isevidently arguing in a circle. For before rea-son can perceive this turpitude, the turpitude

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must exist; and consequently is independentof the decisions of our reason, and is their ob-ject more properly than their effect. Accord-ing to this system, then, every animal, thathas sense, and appetite, and will; that is, ev-ery animal must be susceptible of all the samevirtues and vices, for which we ascribe praiseand blame to human creatures. All the differ-ence is, that our superior reason may serve todiscover the vice or virtue, and by that meansmay augment the blame or praise: But stillthis discovery supposes a separate being inthese moral distinctions, and a being, whichdepends only on the will and appetite, andwhich, both in thought and reality, may be dis-tinguished from the reason. Animals are sus-ceptible of the same relations, with respect toeach other, as the human species, and thereforewould also be susceptible of the same morality,

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if the essence of morality consisted in these re-lations. Their want of a sufficient degree of rea-son may hinder them from perceiving the du-ties and obligations of morality, but can neverhinder these duties from existing; since theymust antecedently exist, in order to their be-ing perceived. Reason must find them, and cannever produce them. This argument deservesto be weighed, as being, in my opinion, entirelydecisive.

Nor does this reasoning only prove, thatmorality consists not in any relations, that arethe objects of science; but if examined, willprove with equal certainty, that it consists notin any matter of fact, which can be discoveredby the understanding. This is the second partof our argument; and if it can be made evident,we may conclude, that morality is not an ob-

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ject of reason. But can there be any difficulty inproving, that vice and virtue are not matters offact, whose existence we can infer by reason?Take any action allowed to be vicious: Wilfulmurder, for instance. Examine it in all lights,and see if you can find that matter of fact, orreal existence, which you call vice. In which-ever way you take it, you find only certain pas-sions, motives, volitions and thoughts. Thereis no other matter of fact in the case. The viceentirely escapes you, as long as you considerthe object. You never can find it, till you turnyour reflection into your own breast, and finda sentiment of disapprobation, which arises inyou, towards this action. Here is a matter offact; but it is the object of feeling, not of rea-son. It lies in yourself, not in the object. So thatwhen you pronounce any action or character tobe vicious, you mean nothing, but that from the

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constitution of your nature you have a feelingor sentiment of blame from the contemplationof it. Vice and virtue, therefore, may be com-pared to sounds, colours, heat and cold, which,according to modern philosophy, are not qual-ities in objects, but perceptions in the mind:And this discovery in morals, like that other inphysics, is to be regarded as a considerable ad-vancement of the speculative sciences; though,like that too, it has little or no influence on prac-tice. Nothing can be more real, or concern usmore, than our own sentiments of pleasure anduneasiness; and if these be favourable to virtue,and unfavourable to vice, no more can be req-uisite to the regulation of our conduct and be-haviour.

I cannot forbear adding to these reasoningsan observation, which may, perhaps, be found

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of some importance. In every system of moral-ity, which I have hitherto met with, I have al-ways remarked, that the author proceeds forsome time in the ordinary way of reasoning,and establishes the being of a God, or makesobservations concerning human affairs; whenof a sudden I am surprized to find, that insteadof the usual copulations of propositions, is, andis not, I meet with no proposition that is notconnected with an ought, or an ought not. Thischange is imperceptible; but is, however, of thelast consequence. For as this ought, or oughtnot, expresses some new relation or affirma-tion, it is necessary that it should be observedand explained; and at the same time that a rea-son should be given, for what seems altogetherinconceivable, how this new relation can be adeduction from others, which are entirely dif-ferent from it. But as authors do not commonly

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use this precaution, I shall presume to recom-mend it to the readers; and am persuaded, thatthis small attention would subvert all the vul-gar systems of morality, and let us see, that thedistinction of vice and virtue is not foundedmerely on the relations of objects, nor is per-ceived by reason.

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SECTION II. MORAL DISTINCTIONSDERIVED FROM A MORAL SENSE

Thus the course of the argument leads usto conclude, that since vice and virtue are notdiscoverable merely by reason, or the compar-ison of ideas, it must be by means of some im-pression or sentiment they occasion, that weare able to mark the difference betwixt them.Our decisions concerning moral rectitude anddepravity are evidently perceptions; and as allperceptions are either impressions or ideas, theexclusion of the one is a convincing argumentfor the other. Morality, therefore, is more prop-erly felt than judged of; though this feeling orsentiment is commonly so soft and gentle, thatwe are apt to confound it with an idea, accord-ing to our common custom of taking all thingsfor the same, which have any near resemblance

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to each other.

The next question is, Of what nature arethese impressions, and after what manner dothey operate upon us? Here we cannot remainlong in suspense, but must pronounce the im-pression arising from virtue, to be agreeable,and that proceding from vice to be uneasy. Ev-ery moments experience must convince us ofthis. There is no spectacle so fair and beautifulas a noble and generous action; nor any whichgives us more abhorrence than one that is crueland treacherous. No enjoyment equals the sat-isfaction we receive from the company of thosewe love and esteem; as the greatest of all pun-ishments is to be obliged to pass our lives withthose we hate or contemn. A very play or ro-mance may afford us instances of this pleasure,which virtue conveys to us; and pain, which

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arises from vice.

Now since the distinguishing impressions,by which moral good or evil is known, arenothing but particular pains or pleasures; itfollows, that in all enquiries concerning thesemoral distinctions, it will be sufficient to shewthe principles, which make us feel a satisfac-tion or uneasiness from the survey of any char-acter, in order to satisfy us why the character islaudable or blameable. An action, or sentiment,or character is virtuous or vicious; why? be-cause its view causes a pleasure or uneasinessof a particular kind. In giving a reason, there-fore, for the pleasure or uneasiness, we suffi-ciently explain the vice or virtue. To have thesense of virtue, is nothing but to feel a satisfac-tion of a particular kind from the contempla-tion of a character. The very feeling constitutes

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our praise or admiration. We go no farther; nordo we enquire into the cause of the satisfaction.We do not infer a character to be virtuous, be-cause it pleases: But in feeling that it pleasesafter such a particular manner, we in effect feelthat it is virtuous. The case is the same as in ourjudgments concerning all kinds of beauty, andtastes, and sensations. Our approbation is im-plyed in the immediate pleasure they conveyto us.

I have objected to the system, which estab-lishes eternal rational measures of right andwrong, that it is impossible to shew, in theactions of reasonable creatures, any relations,which are not found in external objects; andtherefore, if morality always attended theserelations, it were possible for inanimate mat-ter to become virtuous or vicious. Now it

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may, in like manner, be objected to the presentsystem, that if virtue and vice be determinedby pleasure and pain, these qualities must,in every case, arise from the sensations; andconsequently any object, whether animate orinanimate, rational or irrational, might becomemorally good or evil, provided it can excite asatisfaction or uneasiness. But though this ob-jection seems to be the very same, it has byno means the same force, in the one case asin the other. For, first, tis evident, that underthe term pleasure, we comprehend sensations,which are very different from each other, andwhich have only such a distant resemblance,as is requisite to make them be expressed bythe same abstract term. A good composition ofmusic and a bottle of good wine equally pro-duce pleasure; and what is more, their good-ness is determined merely by the pleasure. But

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shall we say upon that account, that the wine isharmonious, or the music of a good flavour? Inlike manner an inanimate object, and the char-acter or sentiments of any person may, both ofthem, give satisfaction; but as the satisfaction isdifferent, this keeps our sentiments concerningthem from being confounded, and makes us as-cribe virtue to the one, and not to the other. Noris every sentiment of pleasure or pain, whicharises from characters and actions, of that pecu-liar kind, which makes us praise or condemn.The good qualities of an enemy are hurtful tous; but may still command our esteem and re-spect. It is only when a character is consideredin general, without reference to our particularinterest, that it causes such a feeling or senti-ment, as denominates it morally good or evil.It is true, those sentiments, from interest andmorals, are apt to be confounded, and naturally

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run into one another. It seldom happens, thatwe do not think an enemy vicious, and can dis-tinguish betwixt his opposition to our interestand real villainy or baseness. But this hindersnot, but that the sentiments are, in themselves,distinct; and a man of temper and judgmentmay preserve himself from these illusions. Inlike manner, though it is certain a musical voiceis nothing but one that naturally gives a par-ticular kind of pleasure; yet it is difficult for aman to be sensible, that the voice of an enemyis agreeable, or to allow it to be musical. But aperson of a fine ear, who has the command ofhimself, can separate these feelings, and givepraise to what deserves it.

Secondly, We may call to remembrance thepreceding system of the passions, in orderto remark a still more considerable difference

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among our pains and pleasures. Pride and hu-mility, love and hatred are excited, when thereis any thing presented to us, that both bears arelation to the object of the passion, and pro-duces a separate sensation related to the sen-sation of the passion. Now virtue and viceare attended with these circumstances. Theymust necessarily be placed either in ourselvesor others, and excite either pleasure or un-easiness; and therefore must give rise to oneof these four passions; which clearly distin-guishes them from the pleasure and pain aris-ing from inanimate objects, that often bear norelation to us: And this is, perhaps, the mostconsiderable effect that virtue and vice haveupon the human mind.

It may now be asked in general, concerningthis pain or pleasure, that distinguishes moral

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good and evil, from what principles it derived, andwhence does it arise in the human mind? To this Ireply, first, that it is absurd to imagine, that inevery particular instance, these sentiments areproduced by an original quality and primaryconstitution. For as the number of our dutiesis, in a manner, infinite, it is impossible thatour original instincts should extend to each ofthem, and from our very first infancy impresson the human mind all that multitude of pre-cepts, which are contained in the compleatestsystem of ethics. Such a method of proceed-ing is not conformable to the usual maxims, bywhich nature is conducted, where a few princi-ples produce all that variety we observe in theuniverse, and every thing is carryed on in theeasiest and most simple manner. It is necessary,therefore, to abridge these primary impulses,and find some more general principles, upon

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which all our notions of morals are founded.

But in the second place, should it be asked,Whether we ought to search for these princi-ples in nature, or whether we must look forthem in some other origin? I would reply,that our answer to this question depends uponthe definition of the word, Nature, than whichthere is none more ambiguous and equivocal.If nature be opposed to miracles, not only thedistinction betwixt vice and virtue is natural,but also every event, which has ever happenedin the world, excepting those miracles, on whichour religion is founded. In saying, then, that thesentiments of vice and virtue are natural in thissense, we make no very extraordinary discov-ery.

But nature may also be opposed to rare andunusual; and in this sense of the word, which

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is the common one, there may often arise dis-putes concerning what is natural or unnatu-ral; and one may in general affirm, that weare not possessed of any very precise standard,by which these disputes can be decided. Fre-quent and rare depend upon the number of ex-amples we have observed; and as this numbermay gradually encrease or diminish, it will beimpossible to fix any exact boundaries betwixtthem. We may only affirm on this head, thatif ever there was any thing, which coued becalled natural in this sense, the sentiments ofmorality certainly may; since there never wasany nation of the world, nor any single per-son in any nation, who was utterly deprived ofthem, and who never, in any instance, shewedthe least approbation or dislike of manners.These sentiments are so rooted in our consti-tution and temper, that without entirely con-

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founding the human mind by disease or mad-ness, it is impossible to extirpate and destroythem.

But nature may also be opposed to artifice,as well as to what is rare and unusual; and inthis sense it may be disputed, whether the no-tions of virtue be natural or not. We readily for-get, that the designs, and projects, and viewsof men are principles as necessary in their op-eration as heat and cold, moist and dry: Buttaking them to be free and entirely our own, itis usual for us to set them in opposition to theother principles of nature should it, therefore,be demanded, whether the sense of virtue benatural or artificial, I am of opinion, that it isimpossible for me at present to give any preciseanswer to this question. Perhaps it will appearafterwards, that our sense of some virtues is ar-

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tificial, and that of others natural. The discus-sion of this question will be more proper, whenwe enter upon an exact detail of each particularvice and virtue14

Mean while it may not be amiss to observefrom these definitions of natural and unnatu-ral, that nothing can be more unphilosophicalthan those systems, which assert, that virtue isthe same with what is natural, and vice withwhat is unnatural. For in the first sense ofthe word, Nature, as opposed to miracles, bothvice and virtue are equally natural; and in thesecond sense, as opposed to what is unusual,perhaps virtue will be found to be the most un-natural. At least it must be owned, that heroic

14In the following discourse natural is also opposedsometimes to civil, sometimes to moral. The oppositionwill always discover the sense, in which it is taken.

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virtue, being as unusual, is as little natural asthe most brutal barbarity. As to the third senseof the word, it is certain, that both vice andvirtue are equally artificial, and out of nature.For however it may be disputed, whether thenotion of a merit or demerit in certain actionsbe natural or artificial, it is evident, that theactions themselves are artificial, and are per-formed with a certain design and intention;otherwise they coued never be ranked underany of these denominations. It is impossible,therefore, that the character of natural and un-natural can ever, in any sense, mark the bound-aries of vice and virtue.

Thus we are still brought back to our first po-sition, that virtue is distinguished by the plea-sure, and vice by the pain, that any action, sen-timent or character gives us by the mere view

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and contemplation. This decision is very com-modious; because it reduces us to this simplequestion, Why any action or sentiment uponthe general view or survey, gives a certain sat-isfaction or uneasiness, in order to shew theorigin of its moral rectitude or depravity, with-out looking for any incomprehensible relationsand qualities, which never did exist in nature,nor even in our imagination, by any clear anddistinct conception. I flatter myself I have ex-ecuted a great part of my present design by astate of the question, which appears to me sofree from ambiguity and obscurity.

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PART II

OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE

SECTION I. JUSTICE, WHETHER A NATURALOR ARTIFICIAL VIRTUE?

I have already hinted, that our sense of everykind of virtue is not natural; but that there aresome virtues, that produce pleasure and appro-bation by means of an artifice or contrivance,which arises from the circumstances and neces-sity of mankind. Of this kind I assert justice tobe; and shall endeavour to defend this opinionby a short, and, I hope, convincing argument,before I examine the nature of the artifice, fromwhich the sense of that virtue is derived.

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It is evident, that when we praise any ac-tions, we regard only the motives that pro-duced them, and consider the actions as signsor indications of certain principles in the mindand temper. The external performance has nomerit. We must look within to find the moralquality. This we cannot do directly; and there-fore fix our attention on actions, as on externalsigns. But these actions are still considered assigns; and the ultimate object of our praise andapprobation is the motive, that produced them.

After the same manner, when we require anyaction, or blame a person for not performingit, we always suppose, that one in that situa-tion should be influenced by the proper mo-tive of that action, and we esteem it vicious inhim to be regardless of it. If we find, upon en-quiry, that the virtuous motive was still power-

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ful over his breast, though checked in its oper-ation by some circumstances unknown to us,we retract our blame, and have the same es-teem for him, as if he had actually performedthe action, which we require of him.

It appears, therefore, that all virtuous ac-tions derive their merit only from virtuous mo-tives, and are considered merely as signs ofthose motives. From this principle I conclude,that the first virtuous motive, which bestowsa merit on any action, can never be a regardto the virtue of that action, but must be someother natural motive or principle. To suppose,that the mere regard to the virtue of the actionmay be the first motive, which produced theaction, and rendered it virtuous, is to reason ina circle. Before we can have such a regard, theaction must be really virtuous; and this virtue

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must be derived from some virtuous motive:And consequently the virtuous motive must bedifferent from the regard to the virtue of the ac-tion. A virtuous motive is requisite to renderan action virtuous. An action must be virtuous,before we can have a regard to its virtue. Somevirtuous motive, therefore, must be antecedentto that regard.

Nor is this merely a metaphysical subtilty;but enters into all our reasonings in commonlife, though perhaps we may not be able toplace it in such distinct philosophical terms.We blame a father for neglecting his child.Why? because it shews a want of natural af-fection, which is the duty of every parent. Werenot natural affection a duty, the care of childrencoued not be a duty; and it were impossible wecoued have the duty in our eye in the attention

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we give to our offspring. In this case, therefore,all men suppose a motive to the action distinctfrom a sense of duty.

Here is a man, that does many benevolentactions; relieves the distressed, comforts theafflicted, and extends his bounty even to thegreatest strangers. No character can be moreamiable and virtuous. We regard these actionsas proofs of the greatest humanity. This hu-manity bestows a merit on the actions. A re-gard to this merit is, therefore, a secondary con-sideration, and derived from the antecedentprinciple of humanity, which is meritoriousand laudable.

In short, it may be established as an un-doubted maxim, That no action can be virtuous,or morally good, unless there be in human naturesome motive to produce it, distinct from the sense of

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its morality.

But may not the sense of morality or dutyproduce an action, without any other motive?I answer, It may: But this is no objection to thepresent doctrine. When any virtuous motive orprinciple is common in human nature, a per-son, who feels his heart devoid of that motive,may hate himself upon that account, and mayperform the action without the motive, froma certain sense of duty, in order to acquire bypractice, that virtuous principle, or at least, todisguise to himself, as much as possible, hiswant of it. A man that really feels no gratitudein his temper, is still pleased to perform grate-ful actions, and thinks he has, by that means,fulfilled his duty. Actions are at first only con-sidered as signs of motives: But it is usual, inthis case, as in all others, to fix our attention

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on the signs, and neglect, in some measure, thething signifyed. But though, on some occa-sions, a person may perform an action merelyout of regard to its moral obligation, yet stillthis supposes in human nature some distinctprinciples, which are capable of producing theaction, and whose moral beauty renders the ac-tion meritorious.

Now to apply all this to the present case;I suppose a person to have lent me a sum ofmoney, on condition that it be restored in a fewdays; and also suppose, that after the expira-tion of the term agreed on, he demands thesum: I ask, What reason or motive have I torestore the money? It will, perhaps, be said,that my regard to justice, and abhorrence ofvillainy and knavery, are sufficient reasons forme, if I have the least grain of honesty, or sense

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of duty and obligation. And this answer, nodoubt, is just and satisfactory to man in his civ-ilized state, and when trained up according toa certain discipline and education. But in hisrude and more natural condition, if you arepleased to call such a condition natural, thisanswer would be rejected as perfectly unintel-ligible and sophistical. For one in that situa-tion would immediately ask you, Wherein con-sists this honestiy and justice, which you find inrestoring a loan, and abstaining from the propertyof others? It does not surely lie in the externalaction. It must, therefore be placed in the mo-tive, from which the external action is derived.This motive can never be a regard to the hon-esty of the action. For it is a plain fallacy to say,that a virtuous motive is requisite to render anaction honest, and at the same time that a re-gard to the honesty is the motive of the action.

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We can never have a regard to the virtue of anaction, unless the action be antecedently virtu-ous. No action can be virtuous, but so far as itproceeds from a virtuous motive. A virtuousmotive, therefore, must precede the regard tothe virtue, and it is impossible, that the virtu-ous motive and the regard to the virtue can bethe same.

It is requisite, then, to find some motive toacts of justice and honesty, distinct from our re-gard to the honesty; and in this lies the greatdifficulty. For should we say, that a concernfor our private interest or reputation is the le-gitimate motive to all honest actions; it wouldfollow, that wherever that concern ceases, hon-esty can no longer have place. But it is cer-tain, that self-love, when it acts at its liberty,instead of engaging us to honest actions, is the

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source of all injustice and violence; nor can aman ever correct those vices, without correct-ing and restraining the natural movements ofthat appetite.

But should it be affirmed, that the reason ormotive of such actions is the regard to pub-lick interest, to which nothing is more con-trary than examples of injustice and dishon-esty; should this be said, I would propose thethree following considerations, as worthy ofour attention. First, public interest is not nat-urally attached to the observation of the rulesof justice; but is only connected with it, afteran artificial convention for the establishmentof these rules, as shall be shewn more at largehereafter. Secondly, if we suppose, that theloan was secret, and that it is necessary for theinterest of the person, that the money be re-

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stored in the same manner (as when the lenderwould conceal his riches) in that case the ex-ample ceases, and the public is no longer inter-ested in the actions of the borrower; though Isuppose there is no moralist, who will affirm,that the duty and obligation ceases. Thirdly,experience sufficiently proves, that men, in theordinary conduct of life, look not so far as thepublic interest, when they pay their creditors,perform their promises, and abstain from theft,and robbery, and injustice of every kind. Thatis a motive too remote and too sublime to affectthe generality of mankind, and operate withany force in actions so contrary to private inter-est as are frequently those of justice and com-mon honesty.

In general, it may be affirmed, that there isno such passion in human minds, as the love of

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mankind, merely as such, independent of per-sonal qualities, of services, or of relation to our-seit It is true, there is no human, and indeedno sensible, creature, whose happiness or mis-ery does not, in some measure, affect us whenbrought near to us, and represented in livelycolours: But this proceeds merely from sympa-thy, and is no proof of such an universal affec-tion to mankind, since this concern extends it-self beyond our own species. An affection be-twixt the sexes is a passion evidently implantedin human nature; and this passion not only ap-pears in its peculiar symptoms, but also in in-flaming every other principle of affection, andraising a stronger love from beauty, wit, kind-ness, than what would otherwise flow fromthem. Were there an universal love amongall human creatures, it would appear after thesame manner. Any degree of a good qual-

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ity would cause a stronger affection than thesame degree of a bad quality would cause ha-tred; contrary to what we find by experience.Men’s tempers are different, and some havea propensity to the tender, and others to therougher, affections: But in the main, we mayaffirm, that man in general, or human nature,is nothing but the object both of love and ha-tred, and requires some other cause, which by adouble relation of impressions and ideas, mayexcite these passions. In vain would we en-deavour to elude this hypothesis. There areno phaenomena that point out any such kindaffection to men, independent of their merit,and every other circumstance. We love com-pany in general; but it is as we love any otheramusement. An Englishman in Italy is a friend:A Euro paean in China; and perhaps a manwould be beloved as such, were we to meet

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him in the moon. But this proceeds only fromthe relation to ourselves; which in these casesgathers force by being confined to a few per-sons.

If public benevolence, therefore, or a regardto the interests of mankind, cannot be the orig-inal motive to justice, much less can privatebenevolence, or a regard to the interests of theparty concerned, be this motive. For what if hebe my enemy, and has given me just cause tohate him? What if he be a vicious man, and de-serves the hatred of all mankind? What if he bea miser, and can make no use of what I woulddeprive him of? What if he be a profligate de-bauchee, and would rather receive harm thanbenefit from large possessions? What if I be innecessity, and have urgent motives to acquiresomething to my family? In all these cases, the

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original motive to justice would fail; and con-sequently the justice itself, and along with it allproperty, tight, and obligation.

A rich man lies under a moral obligation tocommunicate to those in necessity a share ofhis superfluities. Were private benevolence theoriginal motive to justice, a man would notbe obliged to leave others in the possession ofmore than he is obliged to give them. At leastthe difference would be very inconsiderable.Men generally fix their affections more on whatthey are possessed of, than on what they neverenjoyed: For this reason, it would be greatercruelty to dispossess a man of any thing, thannot to give it him. But who will assert, that thisis the only foundation of justice?

Besides, we must consider, that the chief rea-son, why men attach themselves so much to

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their possessions is, that they consider them astheir property, and as secured to them invio-lably by the laws of society. But this is a sec-ondary consideration, and dependent on thepreceding notions of justice and property.

A man’s property is supposed to be fencedagainst every mortal, in every possible case.But private benevolence is, and ought to be,weaker in some persons, than in others: Andin many, or indeed in most persons, must ab-solutely fail. Private benevolence, therefore, isnot the original motive of justice.

From all this it follows, that we have noreal or universal motive for observing the lawsof equity, but the very equity and merit ofthat observance; and as no action can be eq-uitable or meritorious, where it cannot arisefrom some separate motive, there is here an ev-

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ident sophistry and reasoning in a circle. Un-less, therefore, we will allow, that nature has es-tablished a sophistry, and rendered it necessaryand unavoidable, we must allow, that the senseof justice and injustice is not derived from na-ture, but arises artificially, though necessarilyfrom education, and human conventions.

I shall add, as a corollary to this reasoning,that since no action can be laudable or blame-able, without some motives or impelling pas-sions, distinct from the sense of morals, thesedistinct passions must have a great influenceon that sense. It is according to their gen-eral force in human nature, that we blame orpraise. In judging of the beauty of animal bod-ies, we always carry in our eye the oeconomyof a certain species; and where the limbs andfeatures observe that proportion, which is com-

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mon to the species, we pronounce them hand-some and beautiful. In like manner we al-ways consider the natural and usual force ofthe passions, when we determine concerningvice and virtue; and if the passions depart verymuch from the common measures on eitherside, they are always disapproved as vicious. Aman naturally loves his children better than hisnephews, his nephews better than his cousins,his cousins better than strangers, where everything else is equal. Hence arise our commonmeasures of duty, in preferring the one to theother. Our sense of duty always follows thecommon and natural course of our passions.

To avoid giving offence, I must here observe,that when I deny justice to be a natural virtue, Imake use of the word, natural, only as opposedto artificial. In another sense of the word; as

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no principle of the human mind is more natu-ral than a sense of virtue; so no virtue is morenatural than justice. Mankind is an inventivespecies; and where an invention is obvious andabsolutely necessary, it may as properly be saidto be natural as any thing that proceeds imme-diately from original principles, without the in-tervention of thought or reflection. Though therules of justice be artificial, they are not arbi-trary. Nor is the expression improper to callthem Laws of Nature; if by natural we under-stand what is common to any species, or even ifwe confine it to mean what is inseparable fromthe species.

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SECTION II. OF THE ORIGIN OF JUSTICEAND PROPERTY

We now proceed to examine two questions,viz, concerning the manner, in which the rules ofjustice are established by the artifice of men; andconcerning the reasons, of which determine us to at-tribute to the observance or neglect of these rules amoral beauty and deformity. These questions willappear afterwards to be distinct. We shall be-gin with the former.

Of all the animals, with which this globeis peopled, there is none towards whom na-ture seems, at first sight, to have exercisedmore cruelty than towards man, in the number-less wants and necessities, with which she hasloaded him, and in the slender means, whichshe affords to the relieving these necessities.

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In other creatures these two particulars gener-ally compensate each other. If we consider thelion as a voracious and carnivorous animal, weshall easily discover him to be very necessitous;but if we turn our eye to his make and temper,his agility, his courage, his arms, and his force,we shall find, that his advantages hold propor-tion with his wants. The sheep and ox are de-prived of all these advantages; but their ap-petites are moderate, and their food is of easypurchase. In man alone, this unnatural con-junction of infirmity, and of necessity, may beobserved in its greatest perfection. Not only thefood, which is required for his sustenance, flieshis search and approach, or at least requireshis labour to be produced, but he must be pos-sessed of cloaths and lodging, to defend himagainst the injuries of the weather; though toconsider him only in himself, he is provided

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neither with arms, nor force, nor other naturalabilities, which are in any degree answerable toso many necessities.

It is by society alone he is able to supplyhis defects, and raise himself up to an equalitywith his fellow-creatures, and even acquire asuperiority above them. By society all his infir-mities are compensated; and though in that sit-uation his wants multiply every moment uponhim, yet his abilities are still more augmented,and leave him in every respect more satisfiedand happy, than it is possible for him, in hissavage and solitary condition, ever to become.When every individual person labours a-part,and only for himself, his force is too small toexecute any considerable work; his labour be-ing employed in supplying all his different ne-cessities, he never attains a perfection in any

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particular art; and as his force and success arenot at all times equal, the least failure in eitherof these particulars must be attended with in-evitable ruin and misery. Society provides aremedy for these three inconveniences. By theconjunction of forces, our power is augmented:By the partition of employments, our abilityencreases: And by mutual succour we are lessexposed to fortune and accidents. It is by thisadditional force, ability, and security, that soci-ety becomes advantageous.

But in order to form society, it is requisite notonly that it be advantageous, but also that menbe sensible of these advantages; and it is impos-sible, in their wild uncultivated state, that bystudy and reflection alone, they should ever beable to attain this knowledge. Most fortunately,therefore, there is conjoined to those necessi-

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ties, whose remedies are remote and obscure,another necessity, which having a present andmore obvious remedy, may justly be regardedas the first and original principle of human so-ciety. This necessity is no other than that nat-ural appetite betwixt the sexes, which unitesthem together, and preserves their union, till anew tye takes place in their concern for theircommon offspring. This new concern becomesalso a principle of union betwixt the parentsand offspring, and forms a more numerous so-ciety; where the parents govern by the advan-tage of their superior strength and wisdom,and at the same time are restrained in the ex-ercise of their authority by that natural affec-tion, which they bear their children. In a littletime, custom and habit operating on the tenderminds of the children, makes them sensible ofthe advantages, which they may reap from so-

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ciety, as well as fashions them by degrees for it,by rubbing off those rough corners and unto-ward affections, which prevent their coalition.

For it must be confest, that however the cir-cumstances of human nature may render anunion necessary, and however those passionsof lust and natural affection may seem to ren-der it unavoidable; yet there are other particu-lars in our natural temper, and in our outwardcircumstances, which are very incommodious,and are even contrary to the requisite conjunc-tion. Among the former, we may justly es-teem our selfishness to be the most consider-able. I am sensible, that generally speaking, therepresentations of this quality have been car-ried much too far; and that the descriptions,which certain philosophers delight so much toform of mankind in this particular, are as wide

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of nature as any accounts of monsters, whichwe meet with in fables and romances. So farfrom thinking, that men have no affection forany thing beyond themselves, I am of opinion,that though it be rare to meet with one, wholoves any single person better than himself; yetit is as rare to meet with one, in whom all thekind affections, taken together, do not overbal-ance all the selfish. Consult common experi-ence: Do you not see, that though the whole ex-pence of the family be generally under the di-rection of the master of it, yet there are few thatdo not bestow the largest part of their fortuneson the pleasures of their wives, and the edu-cation of their children, reserving the smallestportion for their own proper use and entertain-ment. This is what we may observe concern-ing such as have those endearing ties; and maypresume, that the case would be the same with

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others, were they placed in a like situation.

But though this generosity must be acknowl-edged to the honour of human nature, we mayat the same time remark, that so noble an affec-tion, instead of fitting men for large societies, isalmost as contrary to them, as the most narrowselfishness. For while each person loves him-self better than any other single person, and inhis love to others bears the greatest affection tohis relations and acquaintance, this must nec-essarily produce an oppositon of passions, anda consequent opposition of actions; which can-not but be dangerous to the new-establishedunion.

It is however worth while to remark, thatthis contrariety of passions would be attendedwith but small danger, did it not concur witha peculiarity in our outward circumstances,

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which affords it an opportunity of exerting it-self. There are different species of goods, whichwe are possessed of; the internal satisfactionof our minds, the external advantages of ourbody, and the enjoyment of such possessionsas we have acquired by our industry and goodfortune. We are perfectly secure in the enjoy-ment of the first. The second may be ravishedfrom us, but can be of no advantage to him whodeprives us of them. The last only are bothexposed to the violence of others, and may betransferred without suffering any loss or alter-ation; while at the same time, there is not a suf-ficient quantity of them to supply every one’sdesires and necessities. As the improvement,therefore, of these goods is the chief advantageof society, so the instability of their possession,along with their scarcity, is the chief impedi-ment.

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In vain should we expect to find, in unculti-vated nature, a remedy to this inconvenience;or hope for any inartificial principle of the hu-man mind, which might controul those partialaffections, and make us overcome the tempta-tions arising from our circumstances. The ideaof justice can never serve to this purpose, orbe taken for a natural principle, capable of in-spiring men with an equitable conduct towardseach other. That virtue, as it is now understood,would never have been dreamed of amongrude and savage men. For the notion of injuryor injustice implies an immorality or vice com-mitted against some other person: And as ev-ery immorality is derived from some defect orunsoundness of the passions, and as this defectmust be judged of, in a great measure, from theordinary course of nature in the constitution ofthe mind; it will be easy to know, whether we

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be guilty of any immorality, with regard to oth-ers, by considering the natural, and usual forceof those several affections, which are directedtowards them. Now it appears, that in the orig-inal frame of our mind, our strongest attentionis confined to ourselves; our next is extendedto our relations and acquaintance; and it is onlythe weakest which reaches to strangers and in-different persons. This partiality, then, and un-equal affection, must not only have an influ-ence on our behaviour and conduct in society,but even on our ideas of vice and virtue; so asto make us regard any remarkable transgres-sion of such a degree of partiality, either by toogreat an enlargement, or contraction of the af-fections, as vicious and immoral. This we mayobserve in our common judgments concerningactions, where we blame a person, who eithercenters all his affections in his family, or is so

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regardless of them, as, in any opposition of in-terest, to give the preference to a stranger, ormere chance acquaintance. From all which itfollows, that our natural uncultivated ideas ofmorality, instead of providing a remedy for thepartiality of our affections, do rather conformthemselves to that partiality, and give it an ad-ditional force and influence.

The remedy, then, is not derived from na-ture, but from artifice; or more e properlyspeaking, nature provides a remedy in thejudgment and understanding, for what is irreg-ular and incommodious in the affections. Forwhen men, from their early education in so-ciety, have become sensible of the infinite ad-vantages that result from it, and have besidesacquired a new affection to company and con-versation; and when they have observed, that

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the principal disturbance in society arises fromthose goods, which we call external, and fromtheir looseness and easy transition from oneperson to another; they must seek for a rem-edy by putting these goods, as far as possible,on the same footing with the fixed and con-stant advantages of the mind and body. Thiscan be done after no other manner, than by aconvention entered into by all the members ofthe society to bestow stability on the posses-sion of those external goods, and leave everyone in the peaceable enjoyment of what he mayacquire by his fortune and industry. By thismeans, every one knows what he may safelypossess; and the passions ale restrained in theirpartial and contradictory motions. Nor is sucha restraint contrary to these passions; for if so,it coued never be entered into, nor maintained;but it is only contrary to their heedless and im-

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petuous movement. Instead of departing fromour own interest, or from that of our nearestfriends, by abstaining from the possessions ofothers, we cannot better consult both these in-terests, than by such a convention; because it isby that means we maintain society, which is sonecessary to their well-being and subsistence,as well as to our own.

This convention is not of the nature of apromise: For even promises themselves, as weshall see afterwards, arise from human conven-tions. It is only a general sense of commoninterest; which sense all the members of thesociety express to one another, and which in-duces them to regulate their conduct by cer-tain rules. I observe, that it will be for my in-terest to leave another in the possession of hisgoods, provided he will act in the same man-

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ner with regard to me. He is sensible of a likeinterest in the regulation of his conduct. Whenthis common sense of interest is mutually ex-pressed, and is known to both, it produces asuitable resolution and behaviour. And thismay properly enough be called a conventionor agreement betwixt us, though without theinterposition of a promise; since the actions ofeach of us have a reference to those of the other,and are performed upon the supposition, thatsomething is to be performed on the other part.Two men, who pull the oars of a boat, do it byan agreement or convention, though they havenever given promises to each other. Nor is therule concerning the stability of possession theless derived from human conventions, that itarises gradually, and acquires force by a slowprogression, and by our repeated experience ofthe inconveniences of transgressing it. On the

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contrary, this experience assures us still more,that the sense of interest has become commonto all our fellows, and gives us a confidence ofthe future regularity of their conduct: And it isonly on the expectation of this, that our moder-ation and abstinence are founded. In like man-ner are languages gradually established by hu-man conventions without any promise. In likemanner do gold and silver become the com-mon measures of exchange, and are esteemedsufficient payment for what is of a hundredtimes their value.

After this convention, concerning abstinencefrom the possessions of others, is entered into,and every one has acquired a stability in hispossessions, there immediately arise the ideasof justice and injustice; as also those of prop-erty, right, and obligation. The latter are alto-

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gether unintelligible without first understand-ing the former. Our property is nothing butthose goods, whose constant possession is es-tablished by the laws of society; that is, by thelaws of justice. Those, therefore, who make useof the words property, or right, or obligation,before they have explained the origin of justice,or even make use of them in that explication,are guilty of a very gross fallacy, and can neverreason upon any solid foundation. A man’sproperty is some object related to him. This re-lation is not natural, but moral, and foundedon justice. It is very preposterous, therefore, toimagine, that we can have any idea of property,without fully comprehending the nature of jus-tice, and shewing its origin in the artifice andcontrivance of man. The origin of justice ex-plains that of property. The same artifice givesrise to both. As our first and most natural senti-

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ment of morals is founded on the nature of ourpassions, and gives the preference to ourselvesand friends, above strangers; it is impossiblethere can be naturally any such thing as a fixedright or property, while the opposite passionsof men impel them in contrary directions, andare not restrained by any convention or agree-ment.

No one can doubt, that the convention forthe distinction of property, and for the stabilityof possession, is of all circumstances the mostnecessary to the establishment of human soci-ety, and that after the agreement for the fixingand observing of this rule, there remains littleor nothing to be done towards settling a per-fect harmony and concord. All the other pas-sions, besides this of interest, are either easilyrestrained, or are not of such pernicious con-

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sequence, when indulged. Vanity is rather tobe esteemed a social passion, and a bond ofunion among men. Pity and love are to be con-sidered in the same light. And as to envy andrevenge, though pernicious, they operate onlyby intervals, and are directed against particularpersons, whom we consider as our superiors orenemies. This avidity alone, of acquiring goodsand possessions for ourselves and our nearestfriends, is insatiable, perpetual, universal, anddirectly destructive of society. There scarce isany one, who is not actuated by it; and thereis no one, who has not reason to fear from it,when it acts without any restraint, and givesway to its first and most natural movements.So that upon the whole, we are to esteem thedifficulties in the establishment of society, to begreater or less, according to those we encounterin regulating and restraining this passion.

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It is certain, that no affection of the humanmind has both a sufficient force, and a properdirection to counterbalance the love of gain,and render men fit members of society, by mak-ing them abstain from the possessions of oth-ers. Benevolence to strangers is too weak forthis purpose; and as to the other passions, theyrather inflame this avidity, when we observe,that the larger our possessions are, the moreability we have of gratifying all our appetites.There is no passion, therefore, capable of con-trolling the interested affection, but the very af-fection itself, by an alteration of its direction.Now this alteration must necessarily take placeupon the least reflection; since it is evident, thatthe passion is much better satisfyed by its re-straint, than by its liberty, and that in preserv-ing society, we make much greater advances inthe acquiring possessions, than in the solitary

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and forlorn condition, which must follow uponviolence and an universal licence. The ques-tion, therefore, concerning the wickedness orgoodness of human nature, enters not in theleast into that other question concerning theorigin of society; nor is there any thing to beconsidered but the degrees of men’s sagacityor folly. For whether the passion of self-interestbe esteemed vicious or virtuous, it is all a case;since itself alone restrains it: So that if it be vir-tuous, men become social by their virtue; if vi-cious, their vice has the same effect.

Now as it is by establishing the rule forthe stability of possession, that this passionrestrains itself; if that rule be very abstruse,and of difficult invention; society must be es-teemed, in a manner, accidental, and the effectof many ages. But if it be found, that nothing

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can be more simple and obvious than that rule;that every parent, in order to preserve peaceamong his children, must establish it; and thatthese first rudiments of justice must every daybe improved, as the society enlarges: If all thisappear evident, as it certainly must, we mayconclude, that it is utterly impossible for mento remain any considerable time in that savagecondition, which precedes society; but that hisvery first state and situation may justly be es-teemed social. This, however, hinders not, butthat philosophers may, if they please, extendtheir reasoning to the supposed state of nature;provided they allow it to be a mere philosophi-cal fiction, which never had, and never couedhave any reality. Human nature being com-posed of two principal parts, which are requi-site in all its actions, the affections and under-standing; it is certain, that the blind motions of

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the former, without the direction of the latter,incapacitate men for society: And it may be al-lowed us to consider separately the effects, thatresult from the separate operations of these twocomponent parts of the mind. The same libertymay be permitted to moral, which is allowed

to natural philosophers; and it is very usualwith the latter to consider any motion as com-pounded and consisting of two parts separatefrom each other, though at the same time theyacknowledge it to be in itself uncompoundedand inseparable.

This state of nature, therefore, is to be re-garded as a mere fiction, not unlike that ofthe golden age, which poets have invented;only with this difference, that the former is de-scribed as full of war, violence and injustice;whereas the latter is pointed out to us, as the

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most charming and most peaceable condition,that can possibly be imagined. The seasons, inthat first age of nature, were so temperate, ifwe may believe the poets, that there was nonecessity for men to provide themselves withcloaths and houses as a security against theviolence of heat and cold. The rivers flowedwith wine and milk: The oaks yielded honey;and nature spontaneously produced her great-est delicacies. Nor were these the chief advan-tages of that happy age. The storms and tem-pests were not alone removed from nature; butthose more furious tempests were unknown tohuman breasts, which now cause such uproar,and engender such confusion. Avarice, ambi-tion, cruelty, selfishness, were never heard of:Cordial affection, compassion, sympathy, werethe only movements, with which the humanmind was yet acquainted. Even the distinc-

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tion of mine and thine was banished from thathappy race of mortals, and carryed with themthe very notions of property and obligation,justice and injustice.

This, no doubt, is to be regarded as an idlefiction; but yet deserves our attention, becausenothing can more evidently shew the originof those virtues, which are the subjects of ourpresent enquiry. I have already observed, thatjustice takes its rise from human conventions;and that these are intended as a remedy tosome inconveniences, which proceed from theconcurrence of certain qualities of the humanmind with the situation of external objects. Thequalities of the mind are selfishness and lim-ited generosity: And the situation of exter-nal objects is their easy change, joined to theirscarcity in comparison of the wants and de-

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sires of men. But however philosophers mayhave been bewildered in those speculations,poets have been guided more infallibly, by acertain taste or common instinct, which in mostkinds of reasoning goes farther than any of thatart and philosophy, with which we have beenyet acquainted. They easily perceived, if ev-ery man had a tender regard for another, or ifnature supplied abundantly all our wants anddesires, that the jealousy of interest, which jus-tice supposes, could no longer have place; norwould there be any occasion for those distinc-tions and limits of property and possession,which at present are in use among mankind.Encrease to a sufficient degree the benevolenceof men, or the bounty of nature, and you ren-der justice useless, by supplying its place withmuch nobler virtues, and more valuable bless-ings. The selfishness of men is animated by

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the few possessions we have, in proportion toour wants; and it is to restrain this selfishness,that men have been obliged to separate them-selves from the community, and to distinguishbetwixt their own goods and those of others.

Nor need we have recourse to the fictions ofpoets to learn this; but beside the reason of thething, may discover the same truth by commonexperience and observation. It is easy to re-mark, that a cordial affection renders all thingscommon among friends; and that married peo-ple in particular mutually lose their property,and are unacquainted with the mine and thine,which are so necessary, and yet cause such dis-turbance in human society. The same effectarises from any alteration in the circumstancesof mankind; as when there is such a plenty ofany thing as satisfies all the desires of men: In

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which case the distinction of property is en-tirely lost, and every thing remains in common.This we may observe with regard to air and wa-ter, though the most valuable of all external ob-jects; and may easily conclude, that if men weresupplied with every thing in the same abun-dance, or if every one had the same affectionand tender regard for every one as for him-self; justice and injustice would be equally un-known among mankind.

Here then is a proposition, which, I think,may be regarded as certain, that it is onlyfrom the selfishness and confined generosity ofmen, along with the scanty provision naturehas made for his wants, that justice derives itsorigin. If we look backward we shall find, thatthis proposition bestows an additional force onsome of those observations, which we have al-

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ready made on this subject.

First, we may conclude from it, that a regardto public interest, or a strong extensive benev-olence, is not our first and original motive forthe observation of the rules of justice; since it isallowed, that if men were endowed with sucha benevolence, these rules would never havebeen dreamt of.

Secondly, we may conclude from the sameprinciple, that the sense of justice is notfounded on reason, or on the discovery of cer-tain connexions and relations of ideas, whichare eternal, immutable, and universally oblig-atory. For since it is confest, that such an al-teration as that above-mentioned, in the tem-per and circumstances of mankind, would en-tirely alter our duties and obligations, it is nec-essary upon the common system, that the sense

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of virtue is derived from reason, to shew thechange which this must produce in the rela-tions and ideas. But it is evident, that theonly cause, why the extensive generosity ofman, and the perfect abundance of every thing,would destroy the very idea of justice, is be-cause they render it useless; and that, on theother hand, his confined benevolence, and hisnecessitous condition, give rise to that virtue,only by making it requisite to the publick inter-est, and to that of every individual. Twas there-fore a concern for our own, and the publickinterest, which made us establish the laws ofjustice; and nothing can be more certain, thanthat it is not any relation of ideas, which givesus this concern, but our impressions and senti-ments, without which every thing in nature isperfectly indifferent to us, and can never in theleast affect us. The sense of justice, therefore, is

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not founded on our ideas, but on our impres-sions.

Thirdly, we may farther confirm the fore-going proposition, that those impressions, whichgive rise to this sense of justice, are not naturalto the mind of man, but arise from artifice andhuman conventions. For since any consider-able alteration of temper and circumstances de-stroys equally justice and injustice; and sincesuch an alteration has an effect only by chang-ing our own and the publick interest; it fol-lows, that the first establishment of the rulesof justice depends on these different interests.But if men pursued the publick interest natu-rally, and with a hearty affection, they wouldnever have dreamed of restraining each otherby these rules; and if they pursued their owninterest, without any precaution, they would

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run head-long into every kind of injustice andviolence. These rules, therefore, are artificial,and seek their end in an oblique and indirectmanner; nor is the interest, which gives rise tothem, of a kind that coued be pursued by thenatural and inartificial passions of men.

To make this more evident, consider, thatthough the rules of justice are establishedmerely by interest, their connexion with in-terest is somewhat singular, and is differentfrom what may be observed on other occasions.A single act of justice is frequently contraryto public interest; and were it to stand alone,without being followed by other acts, may, initself, be very prejudicial to society. When aman of merit, of a beneficent disposition, re-stores a great fortune to a miser, or a seditiousbigot, he has acted justly and laudably, but the

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public is a real sufferer. Nor is every single actof justice, considered apart, more conducive toprivate interest, than to public; and it is eas-ily conceived how a man may impoverish him-self by a signal instance of integrity, and havereason to wish, that with regard to that singleact, the laws of justice were for a moment sus-pended in the universe. But however singleacts of justice may be contrary, either to publicor private interest, it is certain, that the wholeplan or scheme is highly conducive, or indeedabsolutely requisite, both to the support of so-ciety, and the well-being of every individual.It is impossible to separate the good from theill. Property must be stable, and must be fixedby general rules. Though in one instance thepublic be a sufferer, this momentary ill is am-ply compensated by the steady prosecution ofthe rule, and by the peace and order, which it

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establishes in society. And even every individ-ual person must find himself a gainer, on bal-lancing the account; since, without justice soci-ety must immediately dissolve, and every onemust fall into that savage and solitary condi-tion, which is infinitely worse than the worstsituation that can possibly be supposed in soci-ety. When therefore men have had experienceenough to observe, that whatever may be theconsequence of any single act of justice, per-formed by a single person, yet the whole sys-tem of actions, concurred in by the whole so-ciety, is infinitely advantageous to the whole,and to every part; it is not long before justiceand property take place. Every member of so-ciety is sen sible of this interest: Every one ex-presses this sense to his fellows, along with theresolution he has taken of squaring his actionsby it, on condition that others will do the same.

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No more is requisite to induce any one of themto perform an act of justice, who has the firstopportunity. This becomes an example to oth-ers. And thus justice establishes itself by a kindof convention or agreement; that is, by a senseof interest, supposed to be common to all, andwhere every single act is performed in expecta-tion that others are to perform the like. With-out such a convention, no one would ever havedreamed, that there was such a virtue as justice,or have been induced to conform his actions toit. Taking any single act, my justice may be per-nicious in every respect; and it is only upon thesupposition that others are to imitate my ex-ample, that I can be induced to embrace thatvirtue; since nothing but this combination canrender justice advantageous, or afford me anymotives to conform my self to its rules.

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We come now to the second question we pro-posed, viz. Why we annex the idea of virtueto justice, and of vice to injustice. This ques-tion will not detain us long after the princi-ples, which we have already established, Allwe can say of it at present will be dispatchedin a few words: And for farther satisfaction,the reader must wait till we come to the thirdpart of this book. The natural obligation tojustice, viz, interest, has been fully explained;but as to the moral obligation, or the sentimentof right and wrong, it will first be requisiteto examine the natural virtues, before we cangive a full and satisfactory account of it. Af-ter men have found by experience, that theirselfishness and confined generosity, acting attheir liberty, totally incapacitate them for soci-ety; and at the same time have observed, thatsociety is necessary to the satisfaction of those

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very passions, they are naturally induced to laythemselves under the restraint of such rules,as may render their commerce more safe andcommodious. To the imposition then, and ob-servance of these rules, both in general, and inevery particular instance, they are at first in-duced only by a regard to interest; and thismotive, on the first formation of society, is suf-ficiently strong and forcible. But when soci-ety has become numerous, and has encreasedto a tribe or nation, this interest is more re-mote; nor do men so readily perceive, that dis-order and confusion follow upon every breachof these rules, as in a more narrow and con-tracted society. But though in our own actionswe may frequently lose sight of that interest,which we have in maintaining order, and mayfollow a lesser and more present interest, wenever fail to observe the prejudice we receive,

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either mediately or immediately, from the in-justice of others; as not being in that case eitherblinded by passion, or byassed by any contrarytemptation. Nay when the injustice is so dis-tant from us, as no way to affect our interest,it still displeases us; because we consider it asprejudicial to human society, and pernicious toevery one that approaches the person guilty ofit. We partake of their uneasiness by sympa-thy; and as every thing, which gives uneasi-ness in human actions, upon the general sur-vey, is called Vice, and whatever produces sat-isfaction, in the same manner, is denominatedVirtue; this is the reason why the sense of moralgood and evil follows upon justice and injus-tice. And though this sense, in the present case,be derived only from contemplating the actionsof others, yet we fail not to extend it even to ourown actions. The general rule reaches beyond

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those instances, from which it arose; while atthe same time we naturally sympathize withothers in the sentiments they entertain of us.Thus self-interest is the original motive to theestablishment of justice: but a sympathy withpublic interest is the source of the moral appro-bation, which attends that virtue.

Though this progress of the sentiments benatural, and even necessary, it is certain, thatit is here forwarded by the artifice of politi-cians, who, in order to govern men more eas-ily, and preserve peace in human society, haveendeavoured to produce an esteem for justice,and an abhorrence of injustice. This, no doubt,must have its effect; but nothing can be moreevident, than that the matter has been carryedtoo far by certain writers on morals, who seemto have employed their utmost efforts to extir-

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pate all sense of virtue from among mankind.Any artifice of politicians may assist nature inthe producing of those sentiments, which shesuggests to us, and may even on some occa-sions, produce alone an approbation or esteemfor any particular action; but it is impossibleit should be the sole cause of the distinctionwe make betwixt vice and virtue. For if na-ture did not aid us in this particular, it wouldbe in vain for politicians to talk of honourableor dishonourable, praiseworthy or blameable.These words would be perfectly unintelligible,and would no more have any idea annexed tothem, than if they were of a tongue perfectlyunknown to us. The utmost politicians canperform, is, to extend the natural sentimentsbeyond their original bounds; but still naturemust furnish the materials, and give us somenotion of moral distinctions.

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As publick praise and blame encrease our es-teem for justice; so private education and in-struction contribute to the same effect. For asparents easily observe, that a man is the moreuseful, both to himself and others, the greaterdegree of probity and honour he is endowedwith; and that those principles have greaterforce, when custom and education assist inter-est and reflection: For these reasons they are in-duced to inculcate on their children, from theirearliest infancy, the principles of probity, andteach them to regard the observance of thoserules, by which society is maintained, as wor-thy and honourable, and their violation as baseand infamous. By this means the sentimentsof honour may take root in their tender minds,and acquire such firmness and solidity, thatthey may fall little short of those principles,which are the most essential to our natures, and

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the most deeply radicated in our internal con-stitution.

What farther contributes to encrease their so-lidity, is the interest of our reputation, after theopinion, that a merit or demerit attends justiceor injustice, is once firmly established amongmankind. There is nothing, which touches usmore nearly than our reputation, and nothingon which our reputation more depends thanour conduct, with relation to the property ofothers. For this reason, every one, who has anyregard to his character, or who intends to liveon good terms with mankind, must fix an invi-olable law to himself, never, by any temptation,to be induced to violate those principles, whichare essential to a man of probity and honour.

I shall make only one observation before Ileave this subject, viz, that though I assert, that

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in the state of nature, or that imaginary state,which preceded society, there be neither justicenor injustice, yet I assert not, that it was allow-able, in such a state, to violate the property ofothers. I only maintain, that there was no suchthing as property; and consequently coued beno such thing as justice or injustice. I shall haveoccasion to make a similar reflection with re-gard to promises, when I come to treat of them;and I hope this reflection, when duly weighed,will suffice to remove all odium from the fore-going opinions, with regard to justice and in-justice.

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SECTION III. OF THE RULES WHICHDETERMINE PROPERTY

Though the establishment of the rule, con-cerning the stability of possession, be not onlyuseful, but even absolutely necessary to hu-man society, it can never serve to any purpose,while it remains in such general terms. Somemethod must be shewn, by which we may dis-tinguish what particular goods are to be as-signed to each particular person, while the restof mankind are excluded from their possessionand enjoyment. Our next business, then, mustbe to discover the reasons which modify thisgeneral rule, and fit it to the common use andpractice of the world.

It is obvious, that those reasons are not de-rived from any utility or advantage, which ei-ther the particular person or the public may

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reap from his enjoyment of any particulargoods, beyond what would result from the pos-session of them by any other person. Twerebetter, no doubt, that every one were possessedof what is most suitable to him, and proper forhis use: But besides, that this relation of fit-ness may be common to several at once, it isliable to so many controversies, and men areso partial and passionate in judging of thesecontroversies, that such a loose and uncertainrule would be absolutely incompatible with thepeace of human society. The convention con-cerning the stability of possession is enteredinto, in order to cut off all occasions of discordand contention; and this end would never beattained, were we allowed to apply this ruledifferently in every particular case, accordingto every particular utility, which might be dis-covered in such an application. Justice, in her

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decisions, never regards the fitness or unfitnessof objects to particular persons, but conductsherself by more extensive views. Whether aman be generous, or a miser, he is equally wellreceived by her, and obtains with the same fa-cility a decision in his favours, even for what isentirely useless to him.

It follows therefore, that the general rule,that possession must be stable, is not appliedby particular judgments, but by other generalrules, which must extend to the whole society,and be inflexible either by spite or favour. Toillustrate this, I propose the following instance.I first consider men in their savage and solitarycondition; and suppose, that being sensible ofthe misery of that state, and foreseeing the ad-vantages that would result from society, theyseek each other’s company, and make an offer

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of mutual protection and assistance. I also sup-pose, that they are endowed with such sagacityas immediately to perceive, that the chief im-pediment to this project of society and partner-ship lies in the avidity and selfishness of theirnatural temper; to remedy which, they enterinto a convention for the stability of possession,and for mutual restraint and forbearance. I amsensible, that this method of proceeding is notaltogether natural; but besides that I here onlysuppose those reflections to be formed at once,which in fact arise insensibly and by degrees;besides this, I say, it is very possible, that sev-eral persons, being by different accidents sepa-rated from the societies, to which they formerlybelonged, may be obliged to form a new soci-ety among themselves; in which case they areentirely in the situation above-mentioned.

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It is evident, then, that their first difficulty, inthis situation, after the general convention forthe establishment of society, and for the con-stancy of possession, is, how to separate theirpossessions, and assign to each his particularportion, which he must for the future inalter-ably enjoy. This difficulty will not detain themlong; but it must immediately occur to them,as the most natural expedient, that every onecontinue to enjoy what he is at present masterof, and that property or constant possession beconjoined to the immediate possession. Suchis the effect of custom, that it not only recon-ciles us to any thing we have long enjoyed, buteven gives us an affection for it, and makes usprefer it to other objects, which may be morevaluable, but are less known to us. What haslong lain under our eye, and has often been em-ployed to our advantage, that we are always

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the most unwilling to part with; but can easilylive without possessions, which we never haveenjoyed, and are not accustomed to. It is ev-ident, therefore, that men would easily acqui-esce in this expedient, that every one continueto enjoy what he is at present possessed of; andthis is the reason, why they would so naturallyagree in preferring it.15

15No questions in philosophy are more difficult, thanwhen a number of causes present themselves for thesame phaenomenon, to determine which is the princi-pal and predominant. There seldom is any very preciseargument to fix our choice, and men must be contentedto be guided by a kind of taste or fancy, arising fromanalogy, and a comparison of familiar instances. Thus,in the present case, there are, no doubt, motives of pub-lic interest for most of the rules, which determine prop-erty; but still I suspect, that these rules are principallyfixed by the imagination, or the more frivolous proper-ties of our thought and conception. I shall continue to

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It is a quality, which I have already observedin human nature, that when two objects appearin a close relation to each other, the mind is aptto ascribe to them any additional relation, in or-der to compleat the union; and this inclinationis so strong, as often to make us run into er-rors (such as that of the conjunction of thoughtand matter) if we find that they can serve tothat purpose. Many of our impressions are in-capable of place or local position; and yet thosevery impressions we suppose to have a localconjunction with the impressions of sight andtouch, merely because they are conjoined bycausation, and are already united in the imag-ination. Since, therefore, we can feign a new

explain these causes, leaving it to the reader’s choice,whether he will prefer those derived from publick util-ity, or those derived from the imagination. We shall be-gin with the right of the present possessor.

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relation, and even an absurd one, in order tocompleat any union, it will easily be imagined,that if there be any relations, which depend onthe mind, it will readily conjoin them to anypreceding relation, and unite, by a new bond,such objects as have already an union in thefancy. Thus for instance, we never fail, in ourarrangement of bodies, to place those whichare resembling in contiguity to each other, or atleast in correspondent points of view; becausewe feel a satisfaction in joining the relation ofcontiguity to that of resemblance, or the resem-blance of situation to that of qualities. And thisis easily accounted for from the known proper-ties of human nature. When the mind is de-termined to join certain objects, but undeter-mined in its choice of the particular objects, Itnaturally turns its eye to such as are related to-gether. They are already united in the mind:

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They present themselves at the same time tothe conception; and instead of requiring anynew reason for their conjunction, it would re-quire a very powerful reason to make us over-look this natural affinity. This we shall have oc-casion to explain more fully afterwards, whenwe come to treat of beauty. In the mean time,we may content ourselves with observing, thatthe same love of order and uniformity, whicharranges the books in a library, and the chairsin a parlour, contribute to the formation of soci-ety, and to the well-being of mankind, by mod-ifying the general rule concerning the stabilityof possession. And as property forms a rela-tion betwixt a person and an object, it is natu-ral to found it on some preceding relation; andas property Is nothing but a constant posses-sion, secured by the laws of society, it is naturalto add it to the present possession, which is a

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relation that resembles it. For this also has itsinfluence. If it be natural to conjoin all sorts ofrelations, it is more so, to conjoin such relationsas are resembling, and are related together.)

But we may observe, that though the ruleof the assignment of property to the presentpossessor be natural, and by that means use-ful, yet its utility extends not beyond the firstformation of society; nor would any thing bemore pernicious, than the constant observanceof it; by which restitution would be excluded,and every injustice would be authorized andrewarded. We must, therefore, seek for someother circumstance, that may give rise to prop-erty after society is once established; and of thiskind, I find four most considerable, viz. Oc-cupation, Prescription, Accession, and Succes-sion. We shall briefly examine each of these,

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beginning with Occupation.

The possession of all external goods ischangeable and uncertain; which is one of themost considerable impediments to the estab-lishment of society, and is the reason why, byuniversal agreement, express or tacite, men re-strain themselves by what we now call therules of justice and equity. The misery of thecondition, which precedes this restraint, is thecause why we submit to that remedy as quicklyas possible; and this affords us an easy reason,why we annex the idea of property to the firstpossession, or to occupation. Men are unwill-ing to leave property in suspense, even for theshortest time, or open the least door to violenceand disorder. To which we may add, that thefirst possession always engages the attentionmost; and did we neglect it, there would be no

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colour of reason for assigning property to anysucceeding possession.16

There remains nothing, but to determine ex-actly, what is meant by possession; and thisis not so easy as may at first sight be imag-ined. We are said to be in possession of any

16Some philosophers account for the right of occu-pation, by saying, that every one has a property in hisown labour; and when he joins that labour to any thing,it gives him the property of the whole: But, 1. There areseveral kinds of occupation, where we cannot be said tojoin our labour to the object we acquire: As when wepossess a meadow by grazing our cattle upon it. 2. Thisaccounts for the matter by means of accession; which istaking a needless circuit. 3. We cannot be said to joinour labour to any thing but in a figurative sense. Prop-erly speaking, we only make an alteration on it by ourlabour. This forms a relation betwixt us and the object;and thence arises the property, according to the preced-ing principles.

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thing, not only when we immediately touchit, but also when we are so situated with re-spect to it, as to have it in our power to useit; and may move, alter, or destroy it, accord-ing to our present pleasure or advantage. Thisrelation, then, is a species of cause and effect;and as property is nothing but a stable posses-sion, derived from the rules of justice, or theconventions of men, it is to be considered asthe same species of relation. But here we mayobserve, that as the power of using any objectbecomes more or less certain, according as theinterruptions we may meet with are more orless probable; and as this probability may in-crease by insensible degrees; it is in many casesimpossible to determine when possession be-gins or ends; nor is there any certain standard,by which we can decide such controversies. Awild boar, that falls into our snares, is deemed

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to be in our possession, if it be impossible forhim to escape. But what do we mean by impos-sible? How do we separate this impossibilityfrom an improbability? And how distinguishthat exactly from a probability? Mark the pre-cise limits of the one and the other, and shewthe standard, by which we may decide all dis-putes that may arise, and, as we find by expe-rience, frequently do arise upon this subject.17

17If we seek a solution of these difficulties in reasonand public interest, we never shall find satisfaction; andIf we look for it in the imagination, it is evident, that thequalities, which operate upon that faculty, run so insen-sibly and gradually into each other, that it is impossibleto give them any precise bounds or termination. The dif-ficulties on this head must encrease, when we consider,that our judgment alters very sensibly, according to thesubject, and that the same power and proximity will bedeemed possession in one case, which is not esteemedsuch in another. A person, who has hunted a hare to

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Here then it appears, that a certain and in-fallible power of enjoyment, without touch orsome other sensible relation, often producesnot property: And I farther observe, that a sen-sible relation, without any present power, issometimes sufficient to give a title to any object.The sight of a thing is seldom a considerable re-lation, and is only regarded as such, when theobject is hidden, or very obscure; in which casewe find, that the view alone conveys a prop-

the last degree of weariness, would look upon it as aninjustice for another to rush in before him, and seize hisprey. But the same person advancing to pluck an apple,that hangs within his reach, has no reason to complain,if another, more alert, passes him, and takes possession.What is the reason of this difference, but that immobil-ity, not being natural to the hare, but the effect of indus-try, forms in that case a strong relation with the hunter,which is wanting in the other?

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erty; according to that maxim, that even a wholecontinent belongs to the nation, which first discov-ered it. It is howeverremarkable that both in thecase of discovery and that of possession, thefirst discoverer and possessor must join to therelation an intention of rendering himself pro-prietor, otherwise the relation will not have Itseffect; and that because the connexion in ourfancy betwixt the property and the relation isnot so great, but that it requires to be helped bysuch an intention.

From all these circumstances, it is easy to seehow perplexed many questions may becomeconcerning the acquisition of property by oc-cupation; and the least effort of thought maypresent us with instances, which are not sus-ceptible of any reasonable decision. If we pre-fer examples, which are real, to such as are

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feigned, we may consider the following one,which is to be met with In almost every writer,that has treated of the laws of nature. Two Gre-cian colonies, leaving their native country, insearch of new feats, were informed that a citynear them was deserted by its inhabitants. Toknow the truth of this report, they dispatchedat once two messengers, one from each colony;who finding on their approach, that their in-formation was true, begun a race together withan intention to take possession of the city, eachof them for his countrymen. One of thesemessengers, finding that he was not an equalmatch for the other, launched his spear at thegates of the city, and was so fortunate as tofix it there before the arrival of his compan-ion. This produced a dispute betwixt the twocolonies, which of them was the proprietor ofthe empty city and this dispute still subsists

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among philosophers. For my part I find thedispute impossible to be decided, and that be-cause the whole question hangs upon the fancy,which in this case is not possessed of any pre-cise or determinate standard, upon which it cangive sentence. To make this evident, let us con-sider, that if these two persons had been simplymembers of the colonies, and not messengersor deputies, their actions would not have beenof any consequence; since in that case their rela-tion to the colonies would have been but feebleand imperfect. Add to this, that nothing de-termined them to run to the gates rather thanthe walls, or any other part of the city, but thatthe gates, being the most obvious and remark-able part, satisfy the fancy best in taking themfor the whole; as we find by the poets, who fre-quently draw their images and metaphors fromthem. Besides we may consider, that the touch

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or contact of the one messenger is not properlypossession, no more than the piercing the gateswith a spear; but only forms a relation; andthere is a relation, in the other case, equally ob-vious, tho’ not, perhaps, of equal force. Whichof these relations, then, conveys a right andproperty, or whether any of them be sufficientfor that effect, I leave to the decision of such asare wiser than myself.)

But such disputes may not only arise con-cerning the real existence of property and pos-session, but also concerning their extent; andthese disputes are often susceptible of no de-cision, or can be decided by no other facultythan the imagination. A person who landson the shore of a small island, that is desartand uncultivated, is deemed its possessor fromthe very first moment, and acquires the prop-

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erty of the whole; because the object is therebounded and circumscribed in the fancy, andat the same time is proportioned to the newpossessor. The same person landing on a de-sart island, as large as Great Britain, extends hisproperty no farther than his immediate posses-sion; though a numerous colony are esteemedthe proprietors of the whole from the instant oftheir debarkment.

But it often happens, that the title of firstpossession becomes obscure through time; andthat it is impossible to determine many con-troversies, which may arise concerning it. Inthat case long possession or prescription nat-urally takes place, and gives a person a suffi-cient property in any thing he enjoys. The na-ture of human society admits not of any greataccuracy; nor can we always remount to the

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first origin of things, in order to determine theirpresent condition. Any considerable space oftime sets objects at such a distance, that theyseem, in a manner, to lose their reality, andhave as little influence on the mind, as if theynever had been in being. A man’s title, that isclear and certain at present, will seem obscureand doubtful fifty years hence, even though thefacts, on which it is founded, should be provedwith the greatest evidence and certainty. Thesame facts have not the same influence after solong an interval of time. And this may be re-ceived as a convincing argument for our pre-ceding doctrine with regard to property andjustice. Possession during a long tract of timeconveys a title to any object. But as it is certain,that, however every thing be produced in time,there is nothing real that is produced by time; itfollows, that property being produced by time,

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is not any thing real in the objects, but is the off-spring of the sentiments, on which alone timeis found to have any influence.18

We acquire the property of objects by acces-sion, when they are connected in an intimatemanner with objects that are already our prop-erty, and at the same time are inferior to them.Thus the fruits of our garden, the offspring ofour cattle, and the work of our slaves, are all ofthem esteemed our property, even before pos-session. Where objects are connected together

18Present possession is plainly a relation betwixt aperson and an object; but is not sufficient to counter-ballance the relation of first possession, unless the for-mer be long and uninterrupted: In which case the rela-tion is encreased on the side of the present possession,by the extent of time, and dlminished on that of firstpossession, by the distance, This change in the relationproduces a consequent change in the property.

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in the imagination, they are apt to be put on thesame footing, and are commonly supposed tobe endowed with the same qualities. We read-ily pass from one to the other, and make no dif-ference in our judgments concerning them; es-pecially if the latter be inferior to the former.19

It has been observed above, that the mindhas a natural propensity to join relations, es-pecially resembling ones, and finds a hind offitness and uniformity in such an union. Fromthis propensity are derived these laws of na-ture, that upon the first formation of society,property always follows the present posses-

19This source of property can never be explained butfrom the imaginations; and one may affirm, that thecauses are here unmixed. We shall proceed to explainthem more particularly, and illustrate them by examplesfrom common life and experience.

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sion; and afterwards, that it arises from firstor from long possession. Now we may easilyobserve, that relation is not confined merely toone degree; but that from an object, that is re-lated to us, we acquire a relation to every otherobject, which is related to it, and so on, till thethought loses the chain by too long a progress,However the relation may weaken by each re-move, it is not immediately destroyed; but fre-quently connects two objects by means of an in-termediate one, which is related to both. Andthis principle is of such force as to give rise tothe right of accession, and causes us to acquirethe property not only of such objects as we areimmediately possessed of; but also of such asare closely connected with them.

Suppose a German, a Frenchman, and aSpaniard to come into a room, where there are

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placed upon the table three bottles of wine,Rhenish, Burgundy and Port; and suppose theyshoued fall a quarrelling about the division ofthem; a person, who was chosen for umpirewould naturally, to shew his impartiality, giveevery one the product of his own country: Andthis from a principle, which, in some measure,is the source of those laws of nature, that as-cribe property to occupation, prescription andaccession.

In all these Cases, and particularly that of ac-cession, there is first a natural union betwixtthe Idea of the person and that of the object,and afterwards a new and moral union pro-duced by that right or property, which we as-cribe to the person. But here there occurs adifficulty, which merits our attention, and mayafford us an opportunity of putting to tryal

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that singular method of reasoning, which hasbeen employed on the present subject. I havealready observed that the imagination passeswith greater facility from little to great, thanfrom great to littie, and that the transition ofideas is always easier and smoother in the for-mer case than in the latter. Now as the rightof accession arises from the easy transition ofideas, by which related objects are connectedtogether, it shoued naturally be imagined, thatthe right of accession must encrease in strength,in proportion as the transition of ideas is per-formed with greater facility. It may, therefore,be thought, that when we have acquired theproperty of any small object, we shall readilyconsider any great object related to it as an ac-cession, and as belonging to the proprietor ofthe small one; since the transition is in that casevery easy from the small object to the great one,

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and shoued connect them together in the clos-est manner. But In fact the case is always foundto be otherwise, The empire of Great Britainseems to draw along with it the dominion ofthe Orkneys, the Hebrides, the isle of Man, andthe Isle of Wight; but the authority over thoselesser islands does not naturally imply any ti-tle to Great Britain. In short, a small objectnaturally follows a great one as its accession;but a great one Is never supposed to belongto the proprietor of a small one related to it,merely on account of that property and rela-tion. Yet in this latter case the transition ofideas is smoother from the proprietor to thesmall object, which is his property, and fromthe small object to the great one, than in theformer case from the proprietor to the great ob-ject, and from the great one to the small. It maytherefore be thought, that these phaenomena

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are objections to the foregoing hypothesis, thatthe ascribing of property to accession is nothing butan affet of the relations of ideas, and of the smoothtransition of the imagination.

It will be easy to solve this objection, if weconsider the agility and unsteadiness of theimagination, with the different views, in whichit is continually placing its objects. When we at-tribute to a person a property in two objects, wedo not always pass from the person to one ob-ject, and from that to the other related to it. Theobjects being here to be considered as the prop-erty of the person, we are apt to join them to-gether, and place them in the same light. Sup-pose, therefore, a great and a small object to berelated together; if a person be strongly relatedto the great object, he will likewise be stronglyrelated to both the objects, considered together,

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because he Is related to the most considerablepart. On the contrary, if he be only related tothe small object, he will not be strongly relatedto both, considered together, since his relationlies only with the most trivial part, which is notapt to strike us in any great degree, when weconsider the whole. And this Is the reason, whysmall objects become accessions to great ones,and not great to small.

It is the general opinion of philosophers andcivilians, that the sea is incapable of becomingthe property of any nation; and that because itis impossible to take possession of it, or formany such distinct relation with it, as may bethe foundation of property. Where this reasonceases, property immediately takes place. Thusthe most strenuous advocates for the liberty ofthe seas universally allow, that friths and hays

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naturally belong as an accession to the propri-etors of the surrounding continent. These haveproperly no more bond or union with the land,than the pacific ocean would have; but havingan union in the fancy, and being at the sametime inferior, they are of course regarded as anaccession.

The property of rivers, by the laws of mostnations, and by the natural turn of our thought,Is attributed to the proprietors of their banks,excepting such vast rivers as the Rhine or theDanube, which seem too large to the imagina-tion to follow as an accession the property ofthe neighbouring fields. Yet even these riversare considered as the property of that nation,thro’ whose dominions they run; the idea of anation being of a suitable bulk to correspondwith them, and bear them such a relation in the

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fancy.

The accessions, which are made to lands bor-dering upon rivers, follow the land, say thecivilians, provided it be made by what theycall alluvion, that is, Insensibly and Impercep-tibly; which are circumstances that mightily as-sist the imagination in the conjunction. Wherethere Is any considerable portion torn at oncefrom one bank, and joined to another, it be-comes not his property, whose land it falls on,till it unite with the land, and till the trees orplants have spread their roots into both. Beforethat, the imagination does not sufficiently jointhem.

There are other cases, which somewhat re-semble this of accession, but which, at the bot-tom, are considerably different, and merit ourattention. Of this kind Is the conjunction of

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the properties of different persons, after sucha manner as not to admit of separation. Thequestion is, to whom the united mass must be-long.

Where this conjunction is of such a nature asto admit of division, but not of separation, thedecision is natural and easy. The whole massmust be supposed to be common betwixt theproprietors of the several parts, and afterwardsmust be divided according to the proportionsof these parts. But here I cannot forbear takingnotice of a remarkable subtilty of the Romanlaw, in distinguishing betwixt confusion andcommixtion. Confusion is an union of two bod-ies, such as different liquors, where the partsbecome entirely undistinguishable. Commix-tion is the blending of two bodies, such as twobushels of corn, where the parts remain sepa-

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rate in an obvious and visible manner. As inthe latter case the imagination discovers not soentire an union as in the former, but is able totrace and preserve a distinct idea of the prop-erty of each; this is the reason, why the civillaw, tho’ it established an entire community inthe case of confusion, and after that a propor-tional division, yet in the case of commixtion,supposes each of the proprietors to maintaina distinct right; however necessity may at lastforce them to submit to the same division.

Quod si frumentum Titii frumentotuo mistum fuerit: siquidem exvoluntate vestra, commune est:quia singula corpora, id est, sin-gula grana, quae cujusque pro priafueruntm ex consensu vestro com-municata sunt. Quod si casu is

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mistum fuerit, vel Titius id mis-cuerit sine tua voluntatem nonvidetur id commune esse; quia sin-gula corpora in sue substantia du-rant. Sed nec magis istis casibuscommune sit frumentum quamgrex intelligitur esse corn munis,si pecora Titii tuis pecoribus mistafuerint. Sed si ab alterutro vestruntotum id frumentum retineatur, inrem quidem actio pro modo fru-menti cujusque corn petit. Arbi-trio autem judicis, ut ipse aestimetquale cujusque frumentum fuerit.Inst. Lib. IL Tit. i. Sect 28.

(In the case that your grain wasmixed with that of Titius, if it wasdone voluntarily on the part of

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both of you, it is common prop-erty, inasmuch as the individualitems, i.e., the single grains, whichwere the peculiar property of ei-ther of you, were combined withyour joint consent. If, however,the mixture was accidental, or ifTitius mixed it without your con-sent, it does not appear that itis common property, Inasmuch asthe several components retain theiroriginal identity. Rather, in cir-cumstances of this sort the graindoes not become common prop-erty, any more than a herd of cattleis regarded as common property, IfTitius beasts should have becomemixed up with yours. However, ifall of the aforesaid corn is kept by

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either of you, this gives rise to asuit to determine the ownership ofproperty, in respect of the amountof corn belonging to each. It is inthe discretion of the judge to deter-mine which is the corn belongingto either party.)

Where the properties of two persons are unitedafter such a manner as neither to admit of di-vision nor separation, as when one builds ahouse on another’s ground, in that case, thewhole must belong to one of the proprietors:And here I assert, that it naturally is conceivedto belong to the proprietor of the most consid-erable part. For however the compound objectmay have a relation to two different persons,and carry our view at once to both of them,yet as the most considerable part principally

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engages our attention, and by the strict uniondraws the inferior along it; for this reason, thewhole bears a relation to the proprietor of thatpart, and is regarded as his property. The onlydifficulty is, what we shall be pleased to call themost considerable part, and most attractive tothe imagination.

This quality depends on several different cir-cumstances, which have little connexion witheach other. One part of a compound object maybecome more considerable than another, eitherbecause it is more constant and durable; be-cause it is of greater value; because it is moreobvious and remarkable; because it is of greaterextent; or because its existence is more separateand independent. It will be easy to conceive,that, as these circumstances may be conjoinedand opposed in all the different ways, and

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according to all the different degrees, whichcan be imagined, there will result many cases,where the reasons on both sides are so equallybalanced, that it is impossible for us to give anysatisfactory decision. Here then is the properbusiness of municipal laws, to fix what theprinciples of human nature have left undeter-mined.

The superficies yields to the soil, says thecivil law: The writing to the paper: The can-vas to the picture. These decisions do not wellagree together, and are a proof of the contra-riety of those principles, from which they arederived.

But of all the questions of this kind the mostcurious is that, which for so many ages dividedthe disciples of Proculus and Sabinus. Supposea person shoued make a cup from the metal of

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another, or a ship from his wood, and supposethe proprietor of the metal or wood shoued de-mand his goods, the question is, whether heacquires a title to the cup or ship. Sabinusmaintained the affirmative, and asserted thatthe substance or matter is the foundation of allthe qualities; that it is incorruptible and immor-tal, and therefore superior to the form, whichis casual and dependent. On the other hand,Proculus observed, that the form is the mostobvious and remarkable part, and that from itbodies are denominated of this or that partic-ular species. To which he might have added,that the matter or substance is in most bod-ies so fluctuating and uncertain, that it is ut-terly impossible to trace it in all its changes.For my part, I know not from what princi-ples such a controversy can be certainly deter-mined. I shall therefore content my self with

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observing, that the decision of Trebonian seemsto me pretty ingenious; that the cup belongs tothe proprietor of the metal, because it can bebrought back to its first form: But that the shipbelongs to the author of its form for a contraryreason. But however ingenious this reason mayseem, it plainly depends upon the fancy, whichby the possibility of such a reduction, findsa closer connexion and relation betwixt a cupand the proprietor of its metal, than betwixt aship and the proprietor of its wood, where thesubstance is more fixed and unalterable.)

The right of succession is a very natural one,from the presumed consent of the parent ornear relation, and from the general interest ofmankind, which requires, that men’s posses-sions should pass to those, who are dearest tothem, in order to render them more industri-

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ous and frugal. Perhaps these causes are sec-onded by the influence of relation, or the as-sociation of ideas, by which we are naturallydirected to consider the son after the parent’sdecease, and ascribe to him a title to his fa-ther’s possessions. Those goods must becomethe property of some body: But of whom is thequestion. Here it is evident the persons chil-dren naturally present themselves to the mind;and being already. connected to those posses-sions by means of their deceased parent, we areapt to connect them still farther by the relationof property. Of this there are many parallel in-stances20

20In examining the different titles to authority ingovernment, we shall meet with many reasons to con-vince us, that the right of succession depends, in a greatmeasure on the imagination. Mean while I shall restcontented with observing one example, which belongs

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SECTION IV. OF THE TRANSFERENCE OFPROPERTY BY CONSENT

However useful, or even necessary, the sta-bility of possession may be to human society,

to the present subject. Suppose that a person die with-out children, and that a dispute arises among his rela-tions concerning his inheritance; it is evident, that if hisriches be deriv’d partly from his father, partly from hismother, the most natural way of determining such a dis-pute, is, to divide his possessions, and assign each partto the family, from whence it is deriv’d. Now as the per-son is suppos’d to have been once the full and entireproprietor of those goods; I ask, what is it makes us finda certain equity and natural reason in this partition, ex-cept it be the imagination? His affection to these familiesdoes not depend upon his possessions; for which reasonhis consent can never be presum’d precisely for such apartition. And as to the public interest, it seems not tobe in the least concern’d on the one side or the other.

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it is attended with very considerable incon-veniences. The relation of fitness or suitable-ness ought never to enter into consideration,in distributing the properties of mankind; butwe must govern ourselves by rules, which aremore general in their application, and morefree from doubt and uncertainty. Of this kindis present possession upon the first establish-ment of society; and afterwards occupation,prescription, accession, and succession. Asthese depend very much on chance, they mustfrequently prove contradictory both to men’swants and desires; and persons and posses-sions must often be very ill adjusted. This isa grand inconvenience, which calls for a rem-edy. To apply one directly, and allow everyman to seize by violence what he judges to befit for him, would destroy society; and there-fore the rules of justice seek some medium be-

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twixt a rigid stability, and this changeable anduncertain adjustment. But there is no mediumbetter than that obvious one, that possessionand property should always be stable, exceptwhen the proprietor consents to bestow themon some other person. This rule can have noill consequence, in occasioning wars and dis-sentions; since the proprietor’s consent, whoalone is concerned, is taken along in the alien-ation: And it may serve to many good pur-poses in adjusting property to persons. Differ-ent parts of the earth produce different com-modities; and not only so, but different menboth are by nature fitted for different employ-ments, and attain to greater perfection in anyone, when they confine themselves to it alone.All this requires a mutual exchange and com-merce; for which reason the translation of prop-erty by consent is founded on a law of nature,

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as well as its stability without such a consent.

So far is determined by a plain utility andinterest. But perhaps it is from more trivialreasons, that delivery, or a sensible transfer-ence of the object is commonly required by civillaws, and also by the laws of nature, accord-ing to most authors, as a requisite circumstancein the translation of property. The property ofan object, when taken for something real, with-out any reference to morality, or the sentimentsof the mind, is a quality perfectly insensible,and even inconceivable; nor can we form anydistinct notion, either of its stability or trans-lation. This imperfection of our ideas is lesssensibly felt with regard to its stability, as it en-gages less our attention, and is easily past overby the mind, without any scrupulous examina-tion. But as the translation of property from

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one person to another is a more remarkableevent, the defect of our ideas becomes moresensible on that occasion, and obliges us to turnourselves on every side in search of some rem-edy. Now as nothing more enlivens any ideathan a present impression, and a relation be-twixt that impression and the idea; it is naturalfor us to seek some false light from this quarter.In order to aid the imagination in conceivingthe transference of property, we take the sensi-ble object, and actually transfer its possessionto the person, on whom we would bestow theproperty. The supposed resemblance of the ac-tions, and the presence of this sensible delivery,deceive the mind, and make it fancy, that it con-ceives the mysterious transition of the prop-erty. And that this explication of the matter isjust, appears hence, that men have invented asymbolical delivery, to satisfy the fancy, where

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the real one is impracticable. Thus the givingthe keys of a granary is understood to be thedelivery of the corn contained in it: The givingof stone and earth represents the delivery of amannor. This is a kind of superstitious practicein civil laws, and in the laws of nature, resem-bling the Roman catholic superstitions in reli-gion. As the Roman catholics represent the in-conceivable mysteries of the Christian religion,and render them more present to the mind,by a taper, or habit, or grimace, which is sup-posed to resemble them; so lawyers and moral-ists have run into like inventions for the samereason, and have endeavoured by those meansto satisfy themselves concerning the transfer-ence of property by consent.

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SECTION V. OF THE OBLIGATION OFPROMISES

That the rule of morality, which enjoins theperformance of promises, is not natural, willsufficiently appear from these two proposi-tions, which I proceed to prove, viz, that apromise would not be intelligible, before hu-man conventions had established it; and thateven if it were intelligible, it would not be at-tended with any moral obligation.

I say, first, that a promise is not intelligi-ble naturally, nor antecedent to human con-ventions; and that a man, unacquainted withsociety, could never enter into any engage-ments with another, even though they couldperceive each other’s thoughts by intuition. Ifpromises be natural and intelligible, there must

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be some act of the mind attending these words,I promise; and on this act of the mind must theobligation depend. Let us, therefore, run overall the faculties of the soul, and see which ofthem is exerted in our promises.

The act of the mind, exprest by a promise,is not a resolution to perform any thing: Forthat alone never imposes any obligation. Noris it a desire of such a performance: For wemay bind ourselves without such a desire, oreven with an aversion, declared and avowed.Neither is it the willing of that action, whichwe promise to perform: For a promise alwaysregards some future time, and the will has aninfluence only on present actions. It follows,therefore, that since the act of the mind, whichenters into a promise, and produces its obliga-tion, is neither the resolving, desiring, nor will-

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ing any particular performance, it must neces-sarily be the willing of that obligation, whicharises from the promise. Nor is this only aconclusion of philosophy; but is entirely con-formable to our common ways of thinking andof expressing ourselves, when we say that weare bound by our own consent, and that theobligation arises from our mere will and plea-sure. The only question then is, whether therebe not a manifest absurdity in supposing thisact of the mind, and such an absurdity as noman coued fall into, whose ideas are not con-founded with prejudice and the fallacious useof language.

All morality depends upon our sentiments;and when any action, or quality of the mind,pleases us after a certain manner, we say it isvirtuous; and when the neglect, or nonperfor-

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mance of it, displeases us after a like manner,we say that we lie under an obligation to per-form it. A change of the obligation supposesa change of the sentiment; and a creation of anew obligation supposes some new sentimentto arise. But it is certain we can naturally nomore change our own sentiments, than the mo-tions of the heavens; nor by a single act of ourwill, that is, by a promise, render any actionagreeable or disagreeable, moral or immoral;which, without that act, would have producedcontrary impressions, or have been endowedwith different qualities. It would be absurd,therefore, to will any new obligation, that is,any new sentiment of pain or pleasure; nor is itpossible, that men coued naturally fall into sogross an absurdity. A promise, therefore, is nat-urally something altogether unintelligible, nor

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is there any act of the mind belonging to it21

Shou’d it be said, that this act of the will be-ing in effect a new object, produces new re-lations and new duties; I wou’d answer, thatthis is a pure sophism, which may be detectedby a very moderate share of accuracy and ex-actness. To will a new obligation, is to will anew relation of objects; and therefore, if this

21Were morality discoverable by reason, and not bysentiment, it would be still more evident, that promisescou’d make no alteration upon it. Morality is suppos’dto consist in relation. Every new imposition of morality,therefore, must arise from some new relation of objects;and consequently the will coud not produce immedi-ately any change in morals, but cou’d have that effectonly by producing a change upon the objects. But asthe moral obligation of a promise is the pure effect ofthe will, without the least change in any part of the uni-verse; it follows, that promises have no natural obliga-tion.

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new relation of objects were form’d by the voli-tion itself, we should in effect will the volition;which is plainly absurd and impossible. Thewill has here no object to which it cou’d tend;but must return upon itself in infinitum. Thenew obligation depends upon new relations.The new relations depend upon a new volition.The new volition has for object a new obliga-tion, and consequently new relations, and con-sequently a new volition; which volition againhas in view a new obligation, relation and voli-tion, without any termination. It is impossible,therefore, we cou’d ever will a new obligation;and consequently it is impossible the will cou’dever accompany a promise, or produce a newobligation of morality.)

But, secondly, if there was any act of themind belonging to it, it could not naturally pro-

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duce any obligation. This appears evidentlyfrom the foregoing reasoning. A promise cre-ates a new obligation. A new obligation sup-poses new sentiments to arise. The will nevercreates new sentiments. There could not nat-urally, therefore, arise any obligation from apromise, even supposing the mind could fallinto the absurdity of willing that obligation.

The same truth may be proved still more ev-idently by that reasoning, which proved justicein general to be an artificial virtue. No actioncan be required of us as our duty, unless therebe implanted in human nature some actuatingpassion or motive, capable of producing the ac-tion. This motive cannot be the sense of duty.A sense of duty supposes an antecedent obli-gation: And where an action is not required byany natural passion, it cannot be required by

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any natural obligation; since it may be omit-ted without proving any defect or imperfec-tion in the mind and temper, and consequentlywithout any vice. Now it is evident we haveno motive leading us to the performance ofpromises, distinct from a sense of duty. If wethought, that promises had no moral obliga-tion, we never should feel any inclination to ob-serve them. This is not the case with the naturalvirtues. Though there was no obligation to re-lieve the miserable, our humanity would leadus to it; and when we omit that duty, the im-morality of the omission arises from its being aproof, that we want the natural sentiments ofhumanity. A father knows it to be his duty totake care of his children: But he has also a nat-ural inclination to it. And if no human creaturehad that indination, no one coued lie under anysuch obligation. But as there is naturally no in-

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clination to observe promises, distinct from asense of their obligation; it follows, that fidelityis no natural virtue, and that promises have noforce, antecedent to human conventions.

If any one dissent from this, he must givea regular proof of these two propositions, viz.That there is a peculiar act of the mind, annextto promises; and that consequent to this act of themind, there arises an inclination to perform, distinctfrom a sense of duty. I presume, that it is impos-sible to prove either of these two points; andtherefore I venture to conclude that promisesare human inventions, founded on the necessi-ties and interests of society.

In order to discover these necessities and in-terests, we must consider the same qualities ofhuman nature, which we have already foundto give rise to the preceding laws of society.

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Men being naturally selfish, or endowed onlywith a confined generosity, they are not easilyinduced to perform any action for the interestof strangers, except with a view to some recip-rocal advantage, which they had no hope of ob-taining but by such a performance. Now as itfrequently happens, that these mutual perfor-mances cannot be finished at the same instant,it is necessary, that one party be contented toremain in uncertainty, and depend upon thegratitude of the other for a return of kindness.But so much corruption is there among men,that, generally speaking, this becomes but aslender security; and as the benefactor is heresupposed to bestow his favours with a view toself-interest, this both takes off from the obliga-tion, and sets an example to selfishness, whichis the true mother of ingratitude. Were we,therefore, to follow the natural course of our

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passions and inclinations, we should performbut few actions for the advantage of others,from distinterested views; because we are nat-urally very limited in our kindness and affec-tion: And we should perform as few of thatkind, out of a regard to interest; because wecannot depend upon their gratitude. Here thenis the mutual commerce of good offices in amanner lost among mankind, and every onereduced to his own skill and industry for hiswell-being and subsistence. The invention ofthe law of nature, concerning the stability ofpossession, has already rendered men tolera-ble to each other; that of the transference ofproperty and possession by consent has begunto render them mutually advantageous: Butstill these laws of nature, however strictly ob-served, are not sufficient to render them so ser-viceable to each other, as by nature they are fit-

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ted to become. Though possession be stable,men may often reap but small advantage fromit, while they are possessed of a greater quan-tity of any species of goods than they have oc-casion for, and at the same time suffer by thewant of others. The transference of property,which is the proper remedy for this inconve-nience, cannot remedy it entirely; because itcan only take place with regard to such objectsas are present and individual, but not to suchas are absent or general. One cannot trans-fer the property of a particular house, twentyleagues distant; because the consent cannot beattended with delivery, which is a requisite cir-cumstance. Neither can one transfer the prop-erty of ten bushels of corn, or five hogsheads ofwine, by the mere expression and consent; be-cause these are only general terms, and have nodirect relation to any particular heap of corn,

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or barrels of wine. Besides, the commerce ofmankind is not confined to the barter of com-modities, but may extend to services and ac-tions, which we may exchange to our mutualinterest and advantage. Your corn is ripe to-day; mine will be so tomorrow. It is profitablefor us both, that I should labour with you to-day, and that you should aid me to-morrow. Ihave no kindness for you, and know you haveas little for me. I will not, therefore, take anypains upon your account; and should I labourwith you upon my own account, in expecta-tion of a return, I know I should be disap-pointed, and that I should in vain depend uponyour gratitude. Here then I leave you to labouralone: You treat me in the same manner. Theseasons change; and both of us lose our har-vests for want of mutual confidence and secu-rity.

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All this is the effect of the natural and inher-ent principles and passions of human nature;and as these passions and principles are inal-terable, it may be thought, that our conduct,which depends on them, must be so too, andthat it would be in vain, either for moralistsor politicians, to tamper with us, or attempt tochange the usual course of our actions, witha view to public interest. And indeed, didthe success of their designs depend upon theirsuccess in correcting the selfishness and in-gratitude of men, they would never make anyprogress, unless aided by omnipotence, whichis alone able to new-mould the human mind,and change its character in such fundamentalarticles. All they can pretend to, is, to give anew direction to those natural passions, andteach us that we can better satisfy our appetitesin an oblique and artificial manner, than by

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their headlong and impetuous motion. HenceI learn to do a service to another, without bear-ing him any real kindness; because I forsee,that he will return my service, in expectationof another of the same kind, and in order tomaintain the same correspondence of good of-fices with me or with others. And accordingly,after I have served him, and he is in possessionof the advantage arising from my action, he isinduced to perform his part, as foreseeing theconsequences of his refusal.

But though this self-interested commerce ofman begins to take place, and to predominatein society, it does not entirely abolish the moregenerous and noble intercourse of friendshipand good offices. I may still do services tosuch persons as I love, and am more partic-ularly acquainted with, without any prospect

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of advantage; and they may make me a re-turn in the same manner, without any view butthat of recompensing my past services. In or-der, therefore, to distinguish those two differ-ent sorts of commerce, the interested and thedisinterested, there is a certain form of wordsinvented for the former, by which we bindourselves to the performance of any action.This form of words constitutes what we call apromise, which is the sanction of the interestedcommerce of mankind. When a man says hepromises any thing, he in effect expresses a res-olution of performing it; and along with that,by making use of this form of words, subjectshimself to the penalty of never being trustedagain in case of failure. A resolution is the nat-ural act of the mind, which promises express:But were there no more than a resolution in thecase, promises would only declare our former

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motives, and would not create any new mo-tive or obligation. They are the conventions ofmen, which create a new motive, when experi-ence has taught us, that human affairs wouldbe conducted much more for mutual advan-tage, were there certain symbols or signs insti-tuted, by which we might give each, other se-curity of our conduct in any particular incident,After these signs are instituted, whoever usesthem is immediately bound by his interest toexecute his engagements, and must never ex-pect to be trusted any more, if he refuse to per-form what he promised.

Nor is that knowledge, which is requisite tomake mankind sensible of this interest in theinstitution and observance of promises, to beesteemed superior to the capacity of human na-ture, however savage and uncultivated. There

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needs but a very little practice of the world, tomake us perceive all these consequences andadvantages. The shortest experience of societydiscovers them to every mortal; and when eachindividual perceives the same sense of interestin all his fellows, he immediately performs hispart of any contract, as being assured, that theywill not be wanting in theirs. All of them, byconcert, enter into a scheme of actions, calcu-lated for common benefit, and agree to be trueto their word; nor is there any thing requisite toform this concert or convention, but that everyone have a sense of interest in the faithful ful-filling of engagements, and express that senseto other members of the society. This immedi-ately causes that interest to operate upon them;and interest is the first obligation to the perfor-mance of promises.

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Afterwards a sentiment of morals concurswith interest, and becomes a new obligationupon mankind. This sentiment of morality, inthe performance of promises, arises from thesame principles as that in the abstinence fromthe property of others. Public interest, educa-tion, and the artifices of politicians, have thesame effect in both cases. The difficulties, thatoccur to us, in supposing a moral obligation toattend promises, we either surmount or elude.For instance; the expression of a resolution isnot commonly supposed to be obligatory; andwe cannot readily conceive how the makinguse of a certain form of words should be ableto cause any material difference. Here, there-fore, we feign a new act of the mind, which wecall the willing an obligation; and on this wesuppose the morality to depend. But we haveproved already, that there is no such act of the

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mind, and consequently that promises imposeno natural obligation.

To confirm this, we may subjoin some otherreflections concerning that will, which is sup-posed to enter into a promise, and to causeits obligation. It is evident, that the will aloneis never supposed to cause the obligation, butmust be expressed by words or signs, in or-der to impose a tye upon any man. The ex-pression being once brought in as subservientto the will, soon becomes the principal part ofthe promise; nor will a man be less bound byhis word, though he secretly give a differentdirection to his intention, and with-hold him-self both from a resolution, and from willing anobligation. But though the expression makeson most occasions the whole of the promise,yet it does not always so; and one, who should

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make use of any expression, of which he knowsnot the meaning, and which he uses withoutany intention of binding himself, would notcertainly be bound by it. Nay, though he knowsits meaning, yet if he uses it in jest only, andwith such signs as shew evidently he has noserious intention of binding himself, he wouldnot lie under any obligation of performance;but it is necessary, that the words be a perfectexpression of the will, without any contrarysigns. Nay, even this we must not carry so faras to imagine, that one, whom, by our quick-ness of understanding, we conjecture, from cer-tain signs, to have an intention of deceivingus, is not bound by his expression or verbalpromise, if we accept of it; but must limit thisconclusion to those cases, where the signs areof a different kind from those of deceit. Allthese contradictions are easily accounted for,

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if the obligation of promises be merely a hu-man invention for the convenience of society;but will never be explained, if it be somethingreal and natural, arising from any action of themind or body.

I shall farther observe, that since every newpromise imposes a new obligation of moral-ity on the person who promises, and sincethis new obligation arises from his will; it isone of the most mysterious and incomprehen-sible operations that can possibly be imagined,and may even be compared to _transubstan-tiation+, or holy orders (I mean so far, as holyorders are suppos’d to produce the indeliblecharacter. In other respects they are only a legalqualification)., where a certain form of words,along with a certain intention, changes entirelythe nature of an external object, and even of

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a human nature. But though these mysteriesbe so far alike, it is very remarkable, that theydiffer widely in other particulars, and that thisdifference may be regarded as a strong proofof the difference of their origins. As the obli-gation of promises is an invention for the in-terest of society, it is warped into as many dif-ferent forms as that interest requires, and evenruns into direct contradictions, rather than losesight of its object. But as those other monstrousdoctines are mere priestly inventions, and haveno public interest in view, they are less dis-turbed in their progress by new obstacles; andit must be owned, that, after the first absurdity,they follow more directly the current of reasonand good sense. Theologians clearly perceived,that the external form of words, being meresound, require an intention to make them haveany efficacy; and that this intention being once

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considered as a requisite circumstance, its ab-sence must equally prevent the effect, whetheravowed or concealed, whether sincere or de-ceitful. Accordingly they have commonly de-termined, that the intention of the priest makesthe sacrament, and that when he secretly with-draws his intention, he is highly criminal inhimself; but still destroys the baptism, or com-munion, or holy orders. The terrible conse-quences of this doctrine were not able to hin-der its taking place; as the inconvenience of asimilar doctrine, with regard to promises, haveprevented that doctrine from establishing it-self. Men are always more concerned aboutthe present life than the future; and are apt tothink the smallest evil, which regards the for-mer, more important than the greatest, whichregards the latter.

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We may draw the same conclusion, con-cerning the origin of promises, from the force,which is supposed to invalidate all contracts,and to free us from their obligation. Sucha principle is a proof, that promises have nonatural obligation, and are mere artificial con-trivances for the convenience and advantageof society. If we consider aright of the matter,force is not essentially different from any othermotive of hope or fear, which may induce usto engage our word, and lay ourselves underany obligation. A man, dangerously wounded,who promises a competent sum to a surgeon tocure him, would certainly be bound to perfor-mance; though the case be not so much differ-ent from that of one, who promises a sum toa robber, as to produce so great a difference inour sentiments of morality, if these sentimentswere not built entirely on public interest and

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convenience.

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SECTION VI. SOME FARTHER REFLECTIONSCONSERNING JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE

We have now run over the three fundamen-tal laws of nature, that of the stability of pos-session, of its transference by consent, and ofthe performance of promises. It is on the strictt observance of those three laws, that the peaceand security of human society entirely depend;nor is there any possibility of establishing agood correspondence among men, where theseare neglected. Society is absolutely necessaryfor the well-being of men; and these are asnecessary to the support of society. Whateverrestraint they may impose on the passions ofmen, they are the real offspring of those pas-sions, and are only a more artful and more re-fined way of satisfying them. Nothing is morevigilant and inventive than our passions; and

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nothing is more obvious, than the conventionfor the observance of these rules. Nature has,therefore, trusted this affair entirely to the con-duct of men, and has not placed in the mindany peculiar original principles, to determineus to a set of actions, into which the other prin-ciples of our frame and constitution were suffi-cient to lead us. And to convince us the morefully of this truth, we may here stop a moment,and from a review of the preceding reasoningsmay draw some new arguments, to prove thatthose laws, however necessary, are entirely ar-tificial, and of human invention; and conse-quently that justice is an artificial, and not anatural virtue.

(1) The first argument I shall make use of isderived from the vulgar definition of justice.Justice is commonly defined to be a constant

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and perpetual will of giving every one his due.In this definition it is supposed, that there aresuch things as right and property, independentof justice, and antecedent to it; and that theywould have subsisted, though men had neverdreamt of practising such a virtue. I have al-ready observed, in a cursory manner, the fal-lacy of this opinion, and shall here continue toopen up a little more distinctly my sentimentson that subject.

I shall begin with observing, that this qual-ity, which we shall call property, is like many ofthe imaginary qualities of the peripatetic phi-losophy, and vanishes upon a more accurateinspection into the subject, when considered a-part from our moral sentiments. It is evidentproperty does not consist in any of the sensi-ble qualities of the object. For these may con-

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tinue invariably the same, while the propertychanges. Property, therefore, must consist insome relation of the object. But it is not in itsrelation with regard to other external and inan-imate objects. For these may also continue in-variably the same, while the property changes.This quality, therefore, consists in the relationsof objects to intelligent and rational beings. Butit is not the external and corporeal relation,which forms the essence of property. For thatrelation may be the same betwixt inanimate ob-jects, or with regard to brute creatures; thoughin those cases it forms no property. It is, there-fore, in some internal relation, that the prop-erty consists; that is, in some influence, whichthe external relations of the object have on themind and actions. Thus the external relation,which we call occupation or first possession, isnot of itself imagined to be the property of the

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object, but only to cause its property. Now itis evident, this external relation causes nothingin external objects, and has only an influenceon the mind, by giving us a sense of duty in ab-staining from that object, and in restoring it tothe first possessor. These actions are properlywhat we call justice; and consequently it is onthat virtue that the nature of property depends,and not the virtue on the property.

If any one, therefore, would assert, that jus-tice is a natural virtue, and injustice a naturalvice, he must assert, that abstracting from thenations of property, and right and obligation,a certain conduct and train of actions, in cer-tain external relations of objects, has naturally amoral beauty or deformity, and causes an orig-inal pleasure or uneasiness. Thus the restoringa man’s goods to him is considered as virtuous,

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not because nature has annexed a certain senti-ment of pleasure to such a conduct, with regardto the property of others, but because she hasannexed that sentiment to such a conduct, withregard to those external objects, of which othershave had the first or long possession, or whichthey have received by the consent of those, whohave had first or long possession. If nature hasgiven us no such sentiment, there is not, nat-urally, nor antecedent to human conventions,any such thing as property. Now, though itseems sufficiently evident, in this dry and ac-curate consideration of the present subject, thatnature has annexed no pleasure or sentiment ofapprobation to such a conduct; yet that I mayleave as little room for doubt as possible, I shallsubjoin a few more arguments to confirm myopinion.

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First, If nature had given us a pleasure of thiskind, it would have been as evident and dis-cernible as on every other occasion; nor shouldwe have found any difficulty to perceive, thatthe consideration of such actions, in such a situ-ation, gives a certain pleasure and sentiment ofapprobation. We should not have been obligedto have recourse to notions of property in thedefinition of justice, and at the same time makeuse of the notions of justice in the definition ofproperty. This deceitful method of reasoningis a plain proof, that there are contained in thesubject some obscurities and difficulties, whichwe are not able to surmount, and which we de-sire to evade by this artifice.

Secondly, Those rules, by which properties,rights, and obligations are determined, have inthem no marks of a natural origin but many of

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artifice and contrivance. They are too numer-ous to have proceeded from nature: They arechangeable by human laws: And have all ofthem a direct and evident tendency to publicgood, and the support, of civil society. This lastcircumstance is remarkable upon two accounts.First, because, though the cause of the estab-lishment of these laws had been a regard for thepublic good, as much as the public good is theirnatural tendency, they would still have beenartificial, as being purposely contrived and di-rected to a certain end. Secondly, because, ifmen had been endowed with such a strong re-gard for public good, they would never haverestrained themselves by these rules; so thatthe laws of justice arise from natural princi-ples in a manner still more oblique and artifi-cial. It is self-love which is their real origin; andas the self-love of one person is naturally con-

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trary to that of another, these several interestedpassions are obliged to adjust themselves aftersuch a manner as to concur in some system ofconduct and behaviour. This system, therefore,comprehending the interest of each individual,is of course advantageous to the public; thoughit be not intended for that purpose by die in-ventors.

(2) In the second place we may observe, thatall kinds of vice and virtue run insensibly intoeach other, and may approach by such imper-ceptible degrees as will make it very difficult, ifnot absolutely impossible, to determine whenthe one ends, and the other begins; and fromthis observation we may derive a new argu-ment for the foregoing principle. For what-ever may be the case, with regard to all kindsof vice and virtue, it is certain, that rights, and

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obligations, and property, admit of no such in-sensible gradation, but that a man either has afull and perfect property, or none at all; and iseither entirely obliged to perform any action,or lies under no manner of obligation. How-ever civil laws may talk of a perfect dominion,and of an imperfect, it is easy to observe, thatthis arises from a fiction, which has no foun-dation in reason, and can never enter into ournotions of natural justice and equity. A manthat hires a horse, though but for a day, has asfull a right to make use of it for that time, as hewhom we call its proprietor has to make use ofit any other day; and it was evident, that how-ever the use may be bounded in time or degree,the right itself is not susceptible of any suchgradation, but is absolute and entire, so far asit extends. Accordingly we may observe, thatthis right both arises and perishes in an instant;

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and that a man entirely acquires the propertyof any object by occupation, or the consent ofthe proprietor; and loses it by his own con-sent; without any of that insensible gradation,which is remarkable in other qualities and rela-tions, Since, therefore, this is die case with re-gard to property, and rights, and obligations,I ask, how it stands with regard to justice andinjustice? After whatever manner you answerthis question, you run into inextricable diffi-culties. If you reply, that justice and injusticeadmit of degree, and run insensibly into eachother, you expressly contradict the foregoingposition, that obligation and property are notsusceptible of such a gradation. These dependentirely upon justice and injustice, and followthem in all their variations. Where the justiceis entire, the property is also entire: Where thejustice is imperfect, the property must also be

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imperfect And vice versa, if the property ad-mit of no such variations, they must also be in-compatible with justice. If you assent, there-fore, to this last proposition, and assert, thatjustice and injustice are not susceptible of de-grees, you in effect assert, that they are not nat-urally either vicious or virtuous; since vice andvirtue, moral good and evil, and indeed all nat-ural qualities, run insensibly into each other,and are, on many occasions, undistinguishable.

And here it may be worth while to observe,that though abstract reasoning, and the gen-eral maxims of philosophy and law establishthis position, that property, and right, and obli-gation admit not of degrees, yet in our com-mon and negligent way of thinking, we findgreat difficulty to entertain that opinion, anddo even secretly embrace the contrary princi-

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ple. An object must either be in the possessionof one person or another. An action must ei-ther be performed or not The necessity thereis of choosing one side in these dilemmas, andthe impossibility there often is of finding anyjust medium, oblige us, when we reflect on thematter, to acknowledge, that all property andobligations are entire. But on the other hand,when we consider the origin of property andobligation, and find that they depend on pub-lic utility, and sometimes on the propensitiesof the imagination, which are seldom entire onany side; we are naturally inclined to imagine,that these moral relations admit of an insensi-ble gradation. Hence it is, that in references,where the consent of the parties leave the ref-erees entire masters of the subject, they com-monly discover so much equity and justice onboth sides, as induces them to strike a medium,

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and divide the difference betwixt the parties.Civil judges, who have not this liberty, but areobliged to give a decisive sentence on someone side, are often at a loss how to determine,and are necessitated to proceed on the mostfrivolous reasons in the world. Half rights andobligations, which seem so natural in commonlife, are perfect absurdities in their tribunal; forwhich reason they are often obliged to take halfarguments for whole ones, in order to termi-nate the affair one way or other.

(3) The third argument of this kind I shallmake use of may be explained thus. If weconsider the ordinary course of human actions,we shall find, that the mind restrains not itselfby any general and universal rules; but actson most occasions as it is determined by itspresent motives and inclination. As each ac-

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tion is a particular individual event, it mustproceed from particular principles, and fromour immediate situation within ourselves, andwith respect to the rest of the universe. If onsome occasions we extend our motives beyondthose very circumstances, which gave rise tothem, and form something like general rulesfor our conduct, it is easy to observe, that theserules are not perfectly inflexible, but allow ofmany exceptions. Since, therefore, this is theordinary course of human actions, we may con-clude, that the laws of justice, being universaland perfectly inflexible, can never be derivedfrom nature, nor be the immediate offspringof any natural motive or inclination. No ac-tion can be either morally good or evil, unlessthere be some natural passion or motive to im-pel us to it, or deter us from it; and it is evident,that die morality must be susceptible of all the

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same variations, which are natural to the pas-sion. Here are two persons, who dispute foran estate; of whom one is rich, a fool, and abatchelor; the other poor, a man of sense, andhas a numerous family: The first is my enemy;the second my friend. Whether I be actuatedin this affair by a view to public or private in-terest, by friendship or enmity, I must be in-duced to do my utmost to procure the estateto the latter. Nor would any consideration ofthe right and property of the persons be ableto restrain me, were I actuated only by natu-ral motives, without any combination or con-vention with others. For as all property de-pends on morality; and as all morality dependson the ordinary course of our passions and ac-tions; and as these again are only directed byparticular motives; it is evident, such a partialconduct must be suitable to the strictest moral-

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ity, and coued never be a violation of prop-erty. Were men, therefore, to take the libertyof acting with regard to the laws of society, asthey do in every other affair, they would con-duct themselves, on most occasions, by par-ticular judgments, and would take into con-sideration the characters and circumstances ofthe persons, as well as the general nature ofthe question. But it is easy to observe, thatthis would produce an infinite confusion in hu-man society, and that the avidity and partial-ity of men would quickly bring disorder intothe world, if not restrained by some generaland inflexible principles. Twas, therefore, witha view to this inconvenience, that men haveestablished those principles, and have agreedto restrain themselves by general rules, whichare unchangeable by spite and favour, and byparticular views of private or public interest.

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These rules, then, are artificially invented fora certain purpose, and are contrary to the com-mon principles of human nature, which accom-modate themselves to circumstances, and haveno stated invariable method of operation.

Nor do I perceive how I can easily be mis-taken in this matter. I see evidently, that whenany man imposes on himself general inflexi-ble rules in his conduct with others, he con-siders certain objects as their property, whichhe supposes to be sacred and inviolable. Butno proposition can be more evident, than thatproperty is perfectly unintelligible without firstsupposing justice and injustice; and that thesevirtues and vices are as unintelligible, unlesswe have motives, independent of the morality,to impel us to just actions, and deter us fromunjust ones. Let those motives, therefore, be

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what they will, they must accommodate them-selves to circumstances, and must admit of allthe variations, which human affairs, in their in-cessant revolutions, are susceptible of. Theyare consequently a very improper foundationfor such rigid inflexible rules as the laws of na-ture; and it is evident these laws can only bederived from human conventions, when menhave perceived the disorders that result fromfollowing their natural and variable principles.

Upon the whole, then, we are to consider thisdistinction betwixt justice and injustice, as hav-ing two different foundations, viz, that of inter-est, when men observe, that it is impossible tolive in society without restraining themselvesby certain rules; and that of morality, whenthis interest is once observed and men receive apleasure from the view of such actions as tend

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to the peace of society, and an uneasiness fromsuch as are contrary to it. It is the voluntaryconvention and artifice of men, which makesthe first interest take place; and therefore thoselaws of justice are so far to be considered asartifrial. After that interest is once establishedand acknowledged, the sense of morality in theobservance of these rules follows naturally, andof itself; though it is certain, that it is also aug-mented by a new artifice, and that the publicinstructions of politicians, and the private ed-ucation of parents, contribute to the giving usa sense of honour and duty in the strict regula-tion of our actions with regard to the propertiesof others.

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SECTION VII. OF THE ORIGIN OFGOVERNMENT

Nothing is more certain, than that men are,in a great measure, governed by interest, andthat even when they extend their concern be-yond themselves, it is not to any great distance;nor is it usual for them, in common life, to lookfarther than their nearest friends and acquain-tance. It is no less certain, that it is impossiblefor men to consult, their interest in so effectuala manner, as by an universal and inflexible ob-servance of the rules of justice, by which alonethey can preserve society, and keep themselvesfrom falling into that wretched and savage con-dition, which is commonly represented as thestate of nature. And as this interest, which allmen have in the upholding of society, and theobservation of the rules of justice, is great, so is

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it palpable and evident, even to the most rudeand uncultivated of human race; and it is al-most impossible for any one, who has had ex-perience of society, to be mistaken in this par-ticular. Since, therefore, men are so sincerelyattached to their interest, and their interest isso much concerned in the observance of justice,and this interest is so certain and avowed; itmay be asked, how any disorder can ever arisein society, and what principle there is in humannature so powerful as to overcome so strong apassion, or so violent as to obscure so clear aknowledge?

It has been observed, in treating of the pas-sions, that men are mightily governed by theimagination, and proportion their affectionsmore to the light, under which any object ap-pears to them, than to its real and intrinsic

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value. What strikes upon them with a strongand lively idea commonly prevails above whatlies in a more obscure light; and it must be agreat superiority of value, that is able to com-pensate this advantage. Now as every thing,that is contiguous to us, either in space or time,strikes upon us with such an idea, it has a pro-portional effect on the will and passions, andcommonly operates with more force than anyobject, that lies in a more distant and obscurelight. Though we may be fully convinced, thatthe latter object excels the former, we are notable to regulate our actions by this judgment;but yield to the sollicitations of our passions,which always plead in favour of whatever isnear and contiguous.

This is the reason why men so often act incontradiction to their known interest; and in

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particular why they prefer any trivial advan-tage, that is present, to the maintenance of or-der in society, which so much depends on theobservance of justice. The consequences of ev-ery breach of equity seem to lie very remote,and are not able to counter-ballance any im-mediate advantage, that may be reaped fromit. They are, however, never the less real forbeing remote; and as all men are, in some de-gree, subject to the same weakness, it necessar-ily happens, that the violations of equity mustbecome very frequent in society, and the com-merce of men, by that means, be rendered verydangerous and uncertain. You have the samepropension, that I have, in favour of what iscontiguous above what is remote. You are,therefore, naturally carried to commit acts ofinjustice as well as me. Your example bothpushes me forward in this way by imitation,

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and also affords me a new reason for anybreach of equity, by shewing me, that I shouldbe the cully of my integrity, if I alone shouldimpose on myself a severe restraint amidst thelicentiousness of others.

This quality, therefore, of human nature, notonly is very dangerous to society, but alsoseems, on a cursory view, to be incapable ofany remedy. The remedy can only come fromthe consent of men; and if men be incapableof themselves to prefer remote to contiguous,they will never consent to any thing, whichwould oblige them to such a choice, and con-tradict, in so sensible a manner, their naturalprinciples and propensities. Whoever chusesthe means, chuses also the end; and if it beimpossible for us to prefer what is remote, itis equally impossible for us to submit to any

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necessity, which would oblige us to such amethod of acting.

But here it is observable, that this infirmity ofhuman nature becomes a remedy to itself, andthat we provide against our negligence aboutremote objects, merely because we are natu-rally inclined to that negligence. When we con-sider any objects at a distance, all their minutedistinctions vanish, and we always give thepreference to whatever is in itself preferable,without considering its situation and circum-stances. This gives rise to what in an impropersense we call reason, which is a principle, thatis often contradictory to those propensities thatdisplay themselves upon the approach of theobject. In reflecting on any action, which I amto perform a twelve-month hence, I always re-solve to prefer the greater good, whether at that

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time it will be more contiguous or remote; nordoes any difference in that particular make adifference in my present intentions and resolu-tions. My distance from the final determinationmakes all those minute differences vanish, noram I affected by any thing, but the general andmore discernible qualities of good and evil. Buton my nearer approach, those circumstances,which I at first over-looked, begin to appear,and have an influence on my conduct and af-fections. A new inclination to the present goodsprings up, and makes it difficult for me to ad-here inflexibly to my first purpose and resolu-tion. This natural infirmity I may very muchregret, and I may endeavour, by all possiblemeans, to free my self from it. I may have re-course to study and reflection within myself;to the advice of friends; to frequent medita-tion, and repeated resolution: And having ex-

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perienced how ineffectual all these are, I mayembrace with pleasure any other expedient, bywhich I may impose a restraint upon myself,and guard against this weakness.

The only difficulty, therefore, is to find outthis expedient, by which men cure their natu-ral weakness, and lay themselves under the ne-cessity of observing the laws of justice and eq-uity, notwithstanding their violent propensionto prefer contiguous to remote. It is evidentsuch a remedy can never be effectual withoutcorrecting this propensity; and as it is impos-sible to change or correct any thing material inour nature, the utmost we can do is to changeour circumstances and situation, and renderthe observance of the laws of justice our nearestinterest, and their violation our most remote.But this being impracticable with respect to all

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mankind, it can only take place with respect toa few, whom we thus immediately interest inthe execution of justice. There are the persons,whom we call civil magistrates, kings and theirministers, our governors and rulers, who be-ing indifferent persons to the greatest part ofthe state, have no interest, or but a remote one,in any act of injustice; and being satisfied withtheir present condition, and with their part insociety, have an immediate interest in every ex-ecution of justice, which is so necessary to theupholding of society. Here then is the originof civil government and society. Men are notable radically to cure, either in themselves orothers, that narrowness of soul, which makesthem prefer the present to the remote. Theycannot change their natures. All they can do isto change their situation, and render the obser-vance of justice the immediate interest of some

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particular persons, and its violation their moreremote. These persons, then, are not only in-duced to observe those rules in their own con-duct, but also to constrain others to a like regu-larity, and inforce the dictates of equity throughthe whole society. And if it be necessary, theymay also interest others more immediately inthe execution of justice, and create a numberof officers, civil and military, to assist them intheir government.

But this execution of justice, though the prin-cipal, is not the only advantage of government.As violent passion hinder men from seeing dis-tinctly the interest they have in an equitablebehaviour towards others; so it hinders themfrom seeing that equity itself, and gives thema remarkable partiality in their own favours.This inconvenience is corrected in the same

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manner as that above-mentioned. The samepersons, who execute the laws of justice, willalso decide all controversies concerning them;and being indifferent to the greatest part of thesociety, will decide them more equitably thanevery one would in his own case.

By means of these two advantages, in the ex-ecution and decision of justice, men acquire asecurity against each others weakness and pas-sion, as well as against their own, and underthe shelter of their governors, begin to tasteat ease the sweets of society and mutual assis-tance. But government extends farther its ben-eficial influence; and not contented to protectmen in those conventions they make for theirmutual interest, it often obliges them to makesuch conventions, and forces them to seek theirown advantage, by a concurrence in some com-

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mon end or purpose. There is no quality inhuman nature, which causes more fatal errorsin our conduct, than that which leads us toprefer whatever is present to the distant andremote, and makes us desire objects more ac-cording to their situation than their intrinsicvalue. Two neighbours may agree to drain ameadow, which they possess in common; be-cause it is easy for them to know each oth-ers mind; and each must perceive, that the im-mediate consequence of his failing in his part,is, the abandoning the whole project. But itis very difficult, and indeed impossible, thata thousand persons should agree in any suchaction; it being difficult for them to concertso complicated a design, and still more diffi-cult for them to execute it; while each seeks apretext to free himself of the trouble and ex-pence, and would lay the whole burden on oth-

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ers. Political society easily remedies both theseinconveniences. Magistrates find an immedi-ate interest in the interest of any considerablepart of their subjects. They need consult nobody but themselves to form any scheme forthe promoting of that interest. And as the fail-ure of any one piece in the execution is con-nected, though not immediately, with the fail-ure of the whole, they prevent that failure, be-cause they find no interest in it, either immedi-ate or remote. Thus bridges are built; harboursopened; ramparts raised; canals formed; fleetsequiped; and armies disciplined every where,by the care of government, which, though com-posed of men subject to all human infirmities,becomes, by one of the finest and most subtleinventions imaginable, a composition, whichis, in some measure, exempted from all theseinfirmities.

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SECTION VIII. ON THE SOURCE OFALLEGIANCE

Though government be an invention veryadvantageous, and even in some circumstancesabsolutely necessary to mankind; it is not nec-essary in all circumstances, nor is it impossi-ble for men to preserve society for some time,without having recourse to such an invention.Men, it is true, are always much inclined toprefer present interest to distant and remote;nor is it easy for them to resist the temptationof any advantage, that they may immediatelyenjoy, in apprehension of an evil that lies ata distance from them: But still this weaknessis less conspicuous where the possessions, andthe pleasures of life are few, and of little value,as they always are in the infancy of society. AnIndian is but little tempted to dispossess an-

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other of his hut, or to steal his bow, as beingalready provided of the same advantages; andas to any superior fortune, which may attendone above another in hunting and fishing, itis only casual and temporary, and will havebut small tendency to disturb society. Andso far am I from thinking with some philoso-phers, that men are utterly incapable of soci-ety without government, that I assert the firstrudiments of government to arise from quar-rels, not among men of the same society, butamong those of different societies. A less de-gree of riches will suffice to this latter effect,than is requisite for the former. Men fear noth-ing from public war and violence but the re-sistance they meet with, which, because theyshare it in common, seems less terrible; and be-cause it comes from strangers, seems less per-nicious in its consequences, than when they are

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exposed singly against one whose commerceis advantageous to them, and without whosesociety it is impossible they can subsist. Nowforeign war to a society without governmentnecessarily produces civil war. Throw any con-siderable goods among men, they instantly falla quarrelling, while each strives to get posses-sion of what pleases him, without regard tothe consequences. In a foreign war the mostconsiderable of all goods, life and limbs, areat stake; and as every one shuns dangerousports, seizes the best arms, seeks excuse forthe slightest wounds, the laws, which may bewell enough observed while men were calm,can now no longer take place, when they arein such commotion.

This we find verified in the American tribes,where men live in concord and amity among

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themselves without any established govern-ment and never pay submission to any of theirfellows, except in time of war, when their cap-tain enjoys a shadow of authority, which heloses after their return from the field, and theestablishment of peace with the neighbouringtribes. This authority, however, instructs themin the advantages of government, and teachesthem to have recourse to it, when either bythe pillage of war, by commerce, or by anyfortuitous inventions, their riches and posses-sions have become so considerable as to makethem forget, on every emergence, the interestthey have in the preservation of peace and jus-tice. Hence we may give a plausible reason,among others, why all governments are at firstmonarchical, without any mixture and variety;and why republics arise only from the abusesof monarchy and despotic power. Camps are

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the true mothers of cities; and as war can-not be administered, by reason of the sudden-ness of every exigency, without some author-ity in a single person, the same kind of author-ity naturally takes place in that civil govern-ment, which succeeds the military. And thisreason I take to be more natural, than the com-mon one derived from patriarchal government,or the authority of a father, which is said firstto take place in one family, and to accustomthe members of it to the government of a sin-gle person. The state of society without gov-ernment is one of the most natural states ofmen, and must submit with the conjunction ofmany families, and long after the first gener-ation. Nothing but an encrease of riches andpossessions coued oblige men to quit it; andso barbarous and uninstructed are all societieson their first formation, that many years must

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elapse before these can encrease to such a de-gree, as to disturb men in the enjoyment ofpeace and concord. But though it be possiblefor men to maintain a small uncultivated soci-ety without government, it is impossible theyshould maintain a society of any kind with-out justice, and the observance of those threefundamental laws concerning the stability ofpossession, its translation by consent, and theperformance of promises. These are, there-fore, antecedent to government, and are sup-posed to impose an obligation before the dutyof allegiance to civil magistrates has once beenthought of. Nay, I shall go farther, and as-sert, that government, upon its first establish-ment, would naturally be supposed. to deriveits obligation from those laws of nature, and,in particular, from that concerning the perfor-mance of promises. When men have once per-

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ceived the necessity of government to main-tain peace, and execute justice, they would nat-urally assemble together, would chuse mag-istrates, determine power, and promise themobedience. As a promise is supposed to be abond or security already in use, and attendedwith a moral obligation, it is to be consideredas the original sanction of government, and asthe source of the first obligation to obedience.This reasoning appears so natural, that it hasbecome the foundation of our fashionable sys-tem of politics, and is in a manner the creedof a party amongst us, who pride themselves,with reason, on the soundness of their philos-ophy, and their liberty of thought. All men,say they, are born free and equal: Governmentand superiority can only be established by con-sent: The consent of men, in establishing gov-ernment, imposes on them a new obligation,

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unknown to the laws of nature. Men, there-fore, are bound to obey their magistrates, onlybecause they promise it; and if they had notgiven their word, either expressly or tacitly, topreserve allegiance, it would never have be-come a part of their moral duty. This conclu-sion, however, when carried so far as to com-prehend government in all its ages and situ-ations, is entirely erroneous; and I maintain,that though the duty of allegiance be at firstgrafted on the obligation of promises, and befor some time supported by that obligation, yetit quickly takes root of itself, and has an origi-nal obligation and authority, independent of allcontracts. This is a principle of moment, whichwe must examine with care and attention, be-fore we proceed any farther.

It is reasonable for those philosophers, who

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assert justice to be a natural virtue, and an-tecedent to human conventions, to resolve allcivil allegiance into the obligation of a promise,and assert that it is our own consent alone,which binds us to any submission to magis-tracy. For as all government is plainly an in-vention of men, and the origin of most gov-ernments is known in history, it is necessaryto mount higher, in order to find the source ofour political duties, if we would assert them tohave any natural obligation of morality. Thesephilosophers, therefore, quickly observe, thatsociety is as antient as the human species,and those three fundamental laws of nature asantient as society: So that taking advantage ofthe antiquity, and obscure origin of these laws,they first deny them to be artificial and volun-tary inventions of men, and then seek to ingrafton them those other duties, which are more

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plainly artificial. But being once undeceived inthis particular, and having found that natural,as well as civil justice, derives its origin fromhuman conventions, we shall quickly perceive,how fruitless it is to resolve the one into theother, and seek, in the laws of nature, a strongerfoundation for our political duties than inter-est, and human conventions; while these lawsthemselves are built on the very same founda-tion. On which ever side we turn this subject,we shall find, that these two kinds of duty areexactly on the same footing, and have the samesource both of their first invention and moralobligation. They are contrived to remedy likeinconveniences, and acquire their moral sanc-tion in the same manner, from their remedyingthose inconveniences. These are two points,which we shall endeavour to prove as dis-tinctly as possible.

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We have already shewn, that men inventedthe three fundamental laws of nature, whenthey observed the necessity of society to theirmutual subsistance, and found, that it was im-possible to maintain any correspondence to-gether, without some restraint on their naturalappetites. The same self-love, therefore, whichrenders men so incommodious to each other,taking a new and more convenient direction,produces the rules of justice, and is the first mo-tive of their observance. But when men haveobserved, that though the rules of justice besufficient to maintain any society, yet it is im-possible for them, of themselves, to observethose rules, in large and polished societies; theyestablish government, as a new invention to at-tain their ends, and preserve the old, or pro-cure new advantages, by a more strict execu-tion of justice. So far, therefore, our civil du-

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ties are connected with our natural, that the for-mer are invented chiefly for the sake of the lat-ter; and that the principal object of governmentis to constrain men to observe the laws of na-ture. In this respect, however, that law of na-ture, concerning the performance of promises,is only comprized along with the rest; and itsexact observance is to be considered as an ef-fect of the institution of government, and notthe obedience to government as an effect of theobligation of a promise. Though the object ofour civil duties be the enforcing of our natu-ral, yet the first (First in time, not in dignity orforce.) motive of the invention, as well as per-formance of both, is nothing but self-interest:and since there is a separate interest in the obe-dience to government, from that in the perfor-mance of promises, we must also allow of aseparate obligation. To obey the civil magis-

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trate is requisite to preserve order and concordin society. To perform promises is requisite tobeget mutual trust and confidence in the com-mon offices of life. The ends, as well as themeans, are perfectly distinct; nor is the one sub-ordinate to the other.

To make this more evident, let us con-sider, that men will often bind themselves bypromises to the performance of what it wouldhave been their interest to perform, indepen-dent of these promises; as when they wouldgive others a fuller security, by super-addinga new obligation of interest to that which theyformerly lay under. The interest in the perfor-mance of promises, besides its moral obliga-tion, is general, avowed, and of the last conse-quence in life. Other interests may be more par-ticular and doubtful; and we are apt to enter-

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tain a greater suspicion, that men may indulgetheir humour, or passion, in acting contrary tothem. Here, therefore, promises come natu-rally in play, and are often required for fullersatisfaction and security. But supposing thoseother interests to be as general and avowed asthe interest in the performance of a promise,they will be regarded as on the same footing,and men will begin to repose the same confi-dence in them. Now this is exactly the casewith regard to our civil duties, or obedienceto the magistrate; without which no govern-ment coued subsist, nor any peace or order bemaintained in large societies, where there areso many possessions on the one hand, and somany wants, real or imaginary, on the other.Our civil duties, therefore, must soon detachthemselves from our promises, and acquire aseparate force and influence. The interest in

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both is of the very same kind: It is general,avowed, and prevails in all times and places.There is, then, no pretext of reason for found-ing the one upon the other; while each of themhas a foundation peculiar to itself. We might aswell resolve the obligation to abstain from thepossessions of others, into the obligation of apromise, as that of allegiance. The interests arenot more distinct in the one case than the other.A regard to property is not more necessary tonatural society, than obedience is to civil soci-ety or government; nor is the former societymore necessary to the being of mankind, thanthe latter to their well-being and happiness. Inshort, if the performance of promises be advan-tageous, so is obedience to government: If theformer interest be general, so is the latter: If theone interest be obvious and avowed, so is theother. And as these two rules are founded on

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like obligations of interest, each of them musthave a peculiar authority, independent of theother.

But it is not only the natural obligations ofinterest, which are distinct in promises and al-legiance; but also the moral obligations of hon-our and conscience: Nor does the merit or de-merit of the one depend in the least upon thatof the other. And indeed, if we consider theclose connexion there is betwixt the natural andmoral obligations, we shall find this conclu-sion to be entirely unavoidable. Our interestis always engaged on the side of obedience tomagistracy; and there is nothing but a greatpresent advantage, that can lead us to rebel-lion, by making us over-look the remote inter-est, which we have in the preserving of peaceand order in society. But though a present in-

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terest may thus blind us with regard to ourown actions, it takes not place with regard tothose of others; nor hinders them from appear-ing in their true colours, as highly prejudicialto public interest, and to our own in partic-ular. This naturally gives us an uneasiness,in considering such seditious and disloyal ac-tions, and makes us attach to them the ideaof vice and moral deformity. It is the sameprinciple, which causes us to disapprove of allkinds of private injustice, and in particular ofthe breach of promises. We blame all treach-ery and breach of faith; because we consider,that the freedom and extent of human com-merce depend entirely on a fidelity with regardto promises. We blame all disloyalty to mag-istrates; because we perceive, that the execu-tion of justice, in the stability of possession, itstranslation by consent, and the performance of

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promises, is impossible, without submission togovernment. As there are here two interests en-tirely distinct from each other, they must giverise to two moral obligations, equally separateand independent. Though there was no suchthing as a promise in the world, governmentwould still be necessary in all large and civi-lized societies; and if promises had only theirown proper obligation, without the separatesanction of government, they would have butlittle efficacy in such societies. This separatesthe boundaries of our public and private du-ties, and shews that the latter are more depen-dant on the former, than the former on the lat-ter. Education, and the artifice of politicians,concur to bestow a farther morality on loyalty,and to brand all rebellion with a greater degreeof guilt and infamy. Nor is it a wonder, thatpoliticians should be very industrious in incul-

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cating such notions, where their interest is soparticularly concerned.

Lest those arguments should not appear en-tirely conclusive (as I think they are) I shallhave recourse to authority, and shall prove,from the universal consent of mankind, thatthe obligation of submission to government isnot derived from any promise of the subjects.Nor need any one wonder, that though I haveall along endeavoured to establish my systemon pure reason, and have scarce ever cited thejudgment even of philosophers or historians onany article, I should now appeal to popular au-thority, and oppose the sentiments of the rab-ble to any philosophical reasoning. For it mustbe observed, that the opinions of men, in thiscase, carry with them a peculiar authority, andare, in a great measure, infallible. The distinc-

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tion of moral good and evil is founded on thepleasure or pain, which results from the viewof any sentiment, or character; and as that plea-sure or pain cannot be unknown to the per-son who feels it, it follows22, that there is justso much vice or virtue in any character, as ev-ery one places in it, and that it is impossible inthis particular we can ever be mistaken. Andthough our judgments concerning the origin ofany vice or virtue, be not so certain as thoseconcerning their degrees; yet, since the ques-

22This proposition must hold strictly true, with re-gard to every quality, that is determin’d merely by sen-timent. In what sense we can talk either of a right ora wrong taste in morals, eloquence, or beauty, shall beconsiderd afterwards. In the mean time, it may be ob-serv’d, that there is such an uniformity in the GENERALsentiments of mankind, as to render such questions ofbut small importance.

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tion in this case regards not any philosophicalorigin of an obligation, but a plain matter offact, it is not easily conceived how we can fallinto an error. A man, who acknowledges him-self to be bound to another, for a certain sum,must certainly know whether it be by his ownbond, or that of his father; whether it be of hismere good-will, or for money lent him; and un-der what conditions, and for what purposes hehas bound himself. In like manner, it being cer-tain, that there is a moral obligation to submitto government, because every one thinks so; itmust be as certain, that this obligation arisesnot from a promise; since no one, whose judg-ment has not been led astray by too strict ad-herence to a system of philosophy, has ever yetdreamt of ascribing it to that origin. Neithermagistrates nor subjects have formed this ideaof our civil duties.

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We find, that magistrates are so far fromderiving their authority, and the obligation toobedience in their subjects, from the founda-tion of a promise or original contract, that theyconceal, as far as possible, from their people,especially from the vulgar, that they have theirorigin from thence. Were this the sanction ofgovernment, our rulers would never receiveit tacitly, which is the utmost that can be pre-tended; since what is given tacitly and insensi-bly can never have such influence on mankind,as what is performed expressly and openly. Atacit promise is, where the will is signified byother more diffuse signs than those of speech;but a will there must certainly be in the case,and that can never escape the person’s notice,who exerted it, however silent or tacit. Butwere you to ask the far greatest part of the na-tion, whether they had ever consented to the

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authority of their rulers, or promised to obeythem, they would be inclined to think verystrangely of you; and would certainly reply,that the affair depended not on their consent,but that they were born to such an obedience.In consequence of this opinion, we frequentlysee them imagine such persons to be their nat-ural rulers, as are at that time deprived of allpower and authority, and whom no man, how-ever foolish, would voluntarily chuse; and thismerely because they are in that line, whichruled before, and in that degree of it, whichused to succeed; though perhaps in so distanta period, that scarce any man alive coued everhave given any promise of obedience. Has agovernment, then, no authority over such asthese, because they never consented to it, andwould esteem the very attempt of such a freechoice a piece of arrogance and impiety? We

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find by experience, that it punishes them veryfreely for what it calls treason and rebellion,which, it seems, according to this system, re-duces itself to common injustice. If you say,that by dwelling in its dominions, they in ef-fect consented to the established government; Ianswer, that this can only be, where they thinkthe affair depends on their choice, which fewor none, beside those philosophers, have everyet imagined. It never was pleaded as an ex-cuse for a rebel, that the first act he performd, after he came to years of discretion, was tolevy war against the sovereign of the state; andthat while he was a child he coued not bindhimself by his own consent, and having be-come a man, showed plainly, by the first acthe performed, that he had no design to imposeon himself any obligation to obedience. Wefind, on the contrary, that civil laws punish this

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crime at the same age as any other, which iscriminal, of itself, without our consent; that is,when the person is come to the full use of rea-son: Whereas to this crime they ought in jus-tice to allow some intermediate time, in whicha tacit consent at least might be supposed. Towhich we may add, that a man living underan absolute government, would owe it no al-legiance; since, by its very nature, it dependsnot on consent. But as that is as natural andcommon a government as any, it must certainlyoccasion some obligation; and it is plain fromexperience, that men, who are subjected to it,do always think so. This is a clear proof, thatwe do not commonly esteem our allegiance tobe derived from our consent or promise; and afarther proof is, that when our promise is uponany account expressly engaged, we always dis-tinguish exactly betwixt the two obligations,

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and believe the one to add more force to theother, than in a repetition of the same promise.Where no promise is given, a man looks not onhis faith as broken in private matters, upon ac-count of rebellion; but keeps those two dutiesof honour and allegiance perfectly distinct andseparate. As the uniting of them was thoughtby these philosophers a very subtile invention,this is a convincing proof, that it is not a trueone; since no man can either give a promise, orbe restrained by its sanction and obligation un-known to himself.

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SECTION IX. OF THE MEASURES OFALLEGIANCE

Those political writers, who have had re-course to a promise, or original contract, asthe source of our allegiance to government, in-tended to establish a principle, which is per-fectly just and reasonable; though the reason-ing, upon which they endeavoured to estab-lish it, was fallacious and sophistical. Theywould prove, that our submission to govern-ment admits of exceptions, and that an egre-gious tyranny in the rulers is sufficient to freethe subjects from all ties of allegiance. Sincemen enter into society, say they, and submitthemselves to government, by their free andvoluntary consent, they must have in view cer-tain advantages, which they propose to reapfrom it, and for which they are contented to

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resign their native liberty. There is, therefore,something mutual engaged on the part of themagistrate, viz, protection and security; and itis only by the hopes he affords of these advan-tages, that he can ever persuade men to sub-mit to him. But when instead of protection andsecurity, they meet with tyranny and oppres-sion, they are freeed from their promises, (ashappens in all conditional contracts) and returnto that state of liberty, which preceded the in-stitution of government. Men would never beso foolish as to enter into such engagements asshould turn entirely to the advantage of others,without any view of bettering their own con-dition. Whoever proposes to draw any profitfrom our submission, must engage himself, ei-ther expressly or tacitly, to make us reap someadvantage from his authority; nor ought heto expect, that without the performance of his

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part we will ever continue in obedience.

I repeat it: This conclusion is just, thoughthe principles be erroneous; and I flatter my-self, that I can establish the same conclusionon more reasonable principles. I shall nottake such a compass, in establishing our po-litical duties, as to assert, that men perceivethe advantages of government; that they insti-tute government with a view to those advan-tages; that this institution requires a promiseof obedience; which imposes a moral obliga-tion to a certain degree, but being conditional,ceases to be binding, whenever the other con-tracting party performs not his part of the en-gagement. I perceive, that a promise itselfarises entirely from human conventions, andis invented with a view to a certain interest. Iseek, therefore, some such interest more imme-

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diately connected with government, and whichmay be at once the original motive to its institu-tion, and the source of our obedience to it. Thisinterest I find to consist in the security and pro-tection, which we enjoy in political society, andwhich we can never attain, when perfectly freeand independent. As interest, therefore, is theimmediate sanction of government, the one canhave no longer being than the other; and when-ever the civil magistrate carries his oppressionso far as to render his authority perfectly intol-erable, we are no longer bound to submit to it.The cause ceases; the effect must cease also.

So far the conclusion is immediate and di-rect, concerning the natural obligation whichwe have to allegiance. As to the moral obliga-tion, we may observe, that the maxim wouldhere be false, that when the cause ceases, the ef-

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fect must cease also. For there is a principle ofhuman nature, which we have frequently takennotice of, that men are mightily addicted togeneral rules, and that we often carry our max-ims beyond those reasons, which first inducedus to establish them. Where cases are simi-lar in many circumstances, we are apt to putthem on the same footing, without considering,that they differ in the most material circum-stances, and that the resemblance is more ap-parent than real. It may, therefore, be thought,that in the case of allegiance our moral obliga-tion of duty will not cease, even though the nat-ural obligation of interest, which is its cause,has ceased; and that men may be bound byconscience to submit to a tyrannical govern-ment against their own and the public inter-est. And indeed, to the force of this argument Iso far submit, as to acknowledge, that general

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rules commonly extend beyond the principles,on which they are founded; and that we sel-dom make any exception to them, unless thatexception have the qualities of a general rule,and be founded on very numerous and com-mon instances. Now this I assert to be entirelythe present case. When men submit to the au-thority of others, it is to procure themselvessome security against the wickedness and in-justice of men, who are perpetually carried, bytheir unruly passions, and by their present andimmediate interest, to the violation of all thelaws of society. But as this imperfection is in-herent in human nature, we know that it mustattend men in all their states and conditions;and that these, whom we chuse for rulers, donot immediately become of a superior natureto the rest of mankind, upon account of theirsuperior power and authority. What we expect

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from them depends not on a change of their na-ture but of their situation, when they acquirea more immediate interest in the preservationof order and the execution of justice. But be-sides that this interest is only more immediatein the execution of justice among their subjects;besides this, I say, we may often expect, fromthe irregularity of human nature, that they willneglect even this immediate interest, and betransported by their passions into all the ex-cesses of cruelty and ambition.. Our generalknowledge of human nature, our observationof the past history of mankind, our experienceof present times; all these causes must induceus to open the door to exceptions, and mustmake us conclude, that we may resist the moreviolent effects of supreme power, without anycrime or injustice.

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Accordingly we may observe, that this isboth the general practice and principle ofmankind, and that no nation, that coued findany remedy, ever yet suffered the cruel rav-ages of a tyrant, or were blamed for their resis-tance. Those who took up arms against Diony-sius or Nero, or Philip the second, have thefavour of every reader in the perusal of theirhistory: and nothing but the most violent per-version of common sense can ever lead us tocondemn them. It is certain, therefore, that inall our notions of morals we never entertainsuch an absurdity as that of passive obedience,but make allowances for resistance in the moreflagrant instances of tyranny and oppression.The general opinion of mankind has some au-thority in all cases; but in this of morals it isperfectly infallible. Nor is it less infallible, be-cause men cannot distinctly explain the princi-

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ples, on which it is founded. Few persons cancarry on this train of reasoning:

Government is a mere human invention forthe interest of society. Where the tyranny of thegovernor removes this interest, it also removesthe natural obligation to obedience. The moralobligation is founded on the natural, and there-fore must cease where that ceases; especiallywhere the subject is such as makes us foreseevery many occasions wherein the natural obli-gation may cease, and causes us to form a kindof general rule for the regulation of our conductin such occurrences.

But though this train of reasoning be too sub-tile for the vulgar, it is certain, that all men havean implicit notion of it, and are sensible, thatthey owe obedience to government merely onaccount of the public interest; and at the same

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time, that human nature is so subject to frailtiesand passions, as may easily pervert this insti-tution, and change their governors into tyrantsand public enemies. If the sense of commoninterest were not our original motive to obe-dience, I would fain ask, what other princi-ple is there in human nature capable of sub-duing the natural ambition of men, and forc-ing them to such a submission? Imitation andcustom are not sufficient. For the question stillrecurs, what motive first produces those in-stances of submission, which we imitate, andthat train of actions, which produces the cus-tom? There evidently is no other principlethan public interest; and if interest first pro-duces obedience to government, the obligationto obedience must cease, whenever the interestceases, in any great degree, and in a consider-able number of instances.

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SECTION X. OF THE OBJECTS OFALLEGIANCE

But though, on some occasions, it may bejustifiable, both in sound politics and morality,to resist supreme power, it is certain, that inthe ordinary course of human affairs nothingcan be more pernicious and criminal; and thatbesides the convulsions, which always attendrevolutions, such a practice tends directly tothe subversion of all government, and the caus-ing an universal anarchy and confusion amongmankind. As numerous and civilized societiescannot subsist without government, so govern-ment is entirely useless without an exact obe-dience. We ought always to weigh the advan-tages, which we reap from authority, againstthe disadvantages; and by this means we shallbecome more scrupulous of putting in practice

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the doctrine of resistance. The common rulerequires submission; and it is only in cases ofgrievous tyranny and oppression, that the ex-ception can take place.

Since then such a blind submission is com-monly due to magistracy, the next question is,to whom it is due, and whom we are to regardas our lawful magistrates? In order to answerthis question, let us recollect what we have al-ready established concerning the origin of gov-ernment and political society. When men haveonce experienced the impossibility of preserv-ing any steady order in society, while every oneis his own master, and violates or observes thelaws of society, according to his present interestor pleasure, they naturally run into the inven-tion of government, and put it out of their ownpower, as far as possible, to transgress the laws

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of society. Government, therefore, arises fromthe same voluntary conversation of men; and itis evident, that the same convention, which es-tablishes government, will also determine thepersons who are to govern, and will remove alldoubt and ambiguity in this particular. Andthe voluntary consent of men must here havethe greater efficacy, that the authority of themagistrate does at first stand upon the founda-tion of a promise of the subjects, by which theybind themselves to obedience; as in every othercontract or engagement. The same promise,then, which binds them to obedience, ties themdown to a particular person, and makes himthe object of their allegiance.

But when government has been establishedon this footing for some considerable time, andthe separate interest, which we have in sub-

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mission, has produced a separate sentimentof morality, the case is entirely altered, and apromise is no longer able to determine the par-ticular magistrate since it is no longer consid-ered as the foundation of government. We nat-urally suppose ourselves born to submission;and imagine, that such particular persons havea right to command, as we on our part arebound to obey. These notions of right and obli-gation are derived from nothing but the advan-tage we reap from government, which gives usa repugnance to practise resistance ourselves,and makes us displeased with any instance ofit in others. But here it is remarkable, that inthis new state of affairs, the original sanctionof government, which is interest, is not admit-ted to determine the persons, whom we areto obey, as the original sanction did at first,when affairs were on the footing of a promise.

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A promise fixes and determines the persons,without any uncertainty: But it is evident, thatif men were to regulate their conduct in thisparticular, by the view of a peculiar interest,either public or private, they would involvethemselves in endless confusion, and wouldrender all government, in a great measure, inef-fectual. The private interest of every one is dif-ferent; and though the public interest in itselfbe always one and the same, yet it becomes thesource of as great dissentions, by reason of thedifferent opinions of particular persons con-cerning it. The same interest, therefore, whichcauses us to submit to magistracy, makes us re-nounce itself in the choice of our magistrates,and binds us down to a certain form of gov-ernment, and to particular persons, without al-lowing us to aspire to the utmost perfection ineither. The case is here the same as in that law

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of nature concerning the stability of possession.It is highly advantageous, and even absolutelynecessary to society, that possession should bestable; and this leads us to the establishmentof such a rule: But we find, that were we tofollow the same advantage, in assigning par-ticular possessions to particular persons, weshould disappoint our end, and perpetuate theconfusion, which that rule is intended to pre-vent. We must, therefore, proceed by generalrules, and regulate ourselves by general inter-ests, in modifying the law of nature concern-ing the stability of possession. Nor need wefear, that our attachment to this law will dimin-ish upon account of the seeming frivolousnessof those interests, by which it is determined.The impulse of the mind is derived from a verystrong interest; and those other more minuteinterests serve only to direct the motion, with-

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out adding any thing to it, or diminishing fromit. It is the same case with government. Noth-ing is more advantageous to society than suchan invention; and this interest is sufficient tomake us embrace it with ardour and alacrity;though we are obliged afterwards to regulateand direct our devotion to government by sev-eral considerations, which are not of the sameimportance, and to chuse our magistrates with-out having in view any particular advantagefrom the choice.

The first of those principles I shall take noticeof, as a foundation of the right of magistracy,is that which gives authority to all the mostestablished governments of the world withoutexception: I mean, long possession in any oneform of government, or succession of princes.It is certain, that if we remount to the first ori-

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gin of every nation, we shall find, that therescarce is any race of kings, or form of a com-monwealth, that is not primarily founded onusurpation and rebellion, and whose title isnot at first worse than doubtful and uncertain.Time alone gives solidity to their right; and op-erating gradually on the minds of men, rec-onciles them to any authority, and makes itseem just and reasonable. Nothing causes anysentiment to have a greater influence upon usthan custom, or turns our imagination morestrongly to any object. When we have beenlong accustomed to obey any set of men, thatgeneral instinct or tendency, which we have tosuppose a moral obligation attending loyalty,takes easily this direction, and chuses that setof men for its objects. It is interest which givesthe general instinct; but it is custom whichgives the particular direction.

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And here it is observable, that the samelength of time has a different influence on oursentiments of morality, according to its differ-ent influence on the mind. We naturally judgeof every thing by comparison; and since in con-sidering the fate of kingdoms and republics, weembrace a long extent of time, a small dura-tion has not in this case a like influence on oursentiments, as when we consider any other ob-ject. One thinks he acquires a right to a horse,or a suit of cloaths, in a very short time; buta century is scarce sufficient to establish anynew government, or remove all scruples in theminds of the subjects concerning it. Add tothis, that a shorter period of time will sufficeto give a prince a title to any additional powerhe may usurp, than will serve to fix his right,where the whole is an usurpation. The kingsof France have not been possessed of absolute

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power for above two reigns; and yet nothingwill appear more extravagant to Frenchmenthan to talk of their liberties. If we considerwhat has been said concerning accession, weshall easily account for this phaenomenon.

When there is no form of government es-tablished by long possession, the present pos-session is sufficient to supply its place, andmay be regarded as the second source of allpublic authority. Right to authority is noth-ing but the constant possession of authority,maintained by the laws of society and the in-terests of mankind; and nothing can be morenatural than to join this constant possessionto the present one, according to the princi-ples above-mentioned. If the same principlesdid not take place with regard to the propertyof private persons, it was because these prin-

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ciples were counter-ballanced by very strongconsiderations of interest; when we observed,that all restitution would by that means beprevented, and every violence be authorizedand protected. And though the same motivesmay seem to have force, with regard to pub-lic authority, yet they are opposed by a con-trary interest; which consists in the preserva-tion of peace, and the avoiding of all changes,which, however they may be easily producedin private affairs, are unavoidably attendedwith bloodshed and confusion, where the pub-lic is interested.

Any one, who finding the impossibility ofaccounting for the right of the present posses-sor, by any received system of ethics, should re-solve to deny absolutely that right, and assert,that it is not authorized by morality, would be

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justly thought to maintain a very extravagantparadox, and to shock the common sense andjudgment of mankind. No maxim is more con-formable, both to prudence and morals, thanto submit quietly to the government, which wefind established in the country where we hap-pen to live, without enquiring too curiouslyinto its origin and first establishment. Fewgovernments will bear being examined so rig-orously. How many kingdoms are there atpresent in the world, and how many more dowe find in history, whose governors have nobetter foundation for their authority than thatof present possession? To confine ourselvesto the Roman and Grecian empire; is it notevident, that the long succession of emperors,from the dissolution of the Roman liberty, tothe final extinction of that empire by the Turks,coued not so much as pretend to any other title

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to the empire? The election of the senate wasa mere form, which always followed the choiceof the legions; and these were almost alwaysdivided in the different provinces, and nothingbut the sword was able to terminate the dif-ference. It was by the sword, therefore, thatevery emperor acquired, as well as defendedhis right; and we must either say, that all theknown world, for so many ages, had no gov-ernment, and owed no allegiance to any one,or must allow, that the right of the stronger, inpublic affairs, is to be received as legitimate,and authorized by morality, when not opposedby any other title.

The right of conquest may be considered asa third source of the title of sovereigns. Thisright resembles very much that of present pos-session; but has rather a superior force, be-

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ing seconded by the notions of glory and hon-our, which we ascribe to conquerors, instead ofthe sentiments of hatred and detestation, whichattend usurpers. Men naturally favour thosethey love; and therefore are more apt to as-cribe a right to successful violence, betwixt onesovereign and another, than to the successfulrebellion of a subject against his sovereign.23

When neither long possession, nor presentpossession, nor conquest take place, as when

23It is not here asserted, that present possession orconquest are sufficient to give a title against long pos-session and positive laws but only that they have someforce, and will be able to call the ballance where the titlesare otherwise equal, and will even be sufficient some-times to sanctify the weaker title. What degree of forcethey have is difficult to determine. I believe all moderatemen will allow, that they have great force in all disputesconcerning the rights of princes.

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the first sovereign, who founded any monar-chy, dies; in that case, the right of successionnaturally prevails in their stead, and men arecommonly induced to place the son of their latemonarch on the throne, and suppose him to in-herit his father’s authority. The presumed con-sent of the father, the imitation of the succes-sion to private families, the interest, which thestate has in chusing the person, who is mostpowerful, and has the most numerous follow-ers; all these reasons lead men to prefer the sonof their late monarch to any other person.24

These reasons have some weight; but I am

24To prevent mistakes I must observe, that this caseof succession is not the same with that of hereditarymonarchies, where custom has fix’d the right of succes-sion. These depend upon the principle of long posses-sion above explain’d.

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persuaded, that to one, who considers im-partially of the matter, it will appear, thatthere concur some principles of the imagina-tion, along with those views of interest. Theroyal authority seems to be connected with theyoung prince even in his father’s life-time, bythe natural transition of the thought; and stillmore after his death: So that nothing is morenatural than to compleat this union by a newrelation, and by putting him actually in pos-session of what seems so naturally to belong tohim.

To confirm this we may weigh the follow-ing phaenomena, which are pretty curious intheir kind. In elective monarchies the right ofsuccession has no place by the laws and set-tled custom; and yet its influence is so natural,that it is impossible entirely to exclude it from

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the imagination, and render the subjects indif-ferent to the son of their deceased monarch.Hence in some governments of this kind, thechoice commonly falls on one or other of theroyal family; and in some governments theyare all excluded. Those contrary phaenomenaproceed from the same principle. Where theroyal family is excluded, it is from a refine-ment in politics, which makes people sensi-ble of their propensity to chuse a sovereign inthat family, and gives them a jealousy of theirliberty, lest their new monarch, aided by thispropensity, should establish his family, and de-stroy the freedom of elections for the future.

The history of Artaxerxes, and the youngerCyrus, may furnish us with some reflections tothe same purpose. Cyrus pretended a right tothe throne above his elder brother, because he

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was born after his father’s accession. I do notpretend, that this reason was valid. I wouldonly infer from it, that he would never havemade use of such a pretext, were it not for thequalities of the imagination above-mentioned,by which we are naturally inclined to unite by anew relation whatever objects we find alreadyunited. Artaxerxes had an advantage above hisbrother, as being the eldest son, and the first insuccession: But Cyrus was more closely relatedto the royal authority, as being begot after hisfather was invested with it.

Should it here be pretended, that the view ofconvenience may be the source of all the rightof succession, and that men gladly take advan-tage of any rule, by which they can fix the suc-cessor of their late sovereign, and prevent thatanarchy and confusion, which attends all new

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elections? To this I would answer, that I readilyallow, that this motive may contribute some-thing to the effect; but at the same time I as-sert, that without another principle, it is impos-sible such a motive should take place. The in-terest of a nation requires, that the successionto the crown should be fixed one way or other;but it is the same thing to its interest in whatway it be fixed: So that if the relation of bloodhad not an effect independent of public inter-est, it would never have been regarded, with-out a positive law; and it would have been im-possible, that so many positive laws of differ-ent nations coued ever have concured preciselyin the same views and intentions.

This leads us to consider the fifth source ofauthority, viz. positive laws; when the legisla-ture establishes a certain form of government

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and succession of princes. At first sight it maybe thought, that this must resolve into someof the preceding titles of authority. The leg-islative power, whence the positive law is de-rived, must either be established by originalcontract, long possession, present possession,conquest, or succession; and consequently thepositive law must derive its force from someof those principles. But here it is remarkable,that though a positive law can only derive itsforce from these principles, yet it acquires notall the force of the principle from whence it isderived, but loses considerably in the transi-tion; as it is natural to imagine. For instance; agovernment is established for many centurieson a certain system of laws, forms, and meth-ods of succession. The legislative power, estab-lished by this long succession, changes all on asudden the whole system of government, and

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introduces a new constitution in its stead. I be-lieve few of the subjects will think themselvesbound to comply with this alteration, unless ithave an evident tendency to the public good:But men think themselves still at liberty to re-turn to the antient government. Hence the no-tion of fundamental laws; which are supposedto be inalterable by the will of the sovereign:And of this nature the Salic law is understoodto be in France. How far these fundamentallaws extend is not determined in any govern-ment; nor is it possible it ever should. There issuch an indefensible gradation from the mostmaterial laws to the most trivial, and from themost antient laws to the most modem, that itwill be impossible to set bounds to the legisla-tive power, and determine how far it may in-novate in the principles of government. That isthe work more of imagination and passion than

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of reason.

Whoever considers the history of the severalnations of the world; their revolutions, con-quests, increase, and diminution; the mannerin which their particular governments are es-tablished, and the successive right transmittedfrom one person to another, will soon learn totreat very lightly all disputes concerning therights of princes, and will be convinced, thata strict adherence to any general rules, and therigid loyalty to particular persons and families,on which some people set so high a value, arevirtues that hold less of reason, than of bigotryand superstition. In this particular, the study ofhistory confirms the reasonings of true philoso-phy; which, shewing us the original qualities ofhuman nature, teaches us to regard the contro-versies in politics as incapable of any decision

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in most cases, and as entirely subordinate to theinterests of peace and liberty. Where the publicgood does not evidently demand a change; it iscertain, that the concurrence of all those titles,original contract, long possession, present pos-session, succession, and positive laws, formsthe strongest title to sovereignty, and is justlyregarded as sacred and inviolable. But whenthese titles are mingled and opposed in dif-ferent degrees, they often occasion perplex-ity; and are less capable of solution from thearguments of lawyers and philosophers, thanfrom the swords of the soldiery. Who shalltell me, for instance, whether Germanicus, orDrufus, ought to have succeeded Tiberius, hadhe died while they were both alive, withoutnaming any of them for his successor? Oughtthe right of adoption to be received as equiva-lent to that of blood in a nation, where it had

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the same effect in private families, and had al-ready, in two instances, taken place in the pub-lic? Ought Germanicus to be esteemed the el-dest son, because he was born before Drufus; orthe younger, because he was adopted after thebirth of his brother? Ought the right of the el-der to be regarded in a nation, where the eldestbrother had no advantage in the succession toprivate families? Ought the Roman empire atthat time to be esteemed hereditary, because oftwo examples; or ought it, even so early, to beregarded as belonging to the stronger, or thepresent possessor, as being founded on so re-cent an usurpation? Upon whatever principleswe may pretend to answer these and such likequestions, I am afraid we shall never be ableto satisfy an impartial enquirer, who adopts noparty in political controversies, and will be sat-isfied with nothing but sound reason and phi-

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losophy.

But here an English reader will be apt toenquire concerning that famous revolution,which has had such a happy influence on ourconstitution, and has been attended with suchmighty consequences. We have already re-marked, that in the case of enormous tyrannyand oppression, it is lawful to take arms evenagainst supreme power; and that as govern-ment is a mere human invention for mutual ad-vantage and security, it no longer imposes anyobligation, either natural or moral, when onceit ceases to have that tendency. But thoughthis general principle be authorized by com-mon sense, and the practice of all ages, it iscertainly impossible for the laws, or even forphilosophy, to establish any particular rules, bywhich we may know when resistance is law-

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ful; and decide all controversies, which mayarise on that subject. This may not only happenwith regard to supreme power; but it is possi-ble, even in some constitutions, where the leg-islative authority is not lodged in one person,that there may be a magistrate so eminent andpowerful, as to oblige the laws to keep silencein this particular. Nor would this silence be aneffect only of their respect, but also of their pru-dence; since it is certain, that in the vast vari-ety of circumstances, which occur in all gov-ernments, an exercise of power, in so great amagistrate, may at one time be beneficial tothe public, which at another time would bepernicious and tyrannical. But notwithstand-ing this silence of the laws in limited monar-chies, it is certain, that the people still retainthe right of resistance; since it is impossible,even in the most despotic governments, to de-

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prive them of it. The same necessity of self-preservation, and the same motive of publicgood, give them the same liberty in the onecase as in the other. And we may farther ob-serve, that in such mixed governments, thecases, wherein resistance is lawful, must occurmuch oftener, and greater indulgence be givento the subjects to defend themselves by force ofarms, than in arbitrary governments. Not onlywhere the chief magistrate enters into mea-sures, in themselves, extremely pernicious tothe public, but even when he would encroachon the other parts of the constitution, and ex-tend his power beyond the legal bounds, it isallowable to resist and dethrone him; thoughsuch resistance and violence may, in the gen-eral tenor of the laws, be deemed unlawful andrebellious. For besides that nothing is moreessential to public interest, than the preserva-

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tion of public liberty; it is evident, that if sucha mixed government be once supposed to beestablished, every part or member of the con-stitution must have a right of self-defence, andof maintaining its antient bounds against theenaoachment of every other authority. As mat-ter would have been created in vain, were it de-prived of a power of resistance, without whichno part of it coued preserve a distinct existence,and the whole might be crowded up into a sin-gle point: So it is a gross absurdity to suppose,in any government, a right without a remedy,or allow, that the supreme power is shared withthe people, without allowing, that it is lawfulfor them to defend their share against every in-vader. Those, therefore, who would seem torespect our free government, and yet deny theright of resistance, have renounced all preten-sions to common sense, and do not merit a se-

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rious answer.

It does not belong to my present purpose toshew, that these general principles are applica-ble to the late revolution; and that all the rightsand privileges, which ought to be sacred to afree nation, were at that time threatened withthe utmost danger. I am better pleased to leavethis controverted subject, if it really admits ofcontroversy; and to indulge myself in somephilosophical reflections, which naturally arisefrom that important event.

First, We may observe, that should the lordsand commons in our constitution, without anyreason from public interest, either depose theking in being, or after his death exclude theprince, who, by laws and settled custom, oughtto succeed, no one would esteem their proceed-ings legal, or think themselves bound to com-

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ply with them. But should the king, by hisunjust practices, or his attempts for a tyran-nical and despotic power, justly forfeit his le-gal, it then not only becomes morally lawfuland suitable to the nature of political societyto dethrone him; but what is more, we are aptlikewise to think, that the remaining membersof the constitution acquire a right of excludinghis next heir, and of chusing whom they pleasefor his successor. This is founded on a verysingular quality of our thought and imagina-tion. When a king forfeits his authority, his heirought naturally to remain in the same situation,as if the king were removed by death; unless bymixing himself in the tyranny, he forfeit it forhimself. But though this may seem reasonable,we easily comply with the contrary opinion.The deposition of a king, in such a governmentas ours, is certainly an act beyond all common

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authority, and an illegal assuming a power forpublic good, which, in the ordinary course ofgovernment, can belong to no member of theconstitution. When the public good is so greatand so evident as to justify the action, the com-mendable use of this licence causes us natu-rally to attribute to the parliament a right of us-ing farther licences; and the antient bounds ofthe laws being once transgressed with appro-bation, we are not apt to be so strict in confin-ing ourselves precisely within their limits. Themind naturally runs on with any train of action,which it has begun; nor do we commonly makeany scruple concerning our duty, after the firstaction of any kind, which we perform. Thus atthe revolution, no one who thought the depo-sition of the father justifiable, esteemed them-selves to be confined to his infant son; thoughhad that unhappy monarch died innocent at

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that time, and had his son, by any accident,been conveyed beyond seas, there is no doubtbut a regency would have been appointed tillhe should come to age, and coued be restoredto his dominions. As the slightest propertiesof the imagination have an effect on the judg-ments of the people, it shews the wisdom of thelaws and of the parliament to take advantage ofsuch properties, and to chuse the magistrateseither in or out of a line, according as the vul-gar will most naturally attribute authority andright to them.

Secondly, Though the accession of the Princeof Orange to the throne might at first give oc-casion to many disputes, and his title be con-tested, it ought not now to appear doubtful,but must have acquired a sufficient author-ity from those three princes, who have suc-

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ceeded him upon the same title. Nothing ismore usual, though nothing may, at first sight,appear more unreasonable, than this way ofthinking. Princes often seem to acquire a rightfrom their successors, as well as from their an-cestors; and a king, who during his life-timemight justly be deemed an usurper, will beregarded by posterity as a lawful prince, be-cause he has had the good fortune to settlehis family on the throne, and entirely changethe antient form of government. Julius Cae-sar is regarded as the first Roman emperor;while Sylla and Marius, whose titles were re-ally the same as his, are treated as tyrants andusurpers. Time and custom give authority toall forms of government, and all successionsof princes; and that power, which at first wasfounded only on injustice and violence, be-comes in time legal and obligatory. Nor does

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the mind rest there; but returning back uponits footsteps, transfers to their predecessors andancestors that right, which it naturally ascribesto the posterity, as being related together, andunited in the imagination. The present kingof France makes Hugh Capet a more lawfulprince than Cromwell; as the established lib-erty of the Dutch is no inconsiderable apologyfor their obstinate resistance to Philip the sec-ond.

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SECTION XI. OF THE LAWS OF NATIONS

When civil government has been establishedover the greatest part of mankind, and differentsocieties have been formed contiguous to eachother, there arises a new set of duties amongthe neighbouring states, suitable to the natureof that commerce, which they carry on witheach other. Political writers tell us, that in ev-ery kind of intercourse, a body politic is to beconsidered as one person; and indeed this as-sertion is so far just, that different nations, aswell as private persons, require mutual assis-tance; at the same time that their selfishnessand ambition are perpetual sources of war anddiscord. But though nations in this particularresemble individuals, yet as they are very dif-ferent in other respects, no wonder they regu-late themselves by different maxims, and give

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rise to a new set of rules, which we call thelaws of nations. Under this head we may com-prize the sacredness of the persons of ambas-sadors, the declaration of war, the abstainingfrom poisoned arms, with other duties of thatkind, which are evidently calculated for thecommerce, that is peculiar to different societies.

But though these rules be super-added to thelaws of nature, the former do not entirely abol-ish the latter; and one may safely affirm, thatthe three fundamental rules of justice, the sta-bility of possession, its transference by consent,and the performance of promises, are duties ofprinces, as well as of subjects. The same in-terest produces the same effect in both cases.Where possession has no stability, there mustbe perpetual war. Where property is not trans-ferred by consent, there can be no commerce.

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Where promises are not observed, there canbe no leagues nor alliances. The advantages,therefore, of peace, commerce, and mutual suc-cour, make us extend to different kingdomsthe same notions of justice, which take placeamong individuals.

There is a maxim very current in the world,which few politicians are willing to avow, butwhich has been authorized by the practice of allages, that there is a system of morals cakulatedfor princes, much more free than that whichought to govern private parsons. It is evidentthis is not to be understood of the lesser extentof public duties and obligations; nor will anyone be so extravagant as to assert, that the mostsolemn treaties ought to have no force amongprinces. For as princes do actually form treatiesamong themselves, they must propose some

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advantage from the execution of them; andthe prospect of such advantage for the futuremust engage them to perform their part, andmust establish that law of nature. The mean-ing, therefore, of this political maxim is, thatthough the morality of princes has the same ex-tent, yet it has not the same force as that of pri-vate persons, and may lawfully be trangressedfrom a more trivial motive. However shock-ing such a proposition may appear to certainphilosophers, it will be easy to defend it uponthose principles, by which we have accountedfor the origin of justice and equity.

When men have found by experience, thatit is impossible to subsist without society, andthat it is impossible to maintain society, whilethey give free course to their appetites; so ur-gent an interest quickly restrains their actions,

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and imposes an obligation to observe thoserules, which we call the laws of justice. Thisobligation of interest rests nor here; but bythe necessary course of the passions and sen-timents, gives rise to the moral obligation ofduty; while we approve of such actions as tendto the peace of society, and disapprove of suchas tend to its disturbance. The same naturalobligation of interest takes place among inde-pendent kingdoms, and gives rise to the samemorality; so that no one of ever so corruptmorals will approve of a prince, who volun-tarily, and of his own accord, breaks his word,or violates any treaty. But here we may ob-serve, that though the intercourse of differentstates be advantageous, and even sometimesnecessary, yet it is nor so necessary nor ad-vantageous as that among individuals, withoutwhich it is utterly impossible for human nature

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ever to subsist. Since, therefore, the naturalobligation to justice, among different states, isnot so strong as among individuals, the moralobligation, which arises from it, must partakeof its weakness; and we must necessarily give agreater indulgence to a prince or minister, whodeceives another; than to a private gentleman,who breaks his word of honour.

Should it be asked, what proportion thesetwo species of morality bear to each other? Iwould answer, that this is a question, to whichwe can never give any precise answer; nor is itpossible to reduce to numbers the proportion,which we ought to fix betwixt them. One maysafely affirm, that this proportion finds itself,without any art or study of men; as we mayobserve on many other occasions. The practiceof the world goes farther in teaching us the de-

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grees of our duty, than the most subtile philos-ophy, which was ever yet invented. And thismay serve as a convincing proof, that all menhave an implicit notion of the foundation ofthose moral rules concerning natural and civiljustice, and are sensible, that they arise merelyfrom human conventions, and from the inter-est, which we have in the preservation of peaceand order. For otherwise the diminution of theinterest would never produce a relaxation ofthe morality, and reconcile us more easily toany transgression of justice among princes andrepublics, than in the private commerce of onesubject with another.

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SECTION XII. OF CHASTITY AND MODESTY

If any difficulty attend this system concern-ing the laws of nature and nations, it will bewith regard to the universal approbation orblame, which follows their observance or trans-gression, and which some may not think suffi-ciently explained from the general interests ofsociety. To remove, as far as possible, all scru-ples of this kind, I shall here consider anotherset of duties, viz, the modesty and chastitywhich belong to the fair sex: And I doubt notbut these virtues will be found to be still moreconspicuous instances of the operation of thoseprinciples, which I have insisted on.

There are some philosophers, who attackthe female virtues with great vehemence, andfancy they have gone very far in detecting pop-ular errors, when they can show, that there is

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no foundation in nature for all that exteriormodesty, which we require in the expressions,and dress, and behaviour of the fair sex. I be-lieve I may spare myself the trouble of insist-ing on so obvious a subject, and may proceed,without farther preparation, to examine afterwhat manner such notions arise from educa-tion, from the voluntary conventions of men,and from the interest of society.

Whoever considers the length and feeblenessof human infancy, with the concern which bothsexes naturally have for their offspring, willeasily perceive, that there must be an unionof male and female for the education of theyoung, and that this union must be of consid-erable duration. But in order to induce the mento impose on themselves this restraint, and un-dergo chearfully all the fatigues and expences,

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to which it subjects them, they must believe,that the children are their own, and that theirnatural instinct is not directed to a wrong ob-ject, when they give a loose to love and ten-derness. Now if we examine the structure ofthe human body, we shall find, that this secu-rity is very difficult to be attained on our part;and that since, in the copulation of the sexes,the principle of generation goes from the manto the woman, an error may easily take placeon the side of the former, though it be utterlyimpossible with regard to the latter. From thistrivial and anatomical observation is derivedthat vast difference betwixt the education andduties of the two sexes.

Were a philosopher to examine the mattera priori, he would reason after the followingmanner. Men are induced to labour for the

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maintenance and education of their children,by the persuasion that they are really theirown; and therefore it is reasonable, and evennecessary, to give them some security in thisparticular. This security cannot consist entirelyin the imposing of severe punishments on anytransgressions of conjugal fidelity on the partof the wife; since these public punishmentscannot be inflicted without legal proof, which itis difficult to meet with in this subject. What re-straint, therefore, shall we impose on women,in order to counter-balance so strong a temp-tation as they have to infidelity? There seemsto be no restraint possible, but in the pun-ishment of bad fame or reputation; a punish-ment, which has a mighty influence on the hu-man mind, and at the same time is inflicted bythe world upon surmizes, and conjectures, andproofs, that would never be received in any

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court of judicature. In order, therefore, to im-pose a due restraint on the female sex, we mustattach a peculiar degree of shame to their infi-delity, above what arises merely from its injus-tice, and must bestow proportionable praiseson their chastity.

But though this be a very strong motive to fi-delity, our philosopher would quickly discover,that it would not alone be sufficient to that pur-pose. All human creatures, especially of thefemale sex, are apt to over-look remote mo-tives in favour of any present temptation: Thetemptation is here the strongest imaginable: Itsapproaches are insensible and seducing: Anda woman easily finds, or flatters herself sheshall find, certain means of securing her repu-tation, and preventing all the pernicious conse-quences of her pleasures. It is necessary, there-

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fore, that, beside the infamy attending such li-cences, there should be some preceding back-wardness or dread, which may prevent theirfirst approaches, and may give the female sexa repugnance to all expressions, and postures,and liberties, that have an immediate relationto that enjoyment.

Such would be the reasonings of our specu-lative philosopher: But I am persuaded, that ifhe had not a perfect knowledge of human na-ture, he would be apt to regard them as merechimerical speculations, and would considerthe infamy attending infidelity, and backward-ness to all its approaches, as principles thatwere rather to be wished than hoped for inthe world. For what means, would he say, ofpersuading mankind, that the transgressionsof conjugal duty are more infamous than any

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other kind of injustice, when it is evident theyare more excusable, upon account of the great-ness of the temptation? And what possibil-ity of giving a backwardness to the approachesof a pleasure, to which nature has inspired sostrong a propensity; and a propensity that it isabsolutely necessary in the end to comply with,for the support of the species?

But speculative reasonings, which cost somuch pains to philosophers, are often formedby the world naturally, and without reflection:As difficulties, which seem unsurmountable intheory, are easily got over in practice. Those,who have an interest in the fidelity of women,naturally disapprove of their infidelity, and allthe approaches to it. Those, who have no in-terest, are carried along with the stream. Edu-cation takes possession of the ductile minds of

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the fair sex in their infancy. And when a gen-eral rule of this kind is once established, menare apt to extend it beyond those principles,from which it first arose. Thus batchelors, how-ever debauched, cannot chuse but be shockedwith any instance of lewdness or impudence inwomen. And though all these maxims have aplain reference to generation, yet women pastchild-bearing have no more privilege in this re-spect, than those who are in the flower of theiryouth and beauty. Men have undoubtedly animplicit notion, that all those ideas of mod-esty and decency have a regard to generation;since they impose not the same laws, with thesame force, on the male sex, where that reasontakes nor place. The exception is there obvi-ous and extensive, and founded on a remark-able difference, which produces a clear separa-tion and disjunction of ideas. But as the case is

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not the same with regard to the different ages ofwomen, for this reason, though men know, thatthese notions are founded on the public inter-est, yet the general rule carries us beyond theoriginal principle, and makes us extend the no-tions of modesty over the whole sex, from theirearliest infancy to their extremest old-age andinfirmity.

Courage, which is the point of honouramong men, derives its merit, in a great mea-sure, from artifice, as well as the chastity ofwomen; though it has also some foundation innature, as we shall see afterwards.

As to the obligations which the male sex lieunder, with regard to chastity, we may observe,that according to the general notions of theworld, they bear nearly the same proportion tothe obligations of women, as the obligations of

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the law of nations do to those of the law of na-ture. It is contrary to the interest of civil society,that men should have an entire liberty of in-dulging their appetites in venereal enjoyment:But as this interest is weaker than in the caseof the female sex, the moral obligation, arisingfrom it, must be proportionably weaker. Andto prove this we need only appeal to the prac-tice and sentiments of all nations and ages.

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PART III

OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES

SECTION I. OF THE ORIGIN OF THENATURAL VIRTUES AND VICES

We come now to the examination of suchvirtues and vices as are entirely natural, andhave no dependance on the artifice and con-trivance of men. The examination of these willconclude this system of morals.

The chief spring or actuating principle of thehuman mind is pleasure or pain; and whenthese sensations are removed, both from ourthought and feeling, we are, in a great mea-sure, incapable of passion or action, of desire

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or volition. The most immediate effects of plea-sure and pain are the propense and averse mo-tions of the mind; which are diversified intovolition, into desire and aversion, grief and joy,hope and fear, according as the pleasure or painchanges its situation, and becomes probable orimprobable, certain or uncertain, or is consid-ered as out of our power for the present mo-ment. But when along with this, the objects,that cause pleasure or pain, acquire a relation toourselves or others; they still continue to excitedesire and aversion, grief and joy: But cause,at the same time, the indirect passions of prideor humility, love or hatred, which in this casehave a double relation of impressions and ideasto the pain or pleasure.

We have already observed, that moral dis-tinctions depend entirely on certain peculiar

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sentiments of pain and pleasure, and thatwhatever mental quality in ourselves or oth-ers gives us a satisfaction, by the survey or re-flection, is of course virtuous; as every thingof this nature, that gives uneasiness, is vicious.Now since every quality in ourselves or others,which gives pleasure, always causes pride orlove; as every one, that produces uneasiness,excites humility or hatred: It follows, that thesetwo particulars are to be considered as equiva-lent, with regard to our mental qualities, virtueand the power of producing love or pride, viceand the power of producing humility or hatred.In every case, therefore, we must judge of theone by the other; and may pronounce any qual-ity of the mind virtuous, which causes love orpride; and any one vicious, which causes ha-tred or humility.

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If any action be either virtuous or vicious, itis only as a sign of some quality or character.It must depend upon durable principles of themind, which extend over the whole conduct,and enter into the personal character. Actionsthemselves, not proceeding from any constantprinciple, have no influence on love or hatred,pride or humility; and consequently are neverconsidered in morality.

This reflection is self-evident, and deservesto be attended to, as being of the utmost im-portance in the present subject. We are neverto consider any single action in our enquiriesconcerning the origin of morals; but only thequality or character from which the action pro-ceeded. These alone are durable enough to af-fect our sentiments concerning the person. Ac-tions are, indeed, better indications of a charac-

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ter than words, or even wishes and sentiments;but it is only so far as they are such indica-tions, that they are attended with love or ha-tred, praise or blame.

To discover the true origin of morals, and ofthat love or hatred, which arises from mentalqualities, we must take the matter pretty deep,and compare some principles, which have beenalready examined and explained.

We may begin with considering a-new thenature and force of sympathy. The mindsof all men are similar in their feelings andoperations; nor can any one be actuated byany affection, of which all others are not, insome degree, susceptible. As in strings equallywound up, the motion of one communicates it-self to the rest; so all the affections readily passfrom one person to another, and beget corre-

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spondent movements in every human creature.When I see the effects of passion in the voiceand gesture of any person, my mind immedi-ately passes from these effects to their causes,and forms such a lively idea of the passion, asis presently converted into the passion itself. Inlike manner, when I perceive the causes of anyemotion, my mind is conveyed to the effects,and is actuated with a like emotion. Were Ipresent at any of the more terrible operationsof surgery, it is certain, that even before it be-gun, the preparation of the instruments, thelaying of the bandages in order, the heating ofthe irons, with all the signs of anxiety and con-cern in the patient and assistants, would havea great effect upon my mind, and excite thestrongest sentiments of pity and terror. No pas-sion of another discovers itself immediately tothe mind. We are only sensible of its causes or

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effects. From these we infer the passion: Andconsequently these give rise to our sympathy.

Our sense of beauty depends very much onthis principle; and where any object has aten-dency to produce pleasure in its possessor, itis always regarded as beautiful; as every ob-ject, that has a tendency to produce pain, isdisagreeable and deformed. Thus the conve-niency of a house, the fertility of a field, thestrength of a horse, the capacity, security, andswift-sailing of a vessel, form the principalbeauty of these several objects. Here the ob-ject, which is denominated beautiful, pleasesonly by its tendency to produce a certain ef-fect. That effect is the pleasure or advantageof some other person. Now the pleasure ofa stranger, for whom we have no friendship,pleases us only by sympathy. To this principle,

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therefore, is owing the beauty, which we find inevery thing that is useful. How considerable apart this is of beauty can easily appear upon re-flection. Wherever an object has a tendency toproduce pleasure in the possessor, or in otherwords, is the proper cause of pleasure, it is sureto please the spectator, by a delicate sympathywith the possessor. Most of the works of art areesteemed beautiful, in proportion to their fit-ness for the use of man, and even many of theproductions of nature derive their beauty fromthat source. Handsome and beautiful, on mostoccasions, is nor an absolute but a relative qual-ity, and pleases us by nothing but its tendencyto produce an end that is agreeable.25

25Decentior equus cujus astricta sunt ilia; sed idemvelocior. Pulcher aspectu sit athieta, cujus lacertos ex-ercitatio expressit; idem certamini paratior. Nunquam

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The same principle produces, in many in-stances, our sentiments of morals, as well asthose of beauty. No virtue is more esteemedthan justice, and no vice more detested thaninjustice; nor are there any qualities, which gofarther to the fixing the character, either as ami-able or odious. Now justice is a moral virtue,merely because it has that tendency to the goodof mankind; and, indeed, is nothing but an arti-ficial invention to that purpose. The same may

vero species ab utilitate dividitur. Sed hoc quidem dis-cernere, modici judicii est. Quinct. lib. 8. (A horsewith narrow flanks looks more comely; It also movesfaster. An athlete whose muscles have been developedby training presents a handsome appearance; he is alsobetter prepared for the contest. Attractive appearanceis invariably associated with efficient functioning. Yet ittakes no outstanding powers of judgement to wake thisdistinction.)

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be said of allegiance, of the laws of nations, ofmodesty, and of good-manners. All these aremere human contrivances for the interest of so-ciety. And since there is a very strong senti-ment of morals, which in all nations, and allages, has attended them, we must allow, thatthe reflecting on the tendency of characters andmental qualities, is sufficient to give us the sen-timents of approbation and blame. Now as themeans to an end can only be agreeable, wherethe end is agreeable; and as the good of soci-ety, where our own interest is not concerned, orthat of our friends, pleases only by sympathy:It follows, that sympathy is the source of the es-teem, which we pay to all the artificial virtues.

Thus it appears, that sympathy is a verypowerful principle in human nature, that it hasa great influence on our taste of beauty, and

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that it produces our sentiment of morals in allthe artificial virtues. From thence we may pre-sume, that it also gives rise to many of the othervirtues; and that qualities acquire our appro-bation, because of their tendency to the goodof mankind. This presumption must become acertainty, when we find that most of those qual-ities, which we naturally approve of, have ac-tually that tendency, and render a man a propermember of society: While the qualities, whichwe naturally disapprove of, have a contrarytendency, and render any intercourse with theperson dangerous or disagreeable. For havingfound, that such tendencies have force enoughto produce the strongest sentiment of morals,we can never reasonably, in these cases, lookfor any other cause of approbation or blame; itbeing an inviolable maxim in philosophy, thatwhere any particular cause is sufficient for an

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effect, we ought to rest satisfied with it, andought not to multiply causes without necessity.We have happily attained experiments in theartificial virtues, where the tendency of quali-ties to the good of society, is the sole cause ofour approbation, without any suspicion of theconcurrence of another principle. From thencewe learn the force of that principle. And wherethat principle may take place, and the qualityapproved of is really beneficial to society, a truephilosopher will never require any other prin-ciple to account for the strongest approbationand esteem.

That many of the natural virtues have thistendency to the good of society, no one candoubt of. Meekness, beneficence, charity, gen-erosity, clemency, moderation, equity bear thegreatest figure among the moral qualities, and

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are commonly denominated the social virtues,to mark their tendency to the good of soci-ety. This goes so far, that some philosophershave represented all moral distinctions as theeffect of artifice and education, when skilfulpoliticians endeavoured to restrain the turbu-lent passions of men, and make them operate tothe public good, by the notions of honour andshame. This system, however, is nor consis-tent with experience. For, first, there are othervirtues and vices beside those which have thistendency to the public advantage and loss. Sec-ondly, had not men a natural sentiment of ap-probation and blame, it coued never be excitedby politicians; nor would the words laudableand praise-worthy, blameable and odious beany more intelligible, than if they were a lan-guage perfectly known to us, as we have al-ready observed. But though this system be er-

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roneous, it may teach us, that moral distinc-tions arise, in a great measure, from the ten-dency of qualities and characters to the inter-ests of society, and that it is our concern forthat interest, which makes us approve or disap-prove of them. Now we have no such extensiveconcern for society but from sympathy; andconsequently it is that principle, which takes usso far out of ourselves, as to give us the samepleasure or uneasiness in the characters of oth-ers, as if they had a tendency to our own ad-vantage or loss.

The only difference betwixt the naturalvirtues and justice lies in this, that the good,which results from the former, arises from ev-ery single act, and is the object of some naturalpassion: Whereas a single act of justice, con-sidered in itself, may often be contrary to the

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public good; and it is only the concurrence ofmankind, in a general scheme or system of ac-tion, which is advantageous. When I relievepersons in distress, my natural humanity is mymotive; and so far as my succour extends, so farhave I promoted the happiness of my fellow-creatures. But if we examine all the questions,that come before any tribunal of justice, weshall find, that, considering each case apart, itwould as often be an instance of humanity todecide contrary to the laws of justice as con-formable them. Judges take from a poor manto give to a rich; they bestow on the dissolutethe labour of the industrious; and put into thehands of the vicious the means of harming boththemselves and others. The whole scheme,however, of law and justice is advantageous tothe society; and it was with a view to this ad-vantage, that men, by their voluntary conven-

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tions, established it. After it is once establishedby these conventions, it is naturally attendedwith a strong sentiment of morals; which canproceed from nothing but our sympathy withthe interests of society. We need no other ex-plication of that esteem, which attends such ofthe natural virtues, as have a tendency to thepublic good. I must farther add, that there areseveral circumstances, which render this hy-pothesis much more probable with regard tothe natural than the artificial virtues. It is cer-tain that the imagination is more affected bywhat is particular, than by what is general; andthat the sentiments are always moved with dif-ficulty, where their objects are, in any degree,loose and undetermined: Now every particu-lar act of justice is not beneficial to society, butthe whole scheme or system: And it may not,perhaps, be any individual person for whom

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we are concerned, who receives benefit fromjustice, but the whole society alike. On the con-trary, every particular act of generosity, or reliefof the industrious and indigent, is beneficial;and is beneficial to a particular person, who isnot undeserving of it. It is more natural, there-fore, to think, that the tendencies of the lattervirtue will affect our sentiments, and commandour approbation, than those of the former; andtherefore, since we find, that the approbationof the former arises from their tendencies, wemay ascribe, with better reason, the same causeto the approbation of the latter. In any numberof similar effects, if a cause can be discoveredfor one, we ought to extend that cause to allthe other effects, which can be accounted for byit: But much more, if these other effects be at-tended with peculiar circumstances, which fa-cilitate the operation of that cause.

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Before I proceed farther, I must observe tworemarkable circumstances in this affair, whichmay seem objections to the present system. Thefirst may be thus explained. When any qual-ity, or character, has a tendency to the goodof mankind, we are pleased with it, and ap-prove of it; because it presents the lively ideaof pleasure; which idea affects us by sympa-thy, and is itself a kind of pleasure. But as thissympathy is very variable, it may be thoughtthat our sentiments of morals must admit of allthe same variations. We sympathize more withpersons contiguous to us, than with personsremote from us: With our acquaintance, thanwith strangers: With our countrymen, thanwith foreigners. But notwithstanding this vari-ation of our sympathy, we give the same appro-bation to the same moral qualities in China asin England. They appear equally virtuous, and

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recommend themselves equally to the esteemof a judicious spectator. The sympathy varieswithout a variation in our esteem. Our esteem,therefore, proceeds not from sympathy.

To this I answer: The approbation of moralqualities most certainly is not derived from rea-son, or any comparison of ideas; but proceedsentirely from a moral taste, and from certainsentiments of pleasure or disgust, which ariseupon the contemplation and view of particu-lar qualities or characters. Now it is evident,that those sentiments, whence-ever they are de-rived, must vary according to the distance orcontiguity of the objects; nor can I feel the samelively pleasure from the virtues of a person,who lived in Greece two thousand years ago,that I feel from the virtues of a familiar friendand acquaintance. Yet I do not say, that I es-

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teem the one more than the other: And there-fore, if the variation of the sentiment, without avariation of the esteem, be an objection, it musthave equal force against every other system, asagainst that of sympathy. But to consider thematter a-right, it has no force at all; and it isthe easiest matter in the world to account forit. Our situation, with regard both to personsand things, is in continual fluctuation; and aman, that lies at a distance from us, may, in alittle time, become a familiar acquaintance. Be-sides, every particular man has a peculiar posi-tion with regard to others; and it is impossiblewe coued ever converse together on any rea-sonable terms, were each of us to consider char-acters and persons, only as they appear fromhis peculiar point of view. In order, therefore,to prevent those continual contradictions, andarrive at a more stable judgment of things, we

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fix on some steady and general points of view;and always, in our thoughts, place ourselves inthem, whatever may be our present situation.In like manner, external beauty is determinedmerely by pleasure; and it is evident, a beauti-ful countenance cannot give so much pleasure,when seen at the distance of twenty paces, aswhen it is brought nearer us. We say not, how-ever, that it appears to us less beautiful: Be-cause we know what effect it will have in sucha position, and by that reflection we correct itsmomentary appearance.

In general, all sentiments of blame or praiseare variable, according to our situation of near-ness or remoteness, with regard to the per-son blamed or praised, and according to thepresent disposition of our mind. But these vari-ations we regard not in our general decision,

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but still apply the terms expressive of our lik-ing or dislike, in the same manner, as if we re-mained in one point of view. Experience soonteaches us this method of correcting our senti-ments, or at least, of correcting our language,where the sentiments are more stubborn andinalterable. Our servant, if diligent and faith-ful, may excite stronger sentiments of love andkindness than Marcus Brutus, as representedin history; but we say not upon that account,that the former character is more laudable thanthe latter. We know, that were we to ap-proach equally near to that renowned patriot,he would command a much higher degree ofaffection and admiration. Such corrections arecommon with regard to all the senses; and in-deed it were impossible we could ever makeuse of language, or communicate our senti-ments to one another, did we not correct the

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momentary appearances of things, and over-look our present situation.

It is therefore from the influence of charac-ters and qualities, upon those who have an in-tercourse with any person, that we blame orpraise him. We consider not whether the per-sons, affected by the qualities, be our acquain-tance or strangers, countrymen or foreigners.Nay, we over-look our own interest in thosegeneral judgments; and blame not a man foropposing us in any of our pretensions, whenhis own interest is particularly concerned. Wemake allowance for a certain degree of self-ishness in men; because we know it to be in-separable from human nature, and inherent inour frame and constitution. By this reflectionwe correct those sentiments of blame, which sonaturally arise upon any opposition.

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But however the general principle of ourblame or praise may be corrected by thoseother principles, it is certain, they are not al-together efficacious, nor do our passions oftencorrespond entirely to the present theory. It isseldom men heartily love what lies at a dis-tance from them, and what no way redoundsto their particular benefit; as it is no less rareto meet with persons, who can pardon anotherany opposition he makes to their interest, how-ever justifiable that opposition may be by thegeneral rules of morality. Here we are con-tented with saying, that reason requires suchan Impartial conduct, but that it is seldom wecan bring ourselves to it, and that our passionsdo not readily follow the determination of ourjudgment. This language will be easily under-stood, if we consider what we formerly saidconcerning that reason, which is able to op-

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pose our passion; and which we have foundto be nothing but a general calm determinationof the passions, founded on some distant viewor reflection. When we form our judgmentsof persons, merely from the tendency of theircharacters to our own benefit, or to that of ourfriends, we find so many contradictions to oursentiments in society and conversation, andsuch an uncertainty from the incessant changesof our situation, that we seek some other stan-dard of merit and demerit, which may not ad-mit of so great variation. Being thus loosenedfrom our first station, we cannot afterwards fixourselves so commodiously by any means asby a sympathy with those, who have any com-merce with the person we consider. This is farfrom being as lively as when our own interest isconcerned, or that of our particular friends; norhas it such an influence on our love and hatred:

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But being equally conformable to our calm andgeneral principles, it is said to have an equalauthority over our reason, and to commandour judgment and opinion. We blame equallya bad action, which we read of in history, withone performed in our neighbourhood the otherday: The meaning of which is, that we knowfrom reflection, that the former action wouldexcite as strong sentiments of disapprobationas the latter, were it placed in the same posi-tion.

I now proceed to the second remarkable cir-cumstance, which I proposed to take noticeof. Where a person is possessed of a charac-ter, that in its natural tendency is beneficial tosociety, we esteem him virtuous, and are de-lighted with the view of his character, eventhough particular accidents prevent its opera-

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tion, and incapacitate him from being service-able to his friends and country. Virtue in ragsis still virtue; and the love, which it procures,attends a man into a dungeon or desart, wherethe virtue can no longer be exerted in action,and is lost to all the world. Now this may beesteemed an objection to the present system.Sympathy interests us in the good of mankind;and if sympathy were the source of our esteemfor virtue, that sentiment of approbation couedonly take place, where the virtue actually at-tained its end, and was beneficial to mankind.Where it fails of its end, it is only an imper-fect means; and therefore can never acquire anymerit from that end. The goodness of an endcan bestow a merit on such means alone as arecompleat, and actually produce the end.

To this we may reply, that where any ob-

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ject, in all its parts, is fitted to attain any agree-able end, it naturally gives us pleasure, and isesteemed beautiful, even though some exter-nal circumstances be wanting to render it alto-gether effectual. It is sufficient if every thingbe compleat in the object itself. A house, thatis contrived with great judgment for all thecommodities of life, pleases us upon that ac-count; though perhaps we are sensible, thatnoone will ever dwell in it. A fertile soil, anda happy climate, delight us by a reflection onthe happiness which they would afford the in-habitants, though at present the country be de-sart and uninhabited. A man, whose limbsand shape promise strength and activity, is es-teemed handsome, though condemned to per-petual imprisonment. The imagination has aset of passions belonging to it, upon which oursentiments of beauty much depend. These pas-

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sions are moved by degrees of liveliness andstrength, which are inferior to belief, and in-dependent of the real existence of their ob-jects. Where a character is, in every respect, fit-ted to be beneficial to society, the imaginationpasses easily from the cause to the effect, with-out considering that there are some circum-stances wanting to render the cause a completeone. General rules create a species of probabil-ity, which sometimes influences the judgment,and always the imagination.

It is true, when the cause is compleat, anda good disposition is attended with good for-tune, which renders it really beneficial to soci-ety, it gives a stronger pleasure to the specta-tor, and is attended with a more lively sympa-thy. We are more affected by it; and yet we donot say that it is more virtuous, or that we es-

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teem it more. We know, that an alteration offortune may render the benevolent dispositionentirely impotent; and therefore we separate,as much as possible, the fortune from the dis-position. The case is the same, as when we cor-rect the different sentiments of virtue, whichproceed from its different distances from our-selves. The passions do not always follow ourcorrections; but these corrections serve suffi-ciently to regulate our abstract notions, and arealone regarded, when we pronounce in generalconcerning the degrees of vice and virtue.

It is observed by critics, that all words or sen-tences, which are difficult to the pronunciation,are disagreeable to the ear. There is no differ-ence, whether a man hear them pronounced, orread them silently to himself. When I run overa book with my eye, I Imagine I hear it all; and

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also, by the force of imagination, enter into theuneasiness, which the delivery of it would givethe speaker. The uneasiness is not real; but assuch a composition of words has a natural ten-dency to produce it, this is sufficient to affectthe mind with a painful sentiment, and renderthe discourse harsh and disagreeable. It is asimilar case, where any real quality is, by acci-dental circumstances, rendered impotent, andis deprived of its natural influence on society.

Upon these principles we may easily removeany contradiction, which may appear to be be-twixt the extensive sympathy, on which oursentiments of virtue depend, and that limitedgenerosity which I have frequently observed tobe natural to men, and which justice and prop-erty suppose, according to the precedent rea-soning. My sympathy with another may give

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me the sentiment of pain and disapprobation,when any object is presented, that has a ten-dency to give him uneasiness; though I maynot be willing to sacrifice any thing of my owninterest, or cross any of my passions, for his sat-isfaction. A house may displease me by beingill-contrived for the convenience of the owner;and yet I may refuse to give a shilling towardsthe rebuilding of it. Sentiments must touchthe heart, to make them controul our passions:But they need not extend beyond the imagina-tion, to make them influence our taste. When abuilding seems clumsy and tottering to the eye,it is ugly and disagreeable; though we be fullyassured of the solidity of the workmanship. Itis a kind of fear, which causes this sentiment ofdisapprobation; but the passion is not the samewith that which we feel, when obliged to standunder a wall, that we really think tottering and

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insecure. The seeming tendencies of objects af-fect the mind: And the emotions they exciteare of a like species with those, which proceedfrom the real consequences of objects, but theirfeeling is different. Nay, these emotions are sodifferent in their feeling, that they may oftenbe contrary, without destroying each other; aswhen the fortifications of a city belonging to anenemy are esteemed beautiful upon account oftheir strength, though we coued wish that theywere entirely destroyed. The imagination ad-heres to the general views of things, and distin-guishes the feelings they produce, from thosewhich arise from our particular and momen-tary situation.

If we examine the panegyrics that are com-monly made of great men, we shall find, thatmost of the qualities, which are attributed to

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them, may be divided into two kinds, viz. suchas make them perform their part in society; andsuch as render them serviceable to themselves,and enable them to promote their own inter-est. Their prudence, temperance, frugality, in-dustry, assiduity, enterprize, dexterity, are cele-brated, as well as their generosity and human-ity. If we ever give an indulgence to any qual-ity, that disables a man from making a figure inlife, it is to that of indolence, which is not sup-posed to deprive one of his parts and capac-ity, but only suspends their exercise; and thatwithout any inconvenience to the person him-self, since it is, in some measure, from his ownchoice. Yet indolence is always allowed to bea fault, and a very great one, if extreme: Nordo a man’s friends ever acknowledge him tobe subject to it, but in order to save his char-acter in more material articles. He coued make

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a figure, say they, if he pleased to give appli-cation: His understanding is sound, his con-ception quick, and his memory tenacious; buthe hates business, and is indifferent about hisfortune. And this a man sometimes may makeeven a subject of vanity; though with the air ofconfessing a fault: Because he may think, thathis incapacity for business implies much morenoble qualities; such as a philosophical spirit,a fine taste, a delicate wit, or a relish for plea-sure and society. But take any other case: Sup-pose a quality, that without being an indica-tion of any other good qualities, incapacitates aman always for business, and is destructive tohis interest; such as a blundering understand-ing, and a wrong judgment of every thing inlife; inconstancy and irresolution; or a want ofaddress in the management of men and busi-ness: These are all allowed to be imperfections

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in a character; and many men would ratheracknowledge the greatest crimes, than have itsuspected, that they are, in any degree, subjectto them.

It is very happy, in our philosophi-cal researches, when we find the samephaenomenon diversified by a variety ofcircumstances; and by discovering what iscommon among them, can the better assureourselves of the truth of any hypothesis wemay make use of to explain it. Were nothingesteemed virtue but what were beneficial tosociety, I am persuaded, that the foregoingexplication of the moral sense ought still to bereceived, and that upon sufficient evidence:But this evidence must grow upon us, whenwe find other kinds of virtue, which will notadmit of any explication except from that

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hypothesis. Here is a man, who is not remark-ably defective in his social qualities; but whatprincipally recommends him is his dexterity inbusiness, by which he has extricated himselffrom the greatest difficulties, and conductedthe most delicate affairs with a singular ad-dress and prudence. I find an esteem for himimmediately to arise in me: His company isa satisfaction to me; and before I have anyfarther acquaintance with him, I would ratherdo him a service than another, whose characteris in every other respect equal, but is deficientin that particular. In this case, the qualities thatplease me are all considered as useful to theperson, and as having a tendency to promotehis interest and satisfaction. They are onlyregarded as means to an end, and please mein proportion to their fitness for that end. Theend, therefore, must be agreeable to me. But

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what makes the end agreeable? The person isa stranger: I am no way interested in him, norlie under any obligation to him: His happinessconcerns not me, farther than the happinessof every human, and indeed of every sensiblecreature: That is, it affects me only by sympa-thy. From that principle, whenever I discoverhis happiness and good, whether in its causesor effects, I enter so deeply into it, that it givesme a sensible emotion. The appearance ofqualities, that have a tendency to promote it,have an agreeable effect upon my imagination,and command my love and esteem.

This theory may serve to explain, why thesame qualities, in all cases, produce both prideand love, humility and hatred; and the sameman is always virtuous or vicious, accom-plished or despicable to others, who is so to

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himself. A person, in whom we discover anypassion or habit, which originally is only in-commodious to himself, becomes always dis-agreeable to us, merely on its account; as on theother hand, one whose character is only dan-gerous and disagreeable to others, can neverbe satisfied with himself, as long as he is sen-sible of that disadvantage. Nor is this observ-able only with regard to characters and man-ners, but may be remarked even in the mostminute circumstances. A violent cough in an-other gives us uneasiness; though in itself itdoes not in the least affect us. A man willbe mortified, if you tell him he has a stink-ing breath; though it is evidently no annoyanceto himself. Our fancy easily changes its situa-tion; and either surveying ourselves as we ap-pear to others, or considering others as theyfeel themselves, we enter, by that means, into

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sentiments, which no way belong to us, and inwhich nothing but sympathy is able to inter-est us. And this sympathy we sometimes carryso far, as even to be displeased with a qual-ity commodious to us, merely because it dis-pleases others, and makes us disagreeable intheir eyes; though perhaps we never can haveany interest in rendering ourselves agreeable tothem.

There have been many systems of moral-ity advanced by philosophers in all ages; butif they are strictly examined, they may be re-duced to two, which alone merit our atten-tion. Moral good and evil are certainly dis-tinguished by our sentiments, not by reason:But these sentiments may arise either from themere species or appearance of characters andpassions, or from reflections on their tendency

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to the happiness of mankind, and of particularpersons. My opinion is, that both these causesare intermixed in our judgments of morals; af-ter the same manner as they are in our deci-sions concerning most kinds of external beauty:Though I am also of opinion, that reflections onthe tendencies of actions have by far the great-est influence, and determine all the great linesof our duty. There are, however, instances, incases of less moment, wherein this immedi-ate taste or sentiment produces our approba-tion. Wit, and a certain easy and disengagedbehaviour, are qualities immediately agreeableto others, and command their love and esteem.Some of these qualities produce satisfaction inothers by particular original principles of hu-man nature, which cannot be accounted for:Others may be resolved into principles, whichare more general. This will best appear upon a

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particular enquiry.

As some qualities acquire their merit fromtheir being immediately agreeable to others,without any tendency to public interest; sosome are denominated virtuous from their be-ing immediately agreeable to the person him-self, who possesses them. Each of the pas-sions and operations of the mind has a partic-ular feeling, which must be either agreeable ordisagreeable. The first is virtuous, the secondvicious. This particular feeling constitutes thevery nature of the passion; and therefore needsnot be accounted for.

But however directly the distinction of viceand virtue may seem to flow from the imme-diate pleasure or uneasiness, which particularqualities cause to ourselves or others; it is easyto observe, that it has also a considerable de-

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pendence on the principle of sympathy so of-ten insisted on. We approve of a person, whois possessed of qualities immediately agreeableto those, with whom he has any commerce;though perhaps we ourselves never reaped anypleasure from them. We also approve of one,who is possessed of qualities, that are imme-diately agreeable to himself; though they be ofno service to any mortal. To account for this wemust have recourse to the foregoing principles.

Thus, to take a general review of the presenthypothesis: Every quality of the mind is de-nominated virtuous, which gives pleasure bythe mere survey; as every quality, which pro-duces pain, is called vicious. This pleasure andthis pain may arise from four different sources.For we reap a pleasure from the view of a char-acter, which is naturally fitted to be useful to

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others, or to the person himself, or which isagreeable to others, or to the person himself.One may, perhaps, be surprized. that amidstall these interests and pleasures, we should for-get our own, which touch us so nearly on ev-ery other occasion. But we shall easily satisfyourselves on this head, when we consider, thatevery particular person s pleasure and interestbeing different, it is impossible men coued everagree in their sentiments and judgments, un-less they chose some common point of view,from which they might survey their object, andwhich might cause it to appear the same to allof them. Now in judging of characters, the onlyinterest or pleasure, which appears the same toevery spectator, is that of the person himself,whose character is examined; or that of per-sons, who have a connexion with him. Andthough such interests and pleasures touch us

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more faintly than our own, yet being more con-stant and universal, they counter-ballance thelatter even in practice, and are alone admittedin speculation as the standard of virtue andmorality. They alone produce that particularfeeling or sentiment, on which moral distinc-tions depend.

As to the good or ill desert of virtue or vice, itis an evident consequence of the sentiments ofpleasure or uneasiness. These sentiments pro-duce love or hatred; and love or hatred, by theoriginal constitution of human passion, is at-tended with benevolence or anger; that is, witha desire of making happy the person we love,and miserable the person we hate. We havetreated of this more fully on another occasion.

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SECTION II. OF GREATNESS OF MIND

It may now be proper to illustrate this gen-eral system of morals, by applying it to partic-ular instances of virtue and vice, and shewinghow their merit or demerit arises from the foursources here explained. We shall begin withexamining the passions of pride and humility,and shall consider the vice or virtue that liesin their excesses or just proportion. An exces-sive pride or overweaning conceit of ourselvesis always esteemed vicious, and is universallyhated; as modesty, or a just sense of our weak-ness, is esteemed virtuous, and procures thegood-will of every-one. Of the four sourcesof moral distinctions, this is to be ascribed tothe third; viz, the immediate agreeableness anddisagreeableness of a quality to others, withoutany reflections on the tendency of that quality.

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In order to prove this, we must have recourseto two principles, which are very conspicuousin human nature. The first of these is the sym-pathy, and communication of sentiments andpassions above-mentioned. So close and in-timate is the correspondence of human souls,that no sooner any person approaches me, thanhe diffuses on me all his opinions, and drawsalong my judgment in a greater or lesser de-gree. And though, on many occasions, mysympathy with him goes not so far as entirelyto change my sentiments, and way of think-ing; yet it seldom is so weak as not to disturbthe easy course of my thought, and give an au-thority to that opinion, which is recommendedto me by his assent and approbation. Nor isit any way material upon what subject he andI employ our thoughts. Whether we judge ofan indifferent person, or of my own character,

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my sympathy gives equal force to his decision:And even his sentiments of his own merit makeme consider him in the same light, in which heregards himself.

This principle of sympathy is of so power-ful and insinuating a nature, that it enters intomost of our sentiments and passions, and of-ten takes place under the appearance of its con-trary. For it is remarkable, that when a personopposes me in any thing, which I am stronglybent upon, and rouzes up my passion by con-tradiction, I have always a degree of sympa-thy with him, nor does my commotion proceedfrom any other origin. We may here observean evident conflict or rencounter of oppositeprinciples and passions. On the one side thereis that passion or sentiment, which is naturalto me; and it is observable, that the stronger

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this passion is, the greater is the commotion.There must also be some passion or sentimenton the other side; and this passion can pro-ceed from nothing but sympathy. The senti-ments of others can never affect us, but by be-coming, in some measure, our own; in whichcase they operate upon us, by opposing andencreasing our passions, in the very same man-ner, as if they had been originally derived fromour own temper and disposition. While theyremain concealed in the minds of others, theycan never have an influence upon us: And evenwhen they are known, if they went no fartherthan the imagination, or conception; that fac-ulty is so accustomed to objects of every differ-ent kind, that a mere idea, though contrary toour sentiments and inclinations, would neveralone be able to affect us.

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The second principle I shall take notice ofis that of comparison, or the variation of ourjudgments concerning ob jects, according to theproportion they bear to those with which wecompare them. We judge more, of objects bycomparison, than by their intrinsic worth andvalue; and regard every thing as mean, whenset in opposition to what is superior of thesame kind. But no comparison is more obviousthan that with ourselves; and hence it is thaton all occasions it takes place, and mixes withmost of our passions. This kind of comparisonis directly contrary to sympathy in its opera-tion, as we have observed in treating of compassion and malice. (Book II. Part II. Sect. VIII.)In all kinds of comparison an object makes us al-ways receive from another, to which it is compared,a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in itsdirect and immediate survey. The direct survey of

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another’s pleasure naturally gives us pleasure; andtherefore produces pain, when compared with ourown. His pain, considered in itself, is painful; butaugments the idea of our own happiness, and givesus pleasure.

Since then those principles of sympathy, anda comparison with ourselves, are directly con-trary, it may be worth while to consider, whatgeneral rules can be formed, beside the partic-ular temper of the person, for the prevalenceof the one or the other. Suppose I am now insafety at land, and would willingly reap somepleasure from this consideration: I must thinkon the miserable condition of those who areat sea in a storm, and must endeavour to ren-der this idea as strong and lively as possible,in order to make me more sensible of my ownhappiness. But whatever pains I may take, the

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comparison will never have an equal efficacy,as if I were really on the shore26, and saw a shipat a distance tossed by a tempest, and in dangerevery moment of perishing on a rock or sand-bank. But suppose this idea to become stillmore lively. Suppose the ship to be driven sonear me, that I can perceive distinctly the hor-ror, painted on the countenance of the seamenand passengers, hear their lamentable cries, seethe dearest friends give their last adieu, or em-

26Suave mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis Eterra magnum alterius spectare laborem; Non quiavexari quenquam eat jucunda voluptas, Sed quibus ipsemalls caress qula cernere sauv’ est. –Lucret.(There is something pleasant in watching, from dryland, the great difficulties another man is undergoingout on the high sea, with the winds lashing the waters.This is not because one derives delight from any man’sdistress, but because it is pleasurable to perceive fromwhat troubles one is oneself free.)

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brace with a resolution to perish in each othersarms: No man has so savage a heart as to reapany pleasure from such a spectacle, or with-stand the motions of the tenderest compassionand sympathy. It is evident, therefore, there is amedium in this case; and that if the idea be toofeint, it has no influence by comparison; andon the other hand, if it be too strong, it oper-ates on us entirely by sympathy, which is thecontrary to comparison. Sympathy being theconversion of an idea into an impression, de-mands a greater force and vivacity in the ideathan is requisite to comparison.

All this is easily applied to the present sub-ject. We sink very much in our own eyes, whenin the presence of a great man, or one of a su-perior genius; and this humility makes a con-siderable ingredient in that respect, which we

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pay our superiors, according to our foregoingreasonings on that passion (Book II. Part II.Sect. X.). Sometimes even envy and hatredarise from the comparison; but in the great-est part of men, it rests at respect and esteem.As sympathy has such a powerful influence onthe human mind, it causes pride to have, insome measure, the same effect as merit; andby making us enter into those elevated senti-ments, which the proud man entertains of him-self, presents that comparison, which is so mor-tifying and disagreeable. Our judgment doesnot entirely accompany him in the flatteringconceit, in which he pleases himself; but stillis so shaken as to receive the idea it presents,and to give it an influence above the loose con-ceptions of the imagination. A man, who, inan idle humour, would form a notion of a per-son of a merit very much superior to his own,

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would not be mortified by that fiction: Butwhen a man, whom we are really persuadedto be of inferior merit, is presented to us; ifwe observe in him any extraordinary degree ofpride and self-conceit; the firm persuasion hehas of his own merit, takes hold of the imagi-nation, and diminishes us in our own eyes, inthe same manner, as if he were really possessedof all the good qualities which he so liberallyattributes to himself. Our idea is here preciselyin that medium, which is requisite to make itoperate on us by comparison. Were it accom-panied with belief, and did the person appearto have the same merit, which he assumes tohimself, it would have a contrary effect, andwould operate on us by sympathy. The influ-ence of that principle would then be superior tothat of comparison, contrary to what happenswhere the person’s merit seems below his pre-

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tensions.

The necessary consequence of these princi-ples is, that pride, or an over-weaning conceitof ourselves, must be vicious; since it causesuneasiness in all men, and presents them ev-ery moment with a disagreeable comparison. Itis a trite observation in philosophy, and evenin common life and conversation, that it isour own pride, which makes us so much dis-pleased with the pride of other people; andthat vanity becomes insupportable to us merelybecause we are vain. The gay naturally asso-ciate themselves with the gay, and the amorouswith the amorous: But the proud never canendure the proud, and rather seek the com-pany of those who are of an opposite dispo-sition. As we are, all of us, proud in somedegree, pride is universally blamed and con-

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demned by all mankind; as having a natu-ral tendency to cause uneasiness in others bymeans of comparison. And this effect must fol-low the more naturally, that those, who havean ill-grounded conceit of themselves, are forever making those comparisons, nor have theyany other method of supporting their vanity. Aman of sense and merit is pleased with himself,independent of all foreign considerations: Buta fool must always find some person, that ismore foolish, in order to keep himself in goodhumour with his own parts and understand-ing.

But though an over-weaning conceit of ourown merit be vicious and disagreeable, nothingcan be more laudable, than to have a value forourselves, where we really have qualities thatare valuable. The utility and advantage of any

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quality to ourselves is a source of virtue, as wellas its agreeableness to others; and it is certain,that nothing is more useful to us in the conductof life, than a due degree of pride, which makesus sensible of our own merit, and gives us aconfidence and assurance in all our projectsand enterprizes. Whatever capacity any onemay be endowed with, it is entirely uselessto him, if he be not acquainted with it, andform not designs suitable to it. It is requisiteon all occasions to know our own force; andwere it allowable to err on either side, it wouldbe more advantageous to over-rate our merit,than to form ideas of it, below its just standard.Fortune commonly favours the bold and en-terprizing; and nothing inspires us with moreboldness than a good opinion of ourselves.

Add to this, that though pride, or self-

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applause, be sometimes disagreeable to oth-ers, it is always agreeable to ourselves; as onthe other hand, modesty, though it gives plea-sure to every one, who observes it, produces of-ten uneasiness in the person endowed with it.Now it has been observed, that our own sensa-tions determine the vice and virtue of any qual-ity, as well as those sensations, which it mayexcite in others.

Thus self-satisfaction and vanity may notonly be allowable, but requisite in a character.It is, however, certain, that good-breeding anddecency require that we should avoid all signsand expressions, which tend directly to showthat passion. We have, all of us, a wonderfulpartiality for ourselves, and were we alwaysto give vent to our sentiments in this particu-lar, we should mutually cause the greatest in-

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dignation in each other, not only by the im-mediate presence of so disagreeable a subjectof comparison, but also by the contrariety ofour judgments. In like manner, therefore, aswe establish the laws of nature, in order to se-cure property in society, and prevent the oppo-sition of self-interest; we establish the rules ofgood-breeding, in order to prevent the oppo-sition of men’s pride, and render conversationagreeable and inoffensive. Nothing is more dis-agreeable than a man’s over-weaning conceit ofhimself: Every one almost has a strong propen-sity to this vice: No one can well distinguish inhimself betwixt the vice and virtue, or be cer-tain, that his esteem of his own merit is well-founded: For these reasons, all direct expres-sions of this passion are condemned; nor dowe make any exception to this rule in favour ofmen of sense and merit. They are not allowed

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to do themselves justice openly, in words, nomore than other people; and even if they showa reserve and secret doubt in doing themselvesjustice in their own thoughts, they will be moreapplauded. That impertinent, and almost uni-versal propensity of men, to over-value them-selves, has given us such a prejudice againstself-applause, that we are apt to condemn it,by a general rule, wherever we meet with it;and it is with some difficulty we give a priv-ilege to men of sense, even in their most se-cret thoughts. At least, it must be owned, thatsome disguise in this particular is absolutelyrequisite; and that if we harbour pride in ourbreasts, we must carry a fair outside, and havethe appearance of modesty and mutual defer-ence in all our conduct and behaviour. Wemust, on every occasion, be ready to preferothers to ourselves; to treat them with a kind

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of deference, even though they be our equals;to seem always the lowest and least in thecompany, where we are not very much distin-guished above them: And if we observe theserules in our conduct, men will have more in-dulgence for our secret sentiments, when wediscover them in an oblique manner.

I believe no one, who has any practice of theworld, and can penetrate into the inward sen-timents of men, will assert, that the humility,which good-breeding and decency require ofus, goes beyond the outside, or that a thoroughsincerity in this particular is esteemed a realpart of our duty. On the contrary, we may ob-serve, that a genuine and hearty pride, or self-esteem, if well concealed and well founded, isessential to the character of a man of honour,and that there is no quality of the mind, which

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is more indispensibly requisite to procure theesteem and approbation of mankind. Thereare certain deferences and mutual submissions,which custom requires of the different ranks ofmen towards each other; and whoever exceedsin this particular, if through interest, is accusedof meanness; if through ignorance, of simplic-ity. It is necessary, therefore, to know our rankand station in the world, whether it be fixedby our birth, fortune, employments, talents orreputation. It is necessary to feel the sentimentand passion of pride in conformity to it, and toregulate our actions accordingly. And shouldit be said, that prudence may suffice to regu-late our actions in this particular, without anyreal pride, I would observe, that here the ob-ject of prudence is to conform our actions to thegeneral usage and custom; and, that it is im-possible those tacit airs of superiority should

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ever have been established and authorized bycustom, unless men were generally proud, andunless that passion were generally approved,when well-grounded.

If we pass from common life and conver-sation to history, this reasoning acquires newforce, when we observe, that all those great ac-tions and sentiments, which have become theadmiration of mankind, are founded on noth-ing but pride and self-esteem. Go, says Alexan-der the Great to his soldiers, when they refusedto follow him to the Indies, go tell your coun-trymen, that you left Alexander corn pleatingthe conquest of the world. This passage wasalways particularly admired by the prince ofConde, as we learn from St Evremond.

“Alexander,” said that prince, “abandoned byhis soldiers, among barbarians, not yet fully

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subdued, felt in himself such a dignity of rightand of empire, that he coued not believe itpossible any one coued refuse to obey him.Whether in Europe or in Asia, among Greeks orPersians, all was indifferent to him: Whereverhe found men, he fancied he found subjects.”

In general we may observe, that whateverwe call heroic virtue, and admire under thecharacter of greatness and elevation of mind, iseither nothing but a steady and wellestablishedpride and self-esteem, or partakes largely ofthat passion. Courage, intrepidity, ambition,love of glory, magnanimity, and all the othershining virtues of that kind, have plainly astrong mixture of self-esteem in them, and de-rive a great part of their merit from that origin.Accordingly we find, that many religious de-claimers decry those virtues as purely pagan

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and natural, and represent to us the excellencyof the Christian religion, which places humil-ity in the rank of virtues, and corrects the judg-ment of the world, and even of philosophers,who so generally admire all the efforts of prideand ambition. Whether this virtue of humilityhas been rightly understood, I shall not pretendto determine. I am content with the conces-sion, that the world naturally esteems a well-regulated pride, which secretly animates ourconduct, without breaking out into such inde-cent expressions of vanity, as many offend thevanity of others.

The merit of pride or self-esteem is derivedfrom two circumstances, viz, its utility and itsagreeableness to ourselves; by which it capac-itates us for business, and, at the same time,gives us an immediate satisfaction. When it

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goes beyond its just bounds, it loses the first ad-vantage, and even becomes prejudicial; whichis the reason why we condemn an extrava-gant pride and ambition, however regulated bythe decorums of good-breeding and politeness.But as such a passion is still agreeable, and con-veys an elevated and sublime sensation to theperson, who is actuated by it, the sympathywith that satisfaction diminishes considerablythe blame, which naturally attends its danger-ous influence on his conduct and behaviour.Accordingly we may observe, that an excessivecourage and magnanimity, especially when itdisplays itself under the frowns of fortune, con-tributes in a great measure, to the character ofa hero, and will render a person the admirationof posterity; at the same time, that it ruins hisaffairs, and leads him into dangers and diffi-culties, with which otherwise he would never

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have been acquainted.

Heroism, or military glory, is much admiredby the generality of mankind. They consider itas the most sublime kind of merit. Men of coolreflection are not so sanguine in their praises ofit. The infinite confusions and disorder, whichit has caused in the world, diminish much of itsmerit in their eyes. When they would opposethe popular notions on this head, they alwayspaint out the evils, which this supposed virtuehas produced in human society; the subversionof empires, the devastation of provinces, thesack of cities. As long as these are present tous, we are more inclined to hate than admirethe ambition of heroes. But when we fix ourview on the person himself, who is the authorof all this mischief, there is something so daz-zling in his character, the mere contemplation

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of it so elevates the mind, that we cannot refuseit our admiration. The pain, which we receivefrom its tendency to the prejudice of society, isover-powered by a stronger and more immedi-ate sympathy.

Thus our explication of the merit or demerit,which attends the degrees of pride or self-esteem, may serve as a strong argument for thepreceding hypothesis, by shewing the effects ofthose principles above explained in all the vari-ations of our judgments concerning that pas-sion. Nor will this reasoning be advantageousto us only by shewing, that the distinction ofvice and virtue arises from the four principlesof the advantage and of the pleasure of the per-son himself, and of others: But may also affordus a strong proof of some under-parts of thathypothesis.

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No one, who duly considers of this matter,will make any scruple of allowing, that anypiece of in-breeding, or any expression of prideand haughtiness, is displeasing to us, merelybecause it shocks our own pride, and leads usby sympathy into a comparison, which causesthe disagreeable passion of humility. Now asan insolence of this kind is blamed even ina person who has always been civil to our-selves in particular; nay, in one, whose nameis only known to us in history; it follows, thatour disapprobation proceeds from a sympathywith others, and from the reflection, that sucha character is highly displeasing and odiousto every one, who converses or has any inter-course with the person possest of it. We sym-pathize with those people in their uneasiness;and as their uneasiness proceeds in part froma sympathy with the person who insults them,

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we may here observe a double rebound of thesympathy; which is a principle very similar towhat we have observed. (Book II. Part II. Sect.V.)

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SECTION III. OF GOODNESS ANDBENEVOLENCE

Having thus explained the origin of thatpraise and approbation, which attends everything we call great in human affections; wenow proceed to give an account of their good-ness, and shew whence its merit is derived.

When experience has once given us a com-petent knowledge of human affairs, and hastaught us the proportion they bear to humanpassion, we perceive, that the generosity ofmen is very limited, and that it seldom extendsbeyond their friends and family, or, at most,beyond their native country. Being thus ac-quainted with the nature of man, we expectnot any impossibilities from him; but confineour view to that narrow circle, in which any

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person moves, in order to form a judgmentof his moral character. When the natural ten-dency of his passions leads him to be service-able and useful within his sphere, we approveof his character, and love his person, by a sym-pathy with the sentiments of those, who have amore particular connexion with him. We arequickly obliged to forget our own interest inour judgments of this kind, by reason of theperpetual contradictions, we meet with in so-ciety and conversation, from persons that arenot placed in the same situation, and have notthe same interest with ourselves. The onlypoint of view, in which our sentiments con-cur with those of others, is, when we considerthe tendency of any passion to the advantageor harm of those, who have any immediateconnexion or intercourse with the person pos-sessed of it. And though this advantage or

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harm be often very remote from ourselves, yetsometimes it is very near us, and interests usstrongly by sympathy. This concern we read-ily extend to other cases, that are resembling;and when these are very remote, our sympa-thy is proportionably weaker, and our praiseor blame fainter and more doubtful. The caseis here the same as in our judgments concern-ing external bodies. All objects seem to dimin-ish by their distance: But though the appear-ance of objects to our senses be the originalstandard, by which we judge of them, yet wedo not say, that they actually diminish by thedistance; but correcting the appearance by re-flection, arrive at a more constant and estab-lished judgment concerning them. In like man-ner, though sympathy be much fainter than ourconcern for ourselves, and a sympathy withpersons remote from us much fainter than that

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with persons near and contiguous; yet we ne-glect all these differences in our calm judg-ments concerning the characters of men. Be-sides, that we ourselves often change our situ-ation in this particular, we every day meet withpersons, who are in a different situation fromourselves, and who coued never converse withus on any reasonable terms, were we to remainconstantly in that situation and point of view,which is peculiar to us. The intercourse of sen-timents, therefore, in society and conversation,makes us form some general inalterable stan-dard, by which we may approve or disapproveof characters and manners. And though theheart does not always take part with those gen-eral notions, or regulate its love and hatred bythem, yet are they sufficient for discourse, andserve all our purposes m company, in the pul-pit, on the theatre, and in the schools.

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From these principles we may easily accountfor that merit, which is commonly ascribed togenerosity, humanity, compassion, gratitude,friendship, fidelity, zeal, disinterestedness, lib-erality, and all those other qualities, whichform the character of good and benevolent. Apropensity to the tender passions makes a managreeable and useful in all the parts of life; andgives a just direction to all his other quailties,which otherwise may become prejudicial to so-ciety. Courage and ambition, when not reg-ulated by benevolence, are fit only to make atyrant and public robber. It is the same casewith judgment and capacity, and all the quali-ties of that kind. They are indifferent in them-selves to the interests of society, and have a ten-dency to the good or ill of mankind, accordingas they are directed by these other passions.

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As Love is immediately agreeable to the per-son, who is actuated by it, and hatred immedi-ately disagreeable; this may also be a consider-able reason, why we praise all the passions thatpartake of the former, and blame all those thathave any considerable share of the latter. It iscertain we are infinitely touched with a tendersentiment, as well as with a great one. The tearsnaturally start in our eyes at the conception ofit; nor can we forbear giving a loose to the sametenderness towards the person who exerts it.All this seems to me a proof, that our appro-bation has, in those cases, an origin differentfrom the prospect of utility and advantage, ei-ther to ourselves or others. To which we mayadd, that men naturally, without reflection, ap-prove of that character, which is most like theirown. The man of a mild disposition and tenderaffections, in forming a notion of the most per-

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fect virtue, mixes in it more of benevolence andhumanity, than the man of courage and enter-prize, who naturally looks upon a certain ele-vation of mind as the most accomplished char-acter. This must evidently proceed from an im-mediate sympathy, which men have with char-acters similar to their own. They enter withmore warmth into such sentiments, and feelmore sensibly the pleasure, which arises fromthem.

It is remarkable, that nothing touches a manof humanity more than any instance of extraor-dinary delicacy in love or friendship, wherea person is attentive to the smallest concernsof his friend, and is willing to sacrifice tothem the most considerable interest of his own.Such delicacies have little influence on soci-ety; because they make us regard the greatest

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trifles: But they are the more engaging, themore minute the concern is, and are a proofof the highest merit in any one, who is capa-ble of them. The passions are so contagious,that they pass with the greatest facility fromone person to another, and produce correspon-dent movements in all human breasts. Wherefriendship appears in very signal instances, myheart catches the same passion, and is warmedby those warm sentiments, that display them-selves before me. Such agreeable movementsmust give me an affection to every one that ex-cites them. This is the case with every thingthat is agreeable in any person. The transitionfrom pleasure to love is easy: But the transitionmust here be still more easy; since the agree-able sentiment, which is excited by sympathy,is love itself; and there is nothing required butto change the object.

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Hence the peculiar merit of benevolence inall its shapes and appearances. Hence even itsweaknesses are virtuous and amiable; and aperson, whose grief upon the loss of a friendwere excessive, would be esteemed upon thataccount. His tenderness bestows a merit, as itdoes a pleasure, on his melancholy.

We are not, however, to imagine, that all theangry passions are vicious, though they are dis-agreeable. There is a certain indulgence due tohuman nature in this respect. Anger and ha-tred are passions inherent in Our very frameand constitutions. The want of them, on someoccasions, may even be a proof of weaknessand imbecillity. And where they appear onlyin a low degree, we not only excuse them be-cause they are natural; but even bestow our ap-plauses on them, because they are inferior to

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what appears in the greatest part of mankind.

Where these angry passions rise up to cru-elty, they form the most detested of all vices.All the pity and concern which we have for themiserable sufferers by this vice, turns againstthe person guilty of it, and produces a strongerhatred than we are sensible of on any other oc-casion. Even when the vice of inhumanity risesnot to this extreme degree, our sentiments con-cerning it are very much influenced by reflec-tions on the harm that results from it. Andwe may observe in general, that if we can findany quality in a person, which renders him in-commodious to those, who live and conversewith him, we always allow it to be a fault orblemish, without any farther examination. Onthe other hand, when we enumerate the goodqualities of any person, we always mention

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those parts of his character, which render hima safe companion, an easy friend, a gentle mas-ter, an agreeable husband, or an indulgent fa-ther. We consider him with all his relations insociety; and love or hate him, according as heaffects those, who have any immediate inter-course with him. And it is a most certain rule,that if there be no relation of life, in which Icoued not wish to stand to a particular person,his character must so far be allowed to be per-fect. If he be as little wanting to himself as toothers, his character is entirely perfect. This isthe ultimate test of merit and virtue.

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SECTION IV. OF NATURAL ABILITIES

No distinction is more usual in all systemsof ethics, than that betwixt natural abilities andmoral virtues; where the former are placed onthe same footing with bodily endowments, andare supposed to have no merit or moral worthannexed to them. Whoever considers the mat-ter accurately, will find, that a dispute uponthis head would be merely a dispute of words,and that though these qualities are not alto-gether of the same kind, yet they agree in themost material circumstances. They are bothof them equally mental qualities: And both ofthem equally produce pleasure; and have ofcourse an equal tendency to procure the loveand esteem of mankind. There are few, whoare not as jealous of their character, with re-gard to sense and knowledge, as to honour and

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courage; and much more than with regard totemperance and sobriety. Men are even afraidof passing for goodnatured; lest that should betaken for want of understanding: And oftenboast of more debauches than they have beenreally engaged in, to give themselves airs of fireand spirit. In short, the figure a man makesin the world, the reception he meets with incompany, the esteem paid him by his acquain-tance; all these advantages depend almost asmuch upon his good sense and judgment, asupon any other part of his character. Let a manhave the best intentions in the world, and bethe farthest from all injustice and violence, hewill never be able to make himself be much re-garded without a moderate share, at least, ofparts and understanding. Since then naturalabilities, though, perhaps, inferior, yet are onthe same footing, both as to their causes and ef-

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fects, with those qualities which we call moralvirtues, why should we make any distinctionbetwixt them?

Though we refuse to natural abilities the titleof virtues, we must allow, that they procure thelove and esteem of mankind; that they give anew lustre to the other virtues; and that a manpossessed of them is much more intitled to ourgood-will and services, than one entirely voidof them. It may, indeed, be pretended that thesentiment of approbation, which those quali-ties produce, besides its being inferior, is alsosomewhat different from that, which attendsthe other virtues. But this, in my opinion, isnot a sufficient reason for excluding them fromthe catalogue of virtues. Each of the virtues,even benevolence, justice, gratitude, integrity,excites a different sentiment or feeling in the

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spectator. The characters of Caesar and Cato, asdrawn by Sallust, are both of them virtuous, inthe strictest sense of the word; but in a differentway: Nor are the sentiments entirely the same,which arise from them. The one produces love;the other esteem: The one is amiable; the otherawful: We could wish to meet with the onecharacter in a friend; the other character wewould be ambitious of in ourselves. In likemanner, the approbation which attends natu-ral abilities, may be somewhat different to thefeeling from that, which arises from the othervirtues, without making them entirely of a dif-ferent species. And indeed we may observe,that the natural abilities, no more than the othervirtues, produce not, all of them, the same kindof approbation. Good sense and genius beget

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esteem: Wit and humour excite love27

Those, who represent the distinction betwixtnatural abilities and moral virtues as very ma-terial, may say, that the former are entirely in-voluntary, and have therefore no merit attend-ing them, as having no dependance on libertyand free-will. But to this I answer, first, thatmany of those qualities, which all moralists,especially the antients, comprehend under the

27Love and esteem are at the bottom the same pas-sions, and arise from like causes. The qualities, that pro-duce both, are agreeable, and give pleasure. But wherethis pleasure is severe and serious; or where its objectis great, and makes a strong impression; or where itproduces any degree of humility and awe: In all thesecases, the passion, which arises from the pleasure, ismore properly denominated esteem than love. Benevo-lence attends both: But is connected with love in a moreeminent degree.

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title of moral virtues, are equally involuntaryand necessary, with the qualities of the judg-ment and imagination. Of this nature are con-stancy, fortitude, magnanimity; and, in short,all the qualities which form the great man. Imight say the same, in some degree, of the oth-ers; it being almost impossible for the mind tochange its character in any considerable article,or cure itself of a passionate or splenetic tem-per, when they are natural to it. The greaterdegree there is of these blameable qualities, themore vicious they become, and yet they are theless voluntary. Secondly, I would have anyonegive me a reason, why virtue and vice may notbe involuntary, as well as beauty and defor-mity. These moral distinctions arise from thenatural distinctions of pain and pleasure; andwhen we receive those feelings from the gen-eral consideration of any quality or character,

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we denominate it vicious or virtuous. Now Ibelieve no one will assert, that a quality cannever produce pleasure or pain to the personwho considers it, unless it be perfectly volun-tary in the person who possesses it. Thirdly, Asto free-will, we have shewn that it has no placewith regard to the actions, no more than thequalities of men. It is not a just consequence,that what is voluntary is free. Our actions aremore voluntary than our judgments; but wehave not more liberty in the one than in theother.

But though this distinction betwixt volun-tary and involuntary be not sufficient to jus-tify the distinction betwixt natural abilities andmoral virtues, yet the former distinction will af-ford us a plausible reason, why moralists haveinvented the latter. Men have observed, that

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though natural abilities and moral qualities bein the main on the same footing, there is, how-ever, this difference betwixt them, that the for-mer are almost invariable by any art or indus-try; while the latter, or at least, the actions, thatproceed from them, may be changed by themotives of rewards and punishments, praiseand blame. Hence legislators, and divines, andmoralists, have principally applied themselvesto the regulating these voluntary actions, andhave endeavoured to produce additional mo-tives, for being virtuous in that particular. Theyknew, that to punish a man for folly, or ex-hort him to be prudent and sagacious, wouldhave but little effect; though the same punish-ments and exhortations, with regard to justiceand injustice, might have a considerable influ-ence. But as men, in common life and conver-sation, do not carry those ends in view, but nat-

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urally praise or blame whatever pleases or dis-pleases them, they do not seem much to regardthis distinction, but consider prudence underthe character of virtue as well as benevolence,and penetration as well as justice. Nay, we find,that all moralists, whose judgment is not per-verted by a strict adherence to a system, en-ter into the same way of thinking; and that theantient moralists in particular made no scrupleof placing prudence at the head of the cardinalvirtues. There is a sentiment of esteem and ap-probation, which may be excited, in some de-gree, by any faculty of the mind, in its perfectstate and condition; and to account for this sen-timent is the business of Philosophers. It be-longs to Grammarians to examine what quali-ties are entitled to the denomination of virtue;nor will they find, upon trial, that this is so easya task, as at first sight they may be apt to imag-

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ine.

The principal reason why natural abilitiesare esteemed, is because of their tendency tobe useful to the person, who is possessed ofthem. It is impossible to execute any designwith success, where it is not conducted withprudence and discretion; nor will the goodnessof our intentions alone suffice to procure us ahappy issue to our enterprizes. Men are su-perior to beasts principally by the superiorityof their reason; and they are the degrees of thesame faculty, which set such an infinite differ-ence betwixt one man and another. All the ad-vantages of art are owing to human reason; andwhere fortune is not very capricious, the mostconsiderable part of these advantages must fallto the share of the prudent and sagacious.

When it is asked, whether a quick or a slow

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apprehension be most valuable? whether one,that at first view penetrates into a subject, butcan perform nothing upon study; or a contrarycharacter, which must work out every thing bydint of application? whether a clear head, ora copious invention? whether a profound ge-nius, or a sure judgment? in short, what char-acter, or peculiar understanding, is more excel-lent than another? It is evident we can answernone of these questions, without consideringwhich of those qualities capacitates a man bestfor the world, and carries him farthest in any ofhis undertakings.

There are many other qualities of the mind,whose merit is derived from the same ori-gin, industry, perseverance, patience, activity,vigilance, application, constancy, with othervirtues of that kind, which it will be easy to

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recollect, are esteemed valuable upon no otheraccount, than their advantage in the conductof life. It is the same case with temperance,frugality, economy, resolution: As on the otherhand, prodigality, luxury, irresolution, uncer-tainty, are vicious, merely because they drawruin upon us, and incapacitate us for businessand action.

As wisdom and good-sense are valued, be-cause they are useful to the person possessedof them; so wit and eloquence are valued, be-cause they are immediately agreeable to oth-ers. On the other hand, good humour is lovedand esteemed, because it is immediately agree-able to the person himself. It is evident, thatthe conversation of a man of wit is very sat-isfactory; as a chearful good-humoured com-panion diffuses a joy over the whole company,

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from a sympathy with his gaiety. These qual-ities, therefore, being agreeable, they naturallybeget love and esteem, and answer to all thecharacters of virtue.

It is difficult to tell, on many occasions, whatit is that renders one man’s conversation soagreeable and entertaining, and another’s soinsipid and distasteful. As conversation is atranscript of the mind as well as books, thesame qualities, which render the one valuable,must give us an esteem for the other. Thiswe shall consider afterwards. In the meantime it may be affirmed in general, that all themerit a man may derive from his conversation(which, no doubt, may be very considerable)arises from nothing but the pleasure it conveysto those who are present.

In this view, cleanliness is also to be regarded

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as a virtue; since it naturally renders us agree-able to others, and is a very considerable sourceof love and affection. No one will deny, that anegligence in this particular is a fault; and asfaults are nothing but smaller vices, and thisfault can have no other origin than the uneasysensation, which it excites in others, we may inthis instance, seemingly so trivial, dearly dis-cover the origin of the moral distinction of viceand virtue in other instances.

Besides all those qualities, which render aperson lovely or valuable, there is also a cer-tain je ne sais-quoi of agreeable and handsome,that concurs to the same effect. In this case, aswell as in that of wit and eloquence, we musthave recourse to a certain sense, which actswithout reflection, and regards not the tenden-cies of qualities and characters. Some moral-

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ists account for all the sentiments of virtue bythis sense. Their hypothesis is very plausible.Nothing but a particular enquiry can give thepreference to any other hypothesis. When wefind, that almost all the virtues have such par-ticular tendencies; and also find, that these ten-dencies are sufficient alone to give a strong sen-timent of approbation: We cannot doubt, afterthis, that qualities are approved of, in propor-tion to the advantage, which results from them.

The decorum or indecorum of a quality, withregard to the age, or character, or station, con-tributes also to its praise or blame. This deco-rum depends, in a great measure, upon expe-rience. It is usual to see men lose their lev-ity, as they advance in years. Such a degreeof gravity, therefore, and such years, are con-nected together in our thoughts. When we ob-

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serve them separated in any person’s character,this imposes a kind of violence on our imagina-tion, and is disagreeable.

That faculty of the soul, which, of all oth-ers, is of the least consequence to the charac-ter, and has the least virtue or vice in its severaldegrees, at the same time, that it admits of agreat variety of degrees, is the memory. Unlessit rise up to that stupendous height as to sur-prize us, or sink so low as, in some measure,to affect the judgment, we commonly take nonotice of its variations, nor ever mention themto the praise or dispraise of any person. It is sofar from being a virtue to have a good mem-ory, that men generally affect to complain ofa bad one; and endeavouring to persuade theworld, that what they say is entirely of theirown invention, sacrifice it to the praise of ge-

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nius and judgment. Yet to consider the mat-ter abstractedly, it would be difficult to give areason, why the faculty of recalling past ideaswith truth and clearness, should not have asmuch merit in it, as the faculty of placing ourpresent ideas, in such an order, as to form truepropositions and opinions. The reason of thedifference certainly must be, that the memoryis exerted without any sensation of pleasure orpain; and in all its middling degrees serves al-most equally well in business and affairs. Butthe least variations in the judgment are sensi-bly felt in their consequences; while at the sametime that faculty is never exerted in any emi-nent degree, without an extraordinary delightand satisfaction. The sympathy with this util-ity and pleasure bestows a merit on the under-standing; and the absence of it makes us con-sider the memory as a faculty very indifferent

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to blame or praise.

Before I leave this subject of natural abilities,I must observe, that, perhaps, one source ofthe esteem and affection, which attends them,is derived from the importance and weight,which they bestow on the person possessed ofthem. He becomes of greater consequence inlife. His resolutions and actions affect a greaternumber of his fellow-creatures. Both his friend-ship and enmity are of moment. And it is easyto observe, that whoever is elevated, after thismanner, above the rest of mankind, must ex-cite in us the sentiments of esteem and appro-bation. Whatever is important engages our at-tention, fixes our thought, and is contemplatedwith satisfaction. The histories of kingdomsare more interesting than domestic stories: Thehistories of great empires more than those of

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small cities and principalities: And the histo-ries of wars and revolutions more than those ofpeace and order. We sympathize with the per-sons that suffer, in all the various sentimentswhich belong to their fortunes. The mind is oc-cupied by the multitude of the objects, and bythe strong passions, that display themselves.And this occupation or agitation of the mind iscommonly agreeable and amusing. The sametheory accounts for the esteem and regard wepay to men of extraordinary parts and abilities.The good and ill of multitudes are connectedwith their actions. Whatever they undertake isimportant, and challenges our attention. Noth-ing is to be over-looked and despised, that re-gards them. And where any person can excitethese sentiments, he soon acquires our esteem;unless other circumstances of his character ren-der him odious and disagreeable.

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SECTION V. SOME FARTHER REFLECTIONSCONCERNING THE NATURAL VIRTUES

It has been observed, in treating of the pas-sions, that pride and humility, love and hatred,are excited by any advantages or disadvan-tages of the mind, body, or fortune; and thatthese advantages or disadvantages have thateffect by producing a separate impression ofpain or pleasure. The pain or pleasure, whicharises from the general survey or view of anyaction or quality of the mind, constitutes itsvice or virtue, and gives rise to our approbationor blame, which is nothing but a fainter andmore imperceptible love or hatred. We haveassigned four different sources of this pain andpleasure; and in order to justify more fully thathypothesis, it may here be proper to observe,that the advantages or disadvantages of the

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body and of fortune, produce a pain or plea-sure from the very same principles. The ten-dency of any object to be useful to the personpossess d of it, or to others; to convey pleasureto him or to others; all these circumstances con-vey an immediate pleasure to the person, whoconsiders the object, and command his loveand approbation.

To begin with the advantages of the body;we may observe a phaenomenon, which mightappear somewhat trivial and ludicrous, if anything coued be trivial, which fortified a conclu-sion of such importance, or ludicrous, whichwas employed in a philosophical reasoning.It is a general remark, that those we callgood women’s men, who have either signal-ized themselves by their amorous exploits, orwhose make of body promises any extraordi-

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nary vigour of that kind, are well received bythe fair sex, and naturally engage the affectionseven of those, whose virtue prevents any de-sign of ever giving employment to those tal-ents. Here it is evident, that the ability of sucha person to give enjoyment, is the real sourceof that love and esteem he meets with amongthe females; at the same time that the women,who love and esteem him, have no prospect ofreceiving that enjoyment themselves, and canonly be affected by means of their sympathywith one, that has a commerce of love withhim. This instance is singular, and merits ourattention.

Another source of the pleasure we receivefrom considering bodily advantages, is theirutility to the person himself, who is possessedof them. It is certain, that a considerable part of

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the beauty of men, as well as of other animals,consists in such a conformation of members,as we find by experience to be attended withstrength and agility, and to capacitate the crea-ture for any action or exercise. Broad shoul-ders, a lank belly, firm joints, taper legs; allthese are beautiful in our species because theyare signs of force and vigour, which being ad-vantages we naturally sympathize with, theyconvey to the beholder a share of that satisfac-tion they produce in the possessor.

So far as to the utility, which may attend anyquality of the body. As to the immediate plea-sure, it is certain, that an air of health, as wellas of strength and agility, makes a considerablepart of beauty; and that a sickly air in another isalways disagreeable, upon account of that ideaof pain and uneasiness, which it conveys to us.

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On the other hand, we are pleased with the reg-ularity of our own features, though it be neitheruseful to ourselves nor others; and it is neces-sary at a distance, to make it convey to us anysatisfaction. We commonly consider ourselvesas we appear in the eyes of others, and sym-pathize with the advantageous sentiments theyentertain with regard to us.

How far the advantages of fortune produceesteem and approbation from the same princi-ples, we may satisfy ourselves by reflecting onour precedent reasoning on that subject. Wehave observed, that our approbation of those,who are possess d of the advantages of fortune,may be ascribed to three different causes. First,To that immediate pleasure, which a rich mangives us, by the view of the beautiful cloaths,equipage, gardens, or houses, which he pos-

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sesses. Secondly, To the advantage, which wehope to reap from him by his generosity andliberality. Thirdly, To the pleasure and advan-tage, which he himself reaps from his posses-sions, and which produce an agreeable sympa-thy in us. Whether we ascribe our esteem ofthe rich and great to one or all of these causes,we may clearly see the traces of those princi-ples, which give rise to the sense of vice andvirtue. I believe most people, at first sight, willbe inclined to ascribe our esteem of the richto self-interest, and the prospect of advantage.But as it is certain, that our esteem or defer-ence extends beyond any prospect of advan-tage to ourselves, it is evident, that that sen-timent must proceed from a sympathy withthose, who are dependent on the person we es-teem and respect, and who have an immediateconnexion with him. We consider him as a per-

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son capable of contributing to the happiness orenjoyment of his fellow-creatures, whose sen-timents, with regard to him, we naturally em-brace. And this consideration will serve to jus-tify my hypothesis in preferring the third prin-ciple to the other two, and ascribing our es-teem of the rich to a sympathy with the plea-sure and advantage, which they themselves re-ceive from their possessions. For as even theother two principles cannot operate to a due ex-tent, or account for all the phaenomena, with-out having recourse to a sympathy of one kindor other; it is much more natural to chuse thatsympathy, which is immediate and direct, thanthat which is remote and indirect. To which wemay add, that where the riches or power arevery great, and render the person considerableand important in the world, the esteem attend-ing them, may, in part, be ascribed to another

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source, distinct from these three, viz. their in-teresting the mind by a prospect of the mul-titude, and importance of their consequences:Though, in order to account for the operationof this principle, we must also have recourse tosympathy; as we have observed in the preced-ing section.

It may not be amiss, on this occasion, to re-mark the flexibility of our sentiments, and theseveral changes they so readily receive fromthe objects, with which they are conjoined. Allthe sentiments of approbation, which attendany particular species of objects, have a greatresemblance to each other, though derivedfrom different sources; and, on the other hand,those sentiments, when directed to differentobjects, are different to the feeling, though de-rived from the same source. Thus the beauty of

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all visible objects causes a pleasure pretty muchthe same, though it be sometimes derived fromthe mere species and appearance of the ob-jects; sometimes from sympathy, and an idea oftheir utility. In like manner, whenever we sur-vey the actions and characters of men, withoutany particular interest in them, the pleasure, orpain, which arises from the survey (with someminute differences) is, in the main, of the samekind, though perhaps there be a great diversityin the causes, from which it is derived. On theother hand, a convenient house, and a virtuouscharacter, cause not the same feeling of appro-bation; even though the source of our appro-bation be the same, and flow from sympathyand an idea of their utility. There is somethingvery inexplicable in this variation of our feel-ings; but it is what we have experience of withregard to all our passions and sentiments.

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SECTION VI. CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK

Thus upon the whole I am hopeful, thatnothing is wanting to an accurate proof of thissystem of ethics. We are certain, that sympathyis a very powerful principle in human nature.We are also certain, that it has a great influenceon our sense of beauty, when we regard exter-nal objects, as well as when we judge of morals.We find, that it has force sufficient to give usthe strongest sentiments of approbation, whenit operates alone, without the concurrence ofany other principle; as in the cases of justice, al-legiance, chastity, and good-manners. We mayobserve, that all the circumstances requisite forits operation are found in most of the virtues;which have, for the most part, a tendency tothe good of society, or to that of the person pos-sessed of them. If we compare all these cir-

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cumstances, we shall not doubt, that sympa-thy is the chief source of moral distinctions; es-pecially when we reflect, that no objection canbe raised against this hypothesis in one case,which will not extend to all cases. Justice iscertainly approved of for no other reason, thanbecause it has a tendency to the public good:And the public good is indifferent to us, exceptso far as sympathy interests us in it. We maypresume the like with regard to all the othervirtues, which have a like tendency to the pub-lic good. They must derive all their merit fromour sympathy with those, who reap any advan-tage from them: As the virtues, which have atendency to the good of the person possessedof them, derive their merit from our sympathywith him.

Most people will readily allow, that the use-

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ful qualities of the mind are virtuous, becauseof their utility. This way of thinking is so natu-ral, and occurs on so many occasions, that fewwill make any scruple of admitting it. Nowthis being once admitted, the force of sympa-thy must necessarily be acknowledged. Virtueis considered as means to an end. Means to anend are only valued so far as the end is val-ued. But the happiness of strangers affects usby sympathy alone. To that principle, there-fore, we are to ascribe the sentiment of ap-probation, which arises from the survey of allthose virtues, that are useful to society, or tothe person possessed of them. These form themost considerable part of morality.

Were it proper in such a subject to bribethe reader’s assent, or employ any thing butsolid argument, we are here abundantly sup-

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plied with topics to engage the affections. Alllovers of virtue (and such we all are in spec-ulation, however we may degenerate in prac-tice) must certainly be pleased to see moral dis-tinctions derived from so noble a source, whichgives us a just notion both of the generosityand capacity of human nature. It requires butvery little knowledge of human affairs to per-ceive, that a sense of morals is a principle in-herent in the soul, and one of the most pow-erful that enters into the composition. But thissense must certainly acquire new force, whenreflecting on itself, it approves of those princi-ples, from whence it is derived, and finds noth-ing but what is great and good in its rise andorigin. Those who resolve the sense of moralsinto original instincts of the human mind, maydefend the cause of virtue with sufficient au-thority; but want the advantage, which those

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possess, who account for that sense by an ex-tensive sympathy with mankind. According totheir system, not only virtue must be approvedof, but also the sense of virtue: And not onlythat sense, but also the principles, from whenceit is derived. So that nothing is presented onany side, but what is laudable and good.

This observation may be extended to justice,and the other virtues of that kind. Though jus-tice be artificial, the sense of its morality is nat-ural. It is the combination of men, in a sys-tem of conduct, which renders any act of justicebeneficial to society. But when once it has thattendency, we naturally approve of it; and if wedid not so, it is impossible any combination orconvention coued ever produce that sentiment.

Most of the inventions of men are subjectto change. They depend upon humour and

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caprice. They have a vogue for a time, andthen sink into oblivion. It may, perhaps, be ap-prehended, that if justice were allowed to bea human invention, it must be placed on thesame footing. But the cases are widely differ-ent. The interest, on which justice is founded,is the greatest imaginable, and extends to alltimes and places. It cannot possibly be servedby any other invention. It is obvious, and dis-covers itself on the very first formation of soci-ety. All these causes render the rules of justicestedfast and immutable; at least, as immutableas human nature. And if they were founded onoriginal instincts, coued they have any greaterstability?

The same system may help us to form a justnotion of the happiness, as well as of the dig-nity of virtue, and may interest every principle

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of our nature in the embracing and cherishingthat noble quality. Who indeed does not feel anaccession of alacrity in his pursuits of knowl-edge and ability of every kind, when he consid-ers, that besides the advantage, which immedi-ately result from these acquisitions, they alsogive him a new lustre in the eyes of mankind,and are universally attended with esteem andapprobation? And who can think any advan-tages of fortune a sufficient compensation forthe least breach of the social virtues, when heconsiders, that not only his character with re-gard to others, but also his peace and inwardsatisfaction entirely depend upon his strict ob-servance of them; and that a mind will neverbe able to bear its own survey, that has beenwanting in its part to mankind and society? ButI forbear insisting on this subject. Such reflec-tions require a work a-part, very different from

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the genius of the present. The anatomist oughtnever to emulate the painter; nor in his accu-rate dissections and portraitures of the smallerparts of the human body, pretend to give hisfigures any graceful and engaging attitude orexpression. There is even something hideous,or at least minute in the views of things, whichhe presents; and it is necessary the objectsshould be set more at a distance, and be morecovered up from sight, to make them engag-ing to the eye and imagination. An anatomist,however, is admirably fitted to give advice toa painter; and it is even impracticable to excelin the latter art, without the assistance of theformer. We must have an exact knowledge ofthe parts, their situation and connexion, beforewe can design with any elegance or correct-ness. And thus the most abstract speculationsconcerning human nature, however cold and

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unentertaining, become subservient to practi-cal morality; and may render this latter sciencemore correct in its precepts, and more persua-sive in its exhortations.

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There is nothing I would more willingly layhold of, than an opportunity of confessing myerrors; and should esteem such a return to truthand reason to be more honourable than themost unerring judgment. A man, who is freefrom mistakes, can pretend to no praises, ex-cept from the justness of his understanding:

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But a man, who corrects his mistakes, shews atonce the justness of his understanding, and thecandour and ingenuity of his temper. I havenot yet been so fortunate as to discover anyvery considerable mistakes in the reasoningsdelivered in the preceding volumes, except onone article: But I have found by experience,that some of my expressions have not been sowell chosen, as to guard against all mistakes inthe readers; and it is chiefly to remedy this de-fect, I have subjoined the following appendix.

We can never be induced to believe any mat-ter of fact, except where its cause, or its effect,is present to us; but what the nature is of thatbelief, which arises from the relation of causeand effect, few have had the curiosity to askthemselves. In my opinion, this dilemma is in-evitable. Either the belief is some new idea,

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such as that of reality or existence, which wejoin to the simple conception of an object, or itis merely a peculiar feeling or sentiment. Thatit is not a new idea, annexed to the simple con-ception, may be evinced from these two ar-guments. First, We have no abstract idea ofexistence, distinguishable and separable fromthe idea of particular objects. It is impossible,therefore, that this idea of existence can be an-nexed to the idea of any object, or form thedifference betwixt a simple conception and be-lief. Secondly, The mind has the command overall its ideas, and can separate, unite, mix, andvary them, as it pleases; so that if belief con-sisted merely in a new idea, annexed to theconception, it would be in a man’s power tobelieve what he pleased. We may, therefore,conclude, that belief consists merely in a cer-tain feeling or sentiment; in something, that

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depends not on the will, but must arise fromcertain determinate causes and principles, ofwhich we are not masters. When we are con-vinced of any matter of fact, we do nothing butconceive it, along with a certain feeling, dif-ferent from what attends the mere reveries ofthe imagination. And when we express our in-credulity concerning any fact, we mean, thatthe arguments for the fact produce not that feel-ing. Did not the belief consist in a sentimentdifferent from our mere conception, whateverobjects were presented by the wildest imagi-nation, would be on an equal footing with themost established truths founded on history andexperience. There is nothing but the feeling,or sentiment, to distinguish the one from theother.

This, therefore, being regarded as an un-

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doubted truth, that belief is nothing but a pecu-liar feeling, different from the simple concep-tion, the next question, that naturally occurs,is, what is the nature of this feeling, or senti-ment, and whether it be analogous to any othersentiment of the human mind? This questionis important. For if it be not analogous to anyother sentiment, we must despair of explainingits causes, and must consider it as an originalprinciple of the human mind. If it be analo-gous, we may hope to explain its causes fromanalogy, and trace it up to more general princi-ples. Now that there is a greater firmness andsolidity in the conceptions, which are the ob-jects of conviction and assurance, than in theloose and indolent reveries of a castle-builder,every one will readily own. They strike uponus with more force; they are more present to us;the mind has a firmer hold of them, and is more

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actuated and moved by them. It acquiesces inthem; and, in a manner, fixes and reposes itselfon them. In short, they approach nearer to theimpressions, which are immediately present tous; and are therefore analogous to many otheroperations of the mind.

There is not, in my opinion, any possibilityof evading this conclusion, but by asserting,that belief, beside the simple conception, con-sists in some impression or feeling, distinguish-able from the conception. It does not mod-ify the conception, and render it more presentand intense: It is only annexed to it, after thesame manner that will and desire are annexedto particular conceptions of good and pleasure.But the following considerations will, I hope,be sufficient to remove this hypothesis. First,It is directly contrary to experience, and our

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immediate consciousness. All men have everallowed reasoning to be merely an operationof our thoughts or ideas; and however thoseideas may be varied to the feeling, there isnothing ever enters into our conclusions butideas, or our fainter conceptions. For instance;I hear at present a person’s voice, whom I amacquainted with; and this sound comes fromthe next room. This impression of my sensesimmediately conveys my thoughts to the per-son, along with all the surrounding objects. Ipaint them out to myself as existent at present,with the same qualities and relations, that I for-merly knew them possessed of. These ideastake faster hold of my mind, than the ideas ofan inchanted castle. They are different to thefeeling; but there is no distinct or separate im-pression attending them. It is the same casewhen I recollect the several incidents of a jour-

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ney, or the events of any history. Every partic-ular fact is there the object of belief. Its idea ismodified differently from the loose reveries ofa castle-builder: But no distinct impression at-tends every distinct idea, or conception of mat-ter of fact. This is the subject of plain experi-ence. If ever this experience can be disputedon any occasion, it is when the mind has beenagitated with doubts and difficulties; and after-wards, upon taking the object in a new point ofview, or being presented with a new argument,fixes and reposes itself in one settled conclu-sion and belief. In this case there is a feelingdistinct and separate from the conception. Thepassage from doubt and agitation to tranquilityand repose, conveys a satisfaction and pleasureto the mind. But take any other case. SupposeI see the legs and thighs of a person in motion,while some interposed object conceals the rest

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of his body. Here it is certain, the imaginationspreads out the whole figure. I give him a headand shoulders, and breast and neck. Thesemembers I conceive and believe him to be pos-sessed of. Nothing can be more evident, thanthat this whole operation is performed by thethought or imagination alone. The transition isimmediate. The ideas presently strike us. Theircustomary connexion with the present impres-sion, varies them and modifies them in a cer-tain manner, but produces no act of the mind,distinct from this peculiarity of conception. Letany one examine his own mind, and he will ev-idently find this to be the truth.

Secondly, Whatever may be the case, with re-gard to this distinct impression, it must be al-lowed, that the mind has a firmer hold, or moresteady conception of what it takes to be matter

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of fact, than of fictions. Why then look any far-ther, or multiply suppositions without neces-sity?

Thirdly, We can explain the causes of the firmconception, but not those of any separate im-pression. And not only so, but the causes of thefirm conception exhaust the whole subject, andnothing is left to produce any other effect. Aninference concerning a matter of fact is noth-ing but the idea of an object, that is frequentlyconjoined, or is associated with a present im-pression. This is the whole of it. Every partis requisite to explain, from analogy, the moresteady conception; and nothing remains capa-ble of producing any distinct impression.

Fourthly, The effects of belief, in influenc-ing the passions and imagination, can all beexplained from the firm conception; and there

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is no occasion to have recourse to any otherprinciple. These arguments, with many oth-ers, enumerated in the foregoing volumes, suf-ficiently prove, that belief only modifies theidea or conception; and renders it different tothe feeling, without producing any distinct im-pression. Thus upon a general view of the sub-ject, there appear to be two questions of impor-tance, which we may venture to recommendto the consideration of philosophers, Whetherthere be any thing to distinguish belief from thesimple conception beside the feeling of senti-ment? And, Whether this feeling be any thingbut a firmer conception, or a faster hold, thatwe take of the object?

If, upon impartial enquiry, the same conclu-sion, that I have formed, be assented to byphilosophers, the next business is to examine

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the analogy, which there is betwixt belief, andother acts of the mind, and find the cause ofthe firmness and strength of conception: Andthis I do not esteem a difficult task. The tran-sition from a present impression, always en-livens and strengthens any idea. When any ob-ject is presented, the idea of its usual attendantimmediately strikes us, as something real andsolid. It is felt, rather than conceived, and ap-proaches the impression, from which it is de-rived, in its force and influence. This I haveproved at large. I cannot add any new argu-ments.

I had entertained some hopes, that howeverdeficient our theory of the intellectual worldmight be, it would be free from those contra-dictions, and absurdities, which seem to attendevery explication, that human reason can give

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of the material world. But upon a more strictreview of the section concerning personal iden-tity, I find myself involved in such a labyrinth,that, I must confess, I neither know how to cor-rect my former opinions, nor how to renderthem consistent. If this be not a good generalreason for scepticism, it is at least a sufficientone (if I were not already abundantly supplied)for me to entertain a diffidence and modestyin all my decisions. I shall propose the argu-ments on both sides, beginning with those thatinduced me to deny the strict and proper iden-tity and simplicity of a self or thinking being.

When we talk of self or substance, we musthave an idea annexed to these terms, other-wise they are altogether unintelligible. Everyidea is derived from preceding impressions;and we have no impression of self or substance,

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as something simple and individual. We have,therefore, no idea of them in that sense.

Whatever is distinct, is distinguishable; andwhatever is distinguishable, is separable by thethought or imagination. All perceptions aredistinct. They are, therefore, distinguishable,and separable, and may be conceived as sepa-rately existent, and may exist separately, with-out any contradiction or absurdity.

When I view this table and that chimney,nothing is present to me but particular per-ceptions, which are of a like nature with allthe other perceptions. This is the doctrine ofphilosophers. But this table, which is presentto me, and the chimney, may and do exist sep-arately. This is the doctrine of the vulgar, andimplies no contradiction. There is no contradic-tion, therefore, in extending the same doctrine

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to all the perceptions.

In general, the following reasoning seemssatisfactory. All ideas are borrowed from pre-ceding perceptions. Our ideas of objects, there-fore, are derived from that source. Conse-quently no proposition can be intelligible orconsistent with regard to objects, which is notso with regard to perceptions. But it is intel-ligible and consistent to say, that objects ex-ist distinct and independent, without any com-mon simple substance or subject of inhesion.This proposition, therefore, can never be ab-surd with regard to perceptions.

When I turn my reflection on myself, I nevercan perceive this self without some one or moreperceptions; nor can I ever perceive any thingbut the perceptions. It is the composition ofthese, therefore, which forms the self. We can

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conceive a thinking being to have either manyor few perceptions. Suppose the mind to be re-duced even below the life of an oyster. Sup-pose it to have only one perception, as of thirstor hunger. Consider it in that situation. Do youconceive any thing but merely that perception?Have you any notion of self or substance? Ifnot, the addition of other perceptions can nevergive you that notion.

The annihilation, which some people sup-pose to follow upon death, and which entirelydestroys this self, is nothing but an extinc-tion of all particular perceptions; love and ha-tred, pain and pleasure, thought and sensation.These therefore must be the same with self;since the one cannot survive the other.

Is self the same with substance? If it be,how can that question have place, concerning

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the subsistence of self, under a change of sub-stance? If they be distinct, what is the differ-ence betwixt them? For my part, I have a no-tion of neither, when conceived distinct fromparticular perceptions.

Philosophers begin to be reconciled to theprinciple, that we have no idea of externalsubstance, distinct from the ideas of particu-lar qualities. This must pave the way for a likeprinciple with regard to the mind, that we haveno notion of it, distinct from the particular per-ceptions.

So far I seem to be attended with sufficientevidence. But having thus loosened all ourparticular perceptions, when I proceed to ex-plain the principle of connexion, which bindsthem together, and makes us attribute to thema real simplicity and identity; I am sensible,

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that my account is very defective, and thatnothing but the seeming evidence of the prece-dent reasonings coued have induced me to re-ceive it. If perceptions are distinct existences,they form a whole only by being connected to-gether. But no connexions among distinct exis-tences are ever discoverable by human under-standing. We only feel a connexion or deter-mination of the thought, to pass from one ob-ject to another. It follows, therefore, that thethought alone finds personal identity, when re-flecting on the train of past perceptions, thatcompose a mind, the ideas of them are feltto be connected together, and naturally intro-duce each other. However extraordinary thisconclusion may seem, it need not surprize us.Most philosophers seem inclined to think, thatpersonal identity arises from consciousness;and consciousness is nothing but a reflected

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thought or perception. The present philosophy,therefore, has so far a promising aspect. Butall my hopes vanish, when I come to explainthe principles, that unite our successive percep-tions in our thought or consciousness. I cannotdiscover any theory, which gives me satisfac-tion on this head.

In short there are two principles, which I can-not render consistent; nor is it in my powerto renounce either of them, viz, that all ourdistinct perceptions are distinct existences, andthat the mind never perceives any real connex-ion among distinct existences. Did our percep-tions either inhere in something simple and in-dividual, or did the mind perceive some realconnexion among them, there would be no dif-ficulty in the case. For my part, I must plead theprivilege of a sceptic, and confess, that this dif-

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ficulty is too hard for my understanding. I pre-tend not, however, to pronounce it absolutelyinsuperable. Others, perhaps, or myself, uponmore mature reflections, may discover somehypothesis, that will reconcile those contradic-tions.

I shall also take this opportunity of confess-ing two other errors of less importance, whichmore mature reflection has discovered to me inmy reasoning. The first may be found in Vol. I.page 106. where I say, that the distance betwixttwo bodies is known, among other things, bythe angles, which the rays of light flowing fromthe bodies make with each other. It is certain,that these angles are not known to the mind,and consequently can never discover the dis-tance. The second error may be found in Vol.I. page 144 where I say, that two ideas of the

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same object can only be different by their dif-ferent degrees of force and vivacity. I believethere are other differences among ideas, whichcannot properly be comprehended under theseterms. Had I said, that two ideas of the sameobject can only be different by their differentfeeling, I should have been nearer the truth.

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