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Title: A Treatise of Human Nature

Author: David Hume

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A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE:
BY DAVID HUME



CONTENTS


VOLUME I

INTRODUCTION BY THE AUTHOR.

BOOK I  OF THE UNDERSTANDING

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

SECT. I     OF THE ORIGIN OF OUR IDEAS.
SECT. II.   DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT.
SECT. III.  OF THE IDEAS OF THE MEMORY AND IMAGINATION.
SECT. IV.   OF THE CONNECTION OR ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.
SECT. V.    OF RELATIONS.
SECT. VI.   OF MODES AND SUBSTANCES
SECT. VII.  OF ABSTRACT IDEAS.

PART II.   OF THE IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME,

SECT. I.    OF THE INFINITE DIVISIBILITY OF OUR IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME.
SECT. II.   OF THE INFINITE DIVISIBILITY OF SPACE AND TIME.
SECT. III.  OF THE OTHER QUALITIES OF OUR IDEA OF SPACE AND TIME.
SECT. IV.   OBJECTIONS ANSWERED.
SECT. V.    THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.
SECT. VI.   OF THE IDEA OF EXISTENCE, AND OF EXTERNAL EXISTENCE.

PART III.  OF KNOWLEDGE AND PROBABILITY.

SECT. I.    OF KNOWLEDGE.
SECT. II.   OF PROBABILITY, AND OF THE IDEA OF CAUSE AND EFFECT.
SECT. III.  WHY A CAUSE IS ALWAYS NECESSARY.
SECT. IV.   OF THE COMPONENT PARTS OF OUR REASONINGS CONCERNING CAUSE
             AND EFFECT.
SECT. V.    OF THE IMPRESSIONS OF THE SENSES AND MEMORY.
SECT. VI.   OF THE INFERENCE FROM THE IMPRESSION TO THE IDEA.
SECT. VII.  OF THE NATURE OF THE IDEA OR BELIEF.
SECT. VIII. OF THE CAUSES OF BELIEF.
SECT. IX.   OF THE EFFECTS OF OTHER RELATIONS AND OTHER HABITS.
SECT. X.    OF THE INFLUENCE OF BELIEF.
SECT. XI.   OF THE PROBABILITY OF CHANCES.
SECT. XII.  OF THE PROBABILITY OF CAUSES.
SECT. XIII. OF UNPHILOSOPHICAL PROBABILITY.
SECT. XIV.  OF THE IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNECTION.
SECT. XV.   RULES BY WHICH TO JUDGE OF CAUSES AND EFFECTS.
SECT. XVI   OF THE REASON OF ANIMALS

PART IV.   OF THE SCEPTICAL AND OTHER SYSTEMS OF PHILOSOPHY.

SECT. I.    OF SCEPTICISM WITH REGARD TO REASON.
SECT. II.   OF SCEPTICISM WITH REGARD TO THE SENSES.
SECT. III.  OF THE ANTIENT PHILOSOPHY.
SECT. IV.   OF THE MODERN PHILOSOPHY.
SECT. V.    OF THE IMMATERIALITY OF THE SOUL.
SECT. VI.   OF PERSONAL IDENTITY
SECT. VII.  CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK.

VOLUME II

BOOK II   OF THE PASSIONS

PART I     OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY

SECT. I     DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT
SECT. II    OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY, THEIR OBJECTS AND CAUSES
SECT. III   WHENCE THESE OBJECTS AND CAUSES ARE DERIVED
SECT. IV    OF THE RELATIONS OF IMPRESSIONS AND IDEAS
SECT. V     OF THE INFLUENCE OF THESE RELATIONS ON PRIDE AND HUMILITY
SECT. VI    LIMITATIONS OF THIS SYSTEM
SECT. VII   OF VICE AND VIRTUE
SECT. VIII  OF BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY
SECT. IX    OF EXTERNAL ADVANTAGES AND DISADVANTAGES
SECT. X     OF PROPERTY AND RICHES
SECT. XI    OF THE LOVE OF FAME
SECT. XII   OF THE PRIDE AND HUMILITY OF ANIMALS

PART II    OF LOVE AND HATRED

SECT. I     OF THE OBJECT AND CAUSES OF LOVE AND HATRED
SECT. II    EXPERIMENTS TO CONFIRM THIS SYSTEM
SECT. III   DIFFICULTIES SOLVED
SECT. IV    OF THE LOVE OF RELATIONS
SECT. V     OF OUR ESTEEM FOR THE RICH AND POWERFUL
SECT. VI    OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER
SECT. VII   OF COMPASSION
SECT. VIII  OF MALICE AND ENVY
SECT. IX    OF THE MIXTURE OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER WITH COMPASSION
             AND MALICE
SECT. X     OF RESPECT AND CONTEMPT
SECT. XI    OF THE AMOROUS PASSION, OR LOVE BETWIXT THE SEXES
SECT. XII   OF THE LOVE AND HATRED OF ANIMALS

PART III   OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS

SECT. I     OF LIBERTY AND NECESSITY
SECT. II    THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED
SECT. III   OF THE INFLUENCING MOTIVES OF THE WILL
SECT. IV    OF THE CAUSES OF THE VIOLENT PASSIONS
SECT. V     OF THE EFFECTS OF CUSTOM
SECT. VI    OF THE INFLUENCE OF THE IMAGINATION ON THE PASSIONS
SECT. VII   OF CONTIGUITY AND DISTANCE IN SPACE AND TIME
SECT. VIII  THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED
SECT. IX    OF THE DIRECT PASSIONS
SECT. X     OF CURIOSITY, OR THE LOVE OF TRUTH

BOOK III  OF MORALS

PART I     OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL

SECT. I     MORAL DISTINCTIONS NOT DERIVED FROM REASON
SECT. II    MORAL DISTINCTIONS DERIVED FROM A MORAL SENSE

PART II    OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE

SECT. I     JUSTICE, WHETHER A NATURAL OR ARTIFICIAL VIRTUE?
SECT. II    OF THE ORIGIN OF JUSTICE AND PROPERTY
SECT. III   OF THE RULES WHICH DETERMINE PROPERTY
SECT. IV    OF THE TRANSFERENCE OF PROPERTY BY CONSENT
SECT. V     OF THE OBLIGATION OF PROMISES
SECT. VI    SOME FARTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE
SECT. VII   OF THE ORIGIN OF GOVERNMENT
SECT. VIII  OF THE SOURCE OF ALLEGIANCE
SECT. IX    OF THE MEASURES OF ALLEGIANCE
SECT. X     OF THE OBJECTS OF ALLEGIANCE
SECT. XI    OF THE LAWS OF NATIONS
SECT. XII   OF CHASTITY AND MODESTY

PART III   OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES

SECT. I     OF THE ORIGIN OF THE NATURAL VIRTUES AND VICES
SECT. II    OF GREATNESS OF MIND
SECT. III   OF GOODNESS AND BENEVOLENCE
SECT. IV    OF NATURAL ABILITIES
SECT. V     SOME FARTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING THE NATURAL VIRTUES
SECT. VI    CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK

APPENDIX TO THE TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE



* * * * * * * * * *





VOL. I  OF THE UNDERSTANDING.



ADVERTISEMENT.



My design in the present work is sufficiently explained in the
Introduction. The reader must only observe, that all the subjects I have
there planned out to myself, are not treated of in these two volumes. The
subjects of the Understanding and Passions make a compleat chain of
reasoning by themselves; and I was willing to take advantage of this
natural division, in order to try the taste of the public. If I have the
good fortune to meet with success, I shall proceed to the examination of
Morals, Politics, and Criticism; which will compleat this Treatise of
Human Nature. The approbation of the public I consider as the greatest
reward of my labours; but am determined to regard its judgment, whatever
it be, as my best instruction.




INTRODUCTION.



Nothing is more usual and more natural for those, who pretend to discover
anything new to the world in philosophy and the sciences, than to
insinuate the praises of their own systems, by decrying all those, which
have been advanced before them. And indeed were they content with
lamenting that ignorance, which we still lie under in the most important
questions, that can come before the tribunal of human reason, there are
few, who have an acquaintance with the sciences, that would not readily
agree with them. It is easy for one of judgment and learning, to perceive
the weak foundation even of those systems, which have obtained the
greatest credit, and have carried their pretensions highest to accurate
and profound reasoning. Principles taken upon trust, consequences lamely
deduced from them, want of coherence in the parts, and of evidence in the
whole, these are every where to be met with in the systems of the most
eminent philosophers, and seem to have drawn disgrace upon philosophy
itself.

Nor is there required such profound knowledge to discover the present
imperfect condition of the sciences, but even the rabble without doors
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 debate, and in
which men of learning are not of contrary opinions. The most trivial
question escapes not our controversy, and in the most momentous we are
not able to give any certain decision. Disputes are multiplied, as if
every thing was uncertain; and these disputes are managed with the
greatest warmth, as if every thing was certain. Amidst all this bustle
it is not reason, which carries the prize, but eloquence; and no man
needs ever despair of gaining proselytes to the most extravagant
hypothesis, who has art enough to represent it in any favourable colours.
The victory is not gained by the men at arms, who manage the pike and the
sword; but by the trumpeters, drummers, and musicians of the army.

From hence in my opinion arises that common prejudice against
metaphysical reasonings of all kinds, even amongst those, who profess
themselves scholars, and have a just value for every other part of
literature. By metaphysical reasonings, they do not understand those on
any particular branch of science, but every kind of argument, which is
any way abstruse, and requires some attention to be comprehended. We have
so often lost our labour in such researches, that we commonly reject them
without hesitation, and resolve, if we must for ever be a prey to errors
and delusions, that they shall at least be natural and entertaining. And
indeed nothing but the most determined scepticism, along with a great
degree of indolence, can justify this aversion to metaphysics. For if
truth be at all within the reach of human capacity, it is certain it must
lie very deep and abstruse: and to hope we shall arrive at it without
pains, while the greatest geniuses have failed with the utmost pains,
must certainly be esteemed sufficiently vain and presumptuous. I pretend
to no such advantage in the philosophy I am going to unfold, and would
esteem it a strong presumption against it, were it so very easy and
obvious.

It is evident, that all the sciences have a relation, greater or less, to
human nature: and that however wide any of them may seem to run from it,
they still return back by one passage or another. Even. Mathematics,
Natural Philosophy, and Natural Religion, are in some measure dependent
on the science of MAN; since the lie under the cognizance of men, and are
judged of by their powers and faculties. It is impossible to tell what
changes and improvements we might make in these sciences were we
thoroughly acquainted with the extent and force of human understanding,
and could explain the nature of the ideas we employ, and of the
operations we perform in our reasonings. And these improvements are the
more to be hoped for in natural religion, as it is not content with
instructing us in the nature of superior powers, but carries its views
farther, to their disposition towards us, and our duties towards them;
and consequently we ourselves are not only the beings, that reason, but
also one of the objects, concerning which we reason.

If therefore the sciences of Mathematics, Natural Philosophy, and Natural
Religion, have such a dependence on the knowledge of man, what may be
expected in the other sciences, whose connexion with human nature is more
close and intimate? The sole end of logic is to explain the principles
and operations of our reasoning faculty, and the nature of our ideas:
morals and criticism regard our tastes and sentiments: and politics
consider men as united in society, and dependent on each other. In these
four sciences of Logic, Morals, Criticism, and Politics, is comprehended
almost everything, which it can any way import us to be acquainted with,
or which can tend either to the improvement or ornament of the human
mind.

Here then is the only expedient, from which we can hope for success in
our philosophical researches, to leave the tedious lingering method,
which we have hitherto followed, and instead of taking now and then a
castle or village on the frontier, to march up directly to the capital or
center of these sciences, to human nature itself; which being once
masters of, we may every where else hope for an easy victory. From this
station we may extend our conquests over all those sciences, which more
intimately concern human life, and may afterwards proceed at leisure to
discover more fully those, which are the objects of pore curiosity. There
is no question of importance, whose decision is not comprised in the
science of man; and there is none, which can be decided with any
certainty, before we become acquainted with that science. In pretending,
therefore, to explain the principles of human nature, we in effect
propose a compleat system of the sciences, built on a foundation almost
entirely new, and the only one upon which they can stand with any
security.

And as the science of man is the-only solid foundation for the other
sciences, so the only solid foundation we can give to this science
itself must be laid on experience and observation. It is no astonishing
reflection to consider, that the application of experimental philosophy
to moral subjects should come after that to natural at the distance of
above a whole century; since we find in fact, that there was about the
same interval betwixt the origins of these sciences; and that reckoning
from THALES to SOCRATES, the space of time is nearly equal to that
betwixt, my Lord Bacon and some late philosophers [Mr. Locke, my Lord
Shaftesbury, Dr. Mandeville, Mr. Hutchinson, Dr. Butler, etc.] in England,
who have begun to put the science of man on a new footing, and have
engaged the attention, and excited the curiosity of the public. So true it
is, that however other nations may rival us in poetry, and excel us in
some other agreeable arts, the improvements in reason and philosophy can
only be owing to a land of toleration and of liberty.

Nor ought we to think, that this latter improvement in the science of man
will do less honour to our native country than the former in natural
philosophy, but ought rather to esteem it a greater glory, upon account
of the greater importance of that science, as well as the necessity it
lay under of such a reformation. For to me it seems evident, that the
essence of the mind being equally unknown to us with that of external
bodies, it must be equally impossible to form any notion of its powers
and qualities otherwise than from careful and exact experiments, and the
observation of those particular effects, which result from its different
circumstances and situations. And though we must endeavour to render all
our principles as universal as possible, by tracing up our experiments to
the utmost, and explaining all effects from the simplest and fewest
causes, it is still certain we cannot go beyond experience; and any
hypothesis, that pretends to discover the ultimate original qualities of
human nature, ought at first to be rejected as presumptuous and
chimerical.

I do not think a philosopher, who would apply himself so earnestly to the
explaining the ultimate principles of the soul, would show himself a
great master in that very science of human nature, which he pretends to
explain, or very knowing in what is naturally satisfactory to the mind of
man. For nothing is more certain, than that despair has almost the same
effect upon us with enjoyment, and that we are no sooner acquainted with
the impossibility of satisfying any desire, than the desire itself
vanishes. When we see, that we have arrived at the utmost extent of human
reason, we sit down contented, though we be perfectly satisfied in the
main of our ignorance, and perceive that we can give no reason for our
most general and most refined principles, beside our experience of their
reality; which is the reason of the mere vulgar, and what it required no
study at first to have discovered for the most particular and most
extraordinary phaenomenon. And as this impossibility of making any
farther progress is enough to satisfy the reader, so the writer may
derive a more delicate satisfaction from the free confession of his
ignorance, and from his prudence in avoiding that error, into which so
many have fallen, of imposing their conjectures and hypotheses on the
world for the most certain principles. When this mutual contentment and
satisfaction can be obtained betwixt the master and scholar, I know not
what more we can require of our philosophy.

But if this impossibility of explaining ultimate principles should be
esteemed a defect in the science of man, I will venture to affirm, that
it is a defect common to it with all the sciences, and all the arts, in
which we can employ ourselves, whether they be such as are cultivated in
the schools of the philosophers, or practised in the shops of the meanest
artizans. None of them can go beyond experience, or establish any
principles which are not founded on that authority. Moral philosophy has,
indeed, this peculiar disadvantage, which is not found in natural, that
in collecting its experiments, it cannot make them purposely, with
premeditation, and after such a manner as to satisfy itself concerning
every particular difficulty which may be. When I am at a loss to know the
effects of one body upon another in any situation, I need only put them
in that situation, and observe what results from it. But should I
endeavour to clear up after the same manner any doubt in moral
philosophy, by placing myself in the same case with that which I
consider, it is evident this reflection and premeditation would so disturb
the operation of my natural principles, as must render it impossible to
form any just conclusion from the phenomenon. We must therefore glean up
our experiments in this science from a cautious observation of human
life, and take them as they appear in the common course of the world, by
men's behaviour in company, in affairs, and in their pleasures. Where
experiments of this kind are judiciously collected and compared, we may
hope to establish on them a science which will not be inferior in
certainty, and will be much superior in utility to any other of human
comprehension.





BOOK I.  OF THE UNDERSTANDING




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



SECT. I.  OF THE ORIGIN OF OUR IDEAS.


All the perceptions of the human mind resolve themselves into two
distinct kinds, which I shall call IMPRESSIONS and IDEAS. The difference
betwixt these consists in the degrees of force and liveliness, with which
they strike upon the mind, and make their way into our thought or
consciousness. Those perceptions, which enter with most force and
violence, we may name impressions: and under this name I comprehend all
our sensations, passions and emotions, as they make their first
appearance in the soul. By ideas I mean the faint images of these in
thinking and reasoning; such as, for instance, are all the perceptions
excited by the present discourse, excepting only those which arise from
the sight and touch, and excepting the immediate pleasure or uneasiness
it may occasion. I believe it will not be very necessary to employ many
words in explaining this distinction. Every one of himself will readily
perceive the difference betwixt feeling and thinking. The common degrees
of these are easily distinguished; though it is not impossible but in
particular instances they may very nearly approach to each other. Thus in
sleep, in a fever, in madness, or in any very violent emotions of soul,
our ideas may approach to our impressions, As on the other hand it
sometimes happens, that our impressions are so faint and low, that we
cannot distinguish them from our ideas. But notwithstanding this near
resemblance in a few instances, they are in general so very different,
that no-one can make a scruple to rank them under distinct heads, and
assign to each a peculiar name to mark the difference [Footnote 1.].

[Footnote 1. I here make use of these terms, impression and idea, in a
sense different from what is usual, and I hope this liberty will be
allowed me. Perhaps I rather restore the word, idea, to its original
sense, from which Mr LOCKE had perverted it, in making it stand for all
our perceptions. By the terms of impression I would not be understood to
express the manner, in which our lively perceptions are produced in the
soul, but merely the perceptions themselves; for which there is no
particular name either in the English or any other language, that I know
of.]

There is another division of our perceptions, which it will be convenient
to observe, and which extends itself both to our impressions and ideas.
This division is into SIMPLE and COMPLEX. Simple perceptions or
impressions and ideas are such as admit of no distinction nor separation.
The complex are the contrary to these, 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, but are at least distinguishable from each other.

Having by these divisions given an order and arrangement to our objects,
we may now apply ourselves to consider with the more accuracy their
qualities and relations. The first circumstance, that strikes my eye, is
the great resemblance betwixt our impressions and ideas in every other
particular, except their degree of force and vivacity. The one seem to be
in a manner the reflexion of the other; so that all the perceptions of
the mind are double, and appear both as impressions and ideas. When I
shut my eyes and think of my chamber, the ideas I form are exact
representations of the impressions I felt; nor is there any circumstance
of the one, which is not to be found in the other. In running over my
other perceptions, I find still the same resemblance and representation.
Ideas and impressions appear always to correspond to each other. This
circumstance seems to me remarkable, and engages my attention for a
moment.

Upon a more accurate survey I find I have been carried away too far by
the first appearance, and that I must make use of the distinction of
perceptions into simple and complex, to limit this general decision, that
all our ideas and impressions are resembling. I observe, that many of our
complex ideas never had impressions, that corresponded to them, and that
many of our complex impressions never are exactly copied in ideas. I can
imagine to myself such a city as the New Jerusalem, whose pavement is
gold and walls are rubies, though I never saw any such. I have seen Paris;
but shall I affirm I can form such an idea of that city, as will
perfectly represent all its streets and houses in their real and just
proportions?

I perceive, therefore, that though there is in general a great,
resemblance betwixt our complex impressions and ideas, yet the rule is not
universally true, that they are exact copies of each other. We may next
consider how the case stands with our simple, perceptions. After the most
accurate examination, of which I am capable, I venture to affirm, that
the rule here holds without any exception, and that every simple idea has
a simple impression, which resembles it, and every simple impression a
correspondent idea. That idea of red, which we form in the dark, and that
impression which strikes our eyes in sun-shine, differ only in degree,
not in nature. That the case is the same with all our simple impressions
and ideas, it is impossible to prove by a particular enumeration of them.
Every one may satisfy himself in this point by running over as many as he
pleases. But if any one should deny this universal resemblance, I know no
way of convincing him, but by desiring him to shew a simple impression,
that has not a correspondent idea, or a simple idea, that has not a
correspondent impression. If he does not answer this challenge, as it is
certain he cannot, we may from his silence and our own observation
establish our conclusion.

Thus we find, that all simple ideas and impressions resemble each other;
and as the complex are formed from them, we may affirm in general, that
these two species of perception are exactly correspondent. Having
discovered this relation, which requires no farther examination, I am
curious to find some other of their qualities. Let us consider how. they
stand with regard to their existence, and which of the impressions and
ideas are causes, and which effects.

The full examination of this question is the subject of the present
treatise; and therefore we shall here content ourselves with establishing
one general proposition, THAT ALL OUR SIMPLE IDEAS IN THEIR FIRST
APPEARANCE ARE DERIVED FROM SIMPLE IMPRESSIONS, WHICH ARE CORRESPONDENT
TO THEM, AND WHICH THEY EXACTLY REPRESENT.

In seeking for phenomena to prove this proposition, I find only those of
two kinds; but in each kind the phenomena are obvious, numerous, and
conclusive. I first make myself certain, by a new, review, of what I have
already asserted, that every simple impression is attended with a
correspondent idea, and every simple idea with a correspondent
impression. From this constant conjunction of resembling perceptions I
immediately conclude, that there is a great connexion betwixt our
correspondent impressions and ideas, and that the existence of the one
has a considerable influence upon that of the other. Such a constant
conjunction, in such an infinite number of instances, can never arise
from chance; but clearly proves a dependence of the impressions on the
ideas, or of the ideas on the impressions. That I may know on which side
this dependence lies, I consider the order of their first appearance; and
find by constant experience, that the simple impressions always take the
precedence of their correspondent ideas, but never appear in the contrary
order. To give a child an idea of scarlet or orange, of sweet or bitter,
I present the objects, or in other words, convey to him these
impressions; but proceed not so absurdly, as to endeavour to produce the
impressions by exciting the ideas. Our ideas upon their appearance
produce not their correspondent impressions, nor do we perceive any
colour, or feel any sensation merely upon thinking of them. On the other
hand we find, that any impression either of the mind or body is
constantly followed by an idea, which resembles it, and is only different
in the degrees of force and liveliness, The constant conjunction of our
resembling perceptions, is a convincing proof, that the one are the
causes of the other; and this priority of the impressions is an equal
proof, that our impressions are the causes of our ideas, not our ideas
of our, impressions.

To confirm this I consider Another plain and convincing phaenomenon;
which is, that, where-ever by any accident the faculties, which give rise
to any impressions, are obstructed in their operations, as when one is
born blind or deaf; not only the impressions are lost, but also their
correspondent ideas; so that there never appear in the mind the least
traces of either of them. Nor is this only true, where the organs of
sensation are entirely destroyed, but likewise where they have never been
put in action to produce a particular impression. We cannot form to
ourselves a just idea of the taste of a pine apple, without having
actually tasted it.

There is however one contradictory phaenomenon, which may prove, that
it is not absolutely impossible for ideas to go before their correspondent
impressions. I believe it will readily be allowed that the several
distinct ideas of colours, which enter by the eyes, or those of sounds,
which are conveyed by the hearing, are really different from each other,
though at the same time resembling. Now if this be true of different
colours, it must be no less so of the different shades of the same
colour, that each of them produces a distinct idea, independent of the
rest. For if this should be denied, it is possible, by the continual
gradation of shades, to run a colour insensibly into what is most remote
from it; and if you will not allow any of the means to be different, you
cannot without absurdity deny the extremes to be the same. Suppose
therefore a person to have enjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to
have become perfectly well acquainted with colours of all kinds,
excepting one particular shade of blue, for instance, which it never has
been his fortune to meet with. Let all the different shades of that
colour, except that single one, be placed before him, descending
gradually from the deepest to the lightest; it is plain, that he will
perceive a blank, where that shade is wanting, said will be sensible,
that there is a greater distance in that place betwixt the contiguous
colours, than in any other. Now I ask, whether it is possible for him,
from his own imagination, to supply this deficiency, and raise up to
himself the idea of that particular shade, though it had never been
conveyed to him by his senses? I believe i here are few but will be of
opinion that he can; and this may serve as a proof, that the simple ideas
are not always derived from the correspondent impressions; though the
instance is so particular and singular, that it is scarce worth our
observing, and does not merit that for it alone we should alter our
general maxim.

But besides this exception, it may not be amiss to remark on this head,
that the principle of the priority of impressions to ideas must be
understood with another limitation, viz., that as our ideas are images of
our impressions, so we can form secondary ideas, which are images of the
primary; as appears from this very reasoning concerning them. This is
not, properly speaking, an exception to the rule so much as an
explanation of it. Ideas produce the images of them. selves in new ideas;
but as the first ideas are supposed to be derived from impressions, it
still remains true, that all our simple ideas proceed either mediately or
immediately, from their correspondent impressions.

This then is the first principle I establish in the science of human
nature; nor ought we to despise it because of the simplicity of its
appearance. For it is remarkable, that the present question concerning the
precedency of our impressions or ideas, is the same with what has made so
much noise in other terms, when it has been disputed whether there be any
INNATE IDEAS, or whether all ideas be derived from sensation and
reflexion. We may observe, that in order to prove the ideas of extension
and colour not to be innate, philosophers do nothing but shew that they
are conveyed by our senses. To prove the ideas of passion and desire not
to be innate, they observe that we have a preceding experience of these
emotions in ourselves. Now if we carefully examine these arguments, we
shall find that they prove nothing but that ideas are preceded by other
more lively perceptions, from which the are derived, and which they
represent. I hope this clear stating of the question will remove all
disputes concerning it, and win render this principle of more use in our
reasonings, than it seems hitherto to have been.



SECT. II.  DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT.


Since it appears, that our simple impressions are prior to their
correspondent ideas, and that the exceptions are very rare, method seems
to require we should examine our impressions, before we consider our
ideas. Impressions way be divided into two kinds, those Of SENSATION and
those of REFLEXION. The first kind arises in the soul originally, from
unknown causes. The second is derived in a great measure from our ideas,
and that in the following order. An impression first strikes upon the
senses, and makes us perceive heat or cold, thirst or hunger, pleasure or
pain of some kind or other. Of this impression there is a copy taken by
the mind, which remains after the impression ceases; and this we call an
idea. This idea of pleasure or pain, when it returns upon the soul,
produces the new impressions of desire and aversion, hope and fear, which
may properly be called impressions of reflexion, because derived from it.
These again are copied by the memory and imagination, and become ideas;
which perhaps in their turn give rise to other impressions and ideas. So
that the impressions of reflexion are only antecedent to their
correspondent ideas; but posterior to those of sensation, and derived
from them. The examination of our sensations belongs more to anatomists
and natural philosophers than to moral; and therefore shall not at
present be entered upon. And as the impressions of reflexion, viz.
passions, desires, and emotions, which principally deserve our attention,
arise mostly from ideas, it will be necessary to reverse that method,
which at first sight seems most natural; and in order to explain the
nature and principles of the human mind, give a particular account of
ideas, before we proceed to impressions. For this reason I have here
chosen to begin with ideas.



SECT. III.  OF THE IDEAS OF THE MEMORY AND IMAGINATION.


We find by experience, that when any impression has been present with the
mind, it again makes its appearance there as an idea; and this it may do
after two different ways: either when in its new appearance it retains a
considerable degree of its first vivacity, and is somewhat intermediate
betwixt an impression and an idea: or when it entirely loses that
vivacity, and is a perfect idea. The faculty, by which we repeat our
impressions in the first manner, is called the MEMORY, and the other the
IMAGINATION. It is evident at first sight, that the ideas of the memory
are much more lively and strong than those of the imagination, and that
the former faculty paints its objects in more distinct colours, than any
which are employed by the latter. When we remember any past event, the
idea of it flows in upon the mind in a forcible manner; whereas in the
imagination the perception is faint and languid, and cannot without
difficulty be preserved by the mind steddy and uniform for any
considerable time. Here then is a sensible difference betwixt one species
of ideas and another. But of this more fully hereafter.[Part II, Sect. 5.]

There is another difference betwixt these two kinds of ideas, which:-s no
less evident, namely that though neither the ideas, of the memory nor
imagination, neither the lively nor faint ideas can make their appearance
in the mind, unless their correspondent impressions have gone before to
prepare the way for them, yet the imagination is not restrained to the
same order and form with the original impressions; while the memory is in
a manner tied down in that respect, without any power of variation.

It is evident, that the memory preserves the original form, in which its
objects were presented, and that where-ever we depart from it in
recollecting any thing, it proceeds from some defect or imperfection in
that faculty. An historian may, perhaps, for the more convenient Carrying
on of his narration, relate an event before another, to which it was in
fact posterior; but then he takes notice of this disorder, if he be
exact; and by that means replaces the idea in its due position. It is the
same case in our recollection of those places and persons, with which we
were formerly acquainted. The chief exercise of the memory is not to
preserve the simple ideas, but their order and position. In short, this
principle is supported by such a number of common and vulgar phaenomena,
that we may spare ourselves the trouble of insisting on it any farther.

The same evidence follows us in our second principle, OF THE LIBERTY OF
THE IMAGINATION TO TRANSPOSE AND CHANGE ITS IDEAS. The fables we meet
with in poems and romances put this entirely out of the question. Nature
there is totally confounded, and nothing mentioned but winged horses,
fiery dragons, and monstrous giants. Nor will this liberty of the fancy
appear strange, when we consider, that all our ideas are copyed from our
impressions, and that there are not any two impressions which are
perfectly inseparable. Not to mention, that this is an evident
consequence of the division of ideas into simple and complex. Where-ever
the imagination perceives a difference among ideas, it can easily produce
a separation.



SECT. IV.  OF THE CONNEXION OR ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.


As all simple ideas may be separated by the imagination, and may be
united again in what form it pleases, nothing would be more unaccountable
than the operations of that faculty, were it not guided by some universal
principles, which render it, in some measure, uniform with itself in all
times and places. Were ideas entirely loose and unconnected, chance alone
would join them; and it is impossible the same simple ideas should fall
regularly into complex ones (as they Commonly do) without some bond of
union among them, some associating quality, by which one idea naturally
introduces another. This uniting principle among ideas is not to be
considered as an inseparable connexion; for that has been already
excluded from the imagination: Nor yet are we to conclude, that without
it the mind cannot join two ideas; for nothing is more free than that
faculty: but we are only to regard it as a gentle force, which commonly
prevails, and is the cause why, among other things, languages so nearly
correspond to each other; nature in a manner pointing out to every one
those simple ideas, which are most proper to be united in a complex one.
The qualities, from which this association arises, and by which the mind
is after this manner conveyed from one idea to another, are three, viz.
RESEMBLANCE, CONTIGUITY in time or place, and CAUSE and EFFECT.

I believe it will not be very necessary to prove, that these qualities
produce an association among ideas, and upon the appearance of one idea
naturally introduce another. It is plain, that in the course of our
thinking, and in the constant revolution of our ideas, our imagination
runs easily from one idea to any other that resembles it, and that this
quality alone is to the fancy a sufficient bond and association. It is
likewise evident that as the senses, in changing their objects, are
necessitated to change them regularly, and take them as they lie
CONTIGUOUS to each other, the imagination must by long custom acquire the
same method of thinking, and run along the parts of space and time in
conceiving its objects. As to the connexion, that is made by the relation
of cause and effect, we shall have occasion afterwards to examine it to
the bottom, and therefore shall not at present insist upon it. It is
sufficient to observe, that there is no relation, which produces a
stronger connexion in the fancy, and makes one idea more readily recall
another, than the relation of cause and effect betwixt their objects.

That we may understand the full extent of these relations, we must
consider, that two objects are connected together in the imagination, not
only when the one is immediately resembling, contiguous to, or the cause
of the other, but also when there is interposed betwixt them a third
object, which bears to both of them any of these relations. This may be
carried on to a great length; though at the same time we may observe, that
each remove considerably weakens the relation. Cousins in the fourth
degree are connected by causation, if I may be allowed to use that term;
but not so closely as brothers, much less as child and parent. In general
we may observe, that all the relations of blood depend upon cause and
effect, and are esteemed near or remote, according to the number of
connecting causes interposed betwixt the persons.

Of the three relations above-mentioned this of causation is the most
extensive. Two objects may be considered as placed in this relation, as
well when one is the cause of any of the actions or motions of the other,
as when the former is the cause of the existence of the latter. For as
that action or motion is nothing but the object itself, considered in a
certain light, and as the object continues the same in all its different
situations, it is easy to imagine how such an influence of objects upon
one another may connect them in the imagination.

We may carry this farther, and remark, not only that two objects are
connected by the relation of cause and effect, when the one produces a
motion or any action in the other, but also when it has a power of
producing it. And this we may observe to be the source of all the
relation, of interest and duty, by which men influence each other in
society, and are placed in the ties of government and subordination. A
master is such-a-one as by his situation, arising either from force or
agreement, has a power of directing in certain particulars the actions of
another, whom we call servant. A judge is one, who in all disputed cases
can fix by his opinion the possession or property of any thing betwixt
any members of the society. When a person is possessed of any power,
there is no more required to convert it into action, but the exertion of
the will; and that in every case is considered as possible, and in many
as probable; especially in the case of authority, where the obedience of
the subject is a pleasure and advantage to the superior.

These are therefore the principles of union or cohesion among our simple
ideas, and in the imagination supply the place of that inseparable
connexion, by which they are united in our memory. Here is a kind of
ATTRACTION, which in the mental world will be found to have as
extraordinary effects as in the natural, and to shew itself in as many
and as various forms. Its effects are every where conspicuous; but as to
its causes, they are mostly unknown, and must be resolved into original
qualities of human nature, which I pretend not to explain. Nothing is
more requisite for a true philosopher, than to restrain the intemperate
desire of searching into causes, and having established any doctrine upon
a sufficient number of experiments, rest contented with that, when he
sees a farther examination would lead him into obscure and uncertain
speculations. In that case his enquiry would be much better employed in
examining the effects than the causes of his principle.

Amongst the effects of this union or association of ideas, there are none
more remarkable, than those complex ideas, which are the common subjects
of our thoughts and reasoning, and generally arise from some principle of
union among our simple ideas. These complex ideas may be divided into
Relations, Modes, and Substances. We shall briefly examine each of these
in order, and shall subjoin some considerations concerning our general
and particular ideas, before we leave the present subject, which may be
considered as the elements of this philosophy.



SECT. V.  OF RELATIONS.


The word RELATION is commonly used in two senses considerably different
from each other. Either for that quality, by which two ideas are
connected together in the imagination, and the one naturally introduces
the other, after the manner above-explained: or for that particular
circumstance, in which, even upon the arbitrary union of two ideas in the
fancy, we may think proper to compare them. In common language the former
is always the sense, in which we use the word, relation; and it is only in
philosophy, that we extend it to mean any particular subject of
comparison, without a connecting principle. Thus distance will be allowed
by philosophers to be a true relation, because we acquire an idea of it
by the comparing of objects: But in a common way we say, THAT NOTHING CAN
BE MORE DISTANT THAN SUCH OR SUCH THINGS FROM EACH OTHER, NOTHING CAN
HAVE LESS RELATION: as if distance and relation were incompatible.

It may perhaps be esteemed an endless task to enumerate all those
qualities, which make objects admit of comparison, and by which the ideas
of philosophical relation are produced. But if we diligently consider
them, we shall find that without difficulty they may be comprised under
seven general heads, which may be considered as the sources of all
philosophical relation.

(1) The first is RESEMBLANCE: And this is a relation, without which no
philosophical relation can exist; since no objects will admit of
comparison, but what have some degree of resemblance. But though
resemblance be necessary to all philosophical relation, it does not
follow, that it always produces a connexion or association of ideas. When
a quality becomes very general, and is common to a great many
individuals, it leads not the mind directly to any one of them; but by
presenting at once too great a choice, does thereby prevent the
imagination from fixing on any single object.

(2) IDENTITY may be esteemed a second species of relation. This relation
I here consider as applied in its strictest sense to constant and
unchangeable objects; without examining the nature and foundation of
personal identity, which shall find its place afterwards. Of all
relations the most universal is that of identity, being common to every
being whose existence has any duration.

(3) After identity the most universal and comprehensive relations are
those of SPACE and TIME, which are the sources of an infinite number of
comparisons, such as distant, contiguous, 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 same QUALITY in common, the DEGREES,
in which they possess it, form a fifth species of relation. Thus of two
objects, which are both heavy, the one may be either of greater, or less
weight than the other. Two colours, that are of the same kind, may yet be
of different shades, and in that respect admit of comparison.

(6) The relation of CONTRARIETY may at first sight be regarded as an
exception to the rule, THAT NO RELATION OF ANY KIND CAN SUBSIST WITHOUT
SOME DEGREE OF RESEMBLANCE. But let us consider, that no two ideas are in
themselves contrary, except those of existence and non-existence, which
are plainly resembling, as implying both of them an idea of the object;
though the latter excludes the object from all times and places, in which
it is supposed not to exist.

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

It might naturally be expected, that I should join DIFFERENCE to the
other relations. But that I consider rather as a negation of relation,
than as anything real or positive. Difference is of two kinds as opposed
either to identity or resemblance. The first is called a difference of
number; the other of KIND.



SECT. VI.  OF MODES AND SUBSTANCES


I would fain ask those philosophers, who found so much of their
reasonings on the distinction of substance and accident, and imagine we
have clear ideas of each, whether the idea of substance be derived from
the impressions of sensation or of reflection? If it be conveyed to us by
our senses, I ask, which of them; and after what manner? If it be
perceived by the eyes, it must be a colour; if by the ears, a sound; if
by the palate, a taste; and so of the other senses. But I believe none
will assert, that substance is either a colour, or sound, or a taste. The
idea, of substance must therefore be derived from an impression of
reflection, if it really exist. But the impressions of reflection resolve
themselves into our passions and emotions: none of which can possibly
represent a substance. We have therefore no idea of substance, distinct
from that of a collection of particular qualities, nor have we any other
meaning when we either talk or reason concerning it.

The idea of a substance as well as that of a mode, is nothing but a
collection of Simple ideas, that are united by the imagination, and have
a particular name assigned them, by which we are able to recall, either
to ourselves or others, that collection. But the difference betwixt these
ideas consists in this, that the particular qualities, which form a
substance, are commonly referred to an unknown something, in which they
are supposed to inhere; or granting this fiction should not take place,
are at least supposed to be closely and inseparably connected by the
relations of contiguity and causation. The effect of this is, that
whatever new simple quality we discover to have the same connexion with
the rest, we immediately comprehend it among them, even though it did not
enter into the first conception of the substance. Thus our idea of gold
may at first be a yellow colour, weight, malleableness, fusibility; but
upon the discovery of its dissolubility in aqua regia, we join that to
the other qualities, and suppose it to belong to the substance as much as
if its idea had from the beginning made a part of the compound one. The
principal of union being regarded as the chief part of the complex idea,
gives entrance to whatever quality afterwards occurs, and is equally
comprehended by it, as are the others, which first presented themselves.
themselves.

That this cannot take place in modes, is evident from considering their
mature. The. simple ideas of which modes are formed, either represent
qualities, which are not united by contiguity and causation, but are
dispersed in different subjects; or if they be all united together, the
uniting principle is not regarded as the foundation of the complex idea.
The idea of a dance is an instance of the first kind of modes; that of
beauty of the second. The reason is obvious, why such complex ideas
cannot receive any new idea, without changing the name, which
distinguishes the mode.



SECT. VII.  OF ABSTRACT IDEAS.


A very material question has been started concerning ABSTRACT or GENERAL
ideas, WHETHER THEY BE GENERAL OR PARTICULAR IN THE MIND'S CONCEPTION OF
THEM. A great philosopher [Dr. Berkeley.] has disputed the received
opinion in this particular, and has asserted, that all general ideas are
nothing but particular ones, annexed to a certain term, which gives them a
more extensive signification, and makes them recall upon occasion other
individuals, which are similar to them. As I look upon this to be one of
the greatest and most valuable discoveries that has been made of late
years in the republic of letters, I shag here endeavour to confirm it by
some arguments, which I hope will put it beyond all doubt and
controversy.

It is evident, that in forming most of our general ideas, if not all of
them, we abstract from every particular degree of quantity and quality,
and that an object ceases not to be of any particular species on account
of every small alteration in its extension, duration and other
properties. It may therefore be thought, that here is a plain dilemma,
that decides concerning the nature of those abstract ideas, which have
afforded so much speculation to philosophers. The abstract idea of a man
represents men of all sizes and all qualities; which it is concluded it
cannot do, but either by representing at once all possible sizes and all
possible qualities, or by, representing no particular one at all. Now it
having been esteemed absurd to defend the former proposition, as implying
an infinite capacity in the mind, it has been commonly inferred in favour
of the letter: and our abstract ideas have been supposed to represent no
particular degree either of quantity or quality. But that this inference
is erroneous, I shall endeavour to make appear, first, by proving, that
it is utterly impossible to conceive any quantity or quality, without
forming a precise notion of its degrees: And secondly by showing, that
though the capacity of the mind be not infinite, yet we can at once form a
notion of all possible degrees of quantity and quality, in such a manner
at least, as, however imperfect, may serve all the purposes of reflection
and conversation.

To begin with the first proposition, THAT THE MIND CANNOT FORM ANY NOTION
OF QUANTITY OR QUALITY WITHOUT FORMING A PRECISE NOTION OF DEGREES OF
EACH; we may prove this by the three following arguments. First, We have
observed, that whatever objects are different are distinguishable, and
that whatever objects are distinguishable are separable by the thought
and imagination. And we may here add, that these propositions are
equally true in the inverse, and that whatever objects are separable are
also distinguishable, and that whatever objects are distinguishable, are
also different. For how is it possible we can separate what is not
distinguishable, or distinguish what is not different? In order therefore
to know, whether abstraction implies a separation, we need only consider
it in this view, and examine, whether all the circumstances, which we
abstract from in our general ideas, be such as are distinguishable and
different from those, which we retain as essential parts of them. But
it is evident at first sight, that the precise length of a line is not
different nor distinguishable from the line itself. nor the precise
degree of any quality from the quality. These ideas, therefore, admit no
more of separation than they do of distinction and difference. They are
consequently conjoined with each other in the conception; and the general
idea of a. line, notwithstanding all our abstractions and refinements,
has in its appearance in the mind a precise degree of quantity and
quality; however it may be made to represent others, which have different
degrees of both.

Secondly, it is contest, that no object can appear to the senses; or in
other words, that no impression can become present to the mind, without
being determined in its degrees both of quantity and quality. The
confusion, in which impressions are sometimes involved, proceeds only
from their faintness and unsteadiness, not from any capacity in the mind
to receive any impression, which in its real existence has no particular
degree nor proportion. That is a contradiction in terms; and even implies
the flattest of all contradictions, viz. that it is possible for the same
thing both to be and not to be.

Now since all ideas are derived from impressions, and are nothing but
copies and representations of them, whatever is true of the one must be
acknowledged concerning the other. Impressions and ideas differ only in
their strength and vivacity. The foregoing conclusion is not founded on
any particular degree of vivacity. It cannot therefore be affected by any
variation in that particular. An idea is a weaker impression; and as a
strong impression must necessarily have a determinate quantity and
quality, the case must be the same with its copy or representative.

Thirdly, it is a principle generally received in philosophy that
everything in nature is individual, and that it is utterly absurd to
suppose a triangle really existent, which has no precise proportion of
sides and angles. If this therefore be absurd in fact and reality, it
must also be absurd in idea; since nothing of which we can form a clear
and distinct idea is absurd and impossible. 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 an extraneous denomination, of which in
itself it bears no mark or character. Now as it is impossible to form an
idea of an object, that is possest of quantity and quality, and yet is
possest of no precise degree of either; it follows that there is an equal
impossibility of forming an idea, that is not limited and confined in
both these particulars. Abstract ideas are therefore in themselves
individual, however they may become general in their representation. The
image in the mind is only that of a particular object, though the
application of it in our reasoning be the same, as if it were universal.

This application of ideas beyond their nature proceeds from our
collecting all their possible degrees of quantity and quality in such an
imperfect manner as may serve the purposes of life, which is the second
proposition I proposed to explain. When we have found a resemblance
[Footnote 2.] among several objects, that often occur to us, we apply the
same name to all of them, whatever differences we may observe in the
degrees of their quantity and quality, and whatever other differences may
appear among them. After we have acquired a custom of this kind, the
hearing of that name revives the idea of one of these objects, and makes
the imagination conceive it with all its particular circumstances and
proportions. But as the same word is supposed to have been frequently
applied to other individuals, that are different in many respects from
that idea, which is immediately present to the mind; the word not being
able to revive the idea of all these individuals, but only touches the
soul, if I may be allowed so to speak, and revives that custom, which we
have acquired by surveying them. They are not really and in fact present
to the mind, but only in power; nor do we draw them all out distinctly in
the imagination, but keep ourselves in a readiness to survey any of them,
as we may be prompted by a present design or necessity. The word raises up
an individual idea, along with a certain custom; and that custom produces
any other individual one, for which we may have occasion. But as the
production of all the ideas, to which the name may be applied, is in most
eases impossible, we abridge that work by a more partial consideration,
and find but few inconveniences to arise in our reasoning from that
abridgment.

[Footnote 2. It is evident, that even different simple ideas may have a
similarity or resemblance to each other; nor is it necessary, that the
point or circumstance of resemblance shoud be distinct or separable from
that in which they differ. BLUE and GREEN are different simple ideas, but
are more resembling than BLUE and SCARLET; tho their perfect simplicity
excludes all possibility of separation or distinction. It is the same case
with particular sounds, and tastes and smells. These admit of infinite
resemblances upon the general appearance and comparison, without having
any common circumstance the same. And of this we may be certain, even
from the very abstract terms SIMPLE IDEA. They comprehend all simple
ideas under them. These resemble each other in their simplicity. And yet
from their very nature, which excludes all composition, this
circumstance, In which they resemble, Is not distinguishable nor
separable from the rest. It is the same case with all the degrees In any
quality. They are all resembling and yet the quality, In any individual,
Is not distinct from the degree.]

For this is one of the most extraordinary circumstances in the present
affair, that after the mind has produced an individual idea, upon which
we reason, the attendant custom, revived by the general or abstract term,
readily suggests any other individual, if by chance we form any
reasoning, that agrees not with it. Thus should we mention the word
triangle, and form the idea of a particular equilateral one to correspond
to it, and should we afterwards assert, that the three angles of a
triangle are equal to each other, the other individuals of a scalenum and
isosceles, which we overlooked at first, immediately crowd in upon us,
and make us perceive the falshood of this proposition, though it be true
with relation to that idea, which we had formed. If the mind suggests not
always these ideas upon occasion, it proceeds from some imperfection in
its faculties; and such a one as is often the source of false reasoning
and sophistry. But this is principally the case with those ideas which
are abstruse and compounded. On other occasions the custom is more
entire, and it is seldom we run into such errors.

Nay so entire is the custom, that the very same idea may be annext to
several different words, and may be employed in different reasonings,
without any danger of mistake. Thus the idea of an equilateral triangle
of an inch perpendicular may serve us in talking of a figure, of a
rectilinear figure, of a regular figure, of a triangle, and of an
equilateral triangle. AR these terms, therefore, are in this case
attended with the same idea; but as they are wont to be applied in a
greater or lesser compass, they excite their particular habits, and
thereby keep the mind in a readiness to observe, that no conclusion be
formed contrary to any ideas, which are usually comprized under them.

Before those habits have become entirely perfect, perhaps the mind may
not be content with forming the idea of only one individual, but may run
over several, in order to make itself comprehend its own meaning, and the
compass of that collection, which it intends to express by the general
term. That we may fix the meaning of the word, figure, we may revolve in
our mind the ideas of circles, squares, parallelograms, triangles of
different sizes and proportions, and may not rest on one image or idea.
However this may be, it is certain that we form the idea of individuals,
whenever we use any general term; that we seldom or never can exhaust
these individuals; and that those, which remain, are only represented by
means of that habit, by which we recall them, whenever any present
occasion requires it. This then is the nature of our abstract ideas and
general terms; and it is after this manner we account for the foregoing
paradox, THAT SOME IDEAS ARE PARTICULAR IN THEIR NATURE, BUT GENERAL IN
THEIR REPRESENTATION. A particular idea becomes general by being annexed
to a general term; that is, to a term, which from a customary conjunction
has a relation to many other particular ideas, and readily recalls them
in the imagination.

The only difficulty, that can remain on this subject, must be with regard
to that custom, which so readily recalls every particular idea, for which
we may have occasion, and is excited by any word or sound, to which we
commonly annex it. The most proper method, in my opinion, of giving a
satisfactory explication of this act of the mind, is by producing other
instances, which are analogous to it, and other principles, which
facilitate its operation. To explain the ultimate causes of our mental
actions is impossible. It is sufficient, if we can give any satisfactory
account of them from experience and analogy.

First then I observe, that when we mention any great number, such as a
thousand, the mind has generally no adequate idea of it, but only a power
of producing such an idea, by its adequate idea of the decimals, under
which the number is comprehended. This imperfection, however, in our
ideas, is never felt in our reasonings; which seems to be an instance
parallel to the present one of universal ideas.

Secondly, we have several instances of habits, which may be revived by
one single word; as when a person, who has by rote any periods of a
discourse, or any number of verses, will be put in remembrance of the
whole, which he is at a loss to recollect, by that single word or
expression, with which they begin.

Thirdly, I believe every one, who examines the situation of his mind in
reasoning will agree with me, that we do not annex distinct and compleat
ideas to every term we make use of, and that in talking of government,
church, negotiation, conquest, we seldom spread out in our minds all the
simple ideas, of which these complex ones are composed. It is however
observable, that notwithstanding this imperfection we may avoid talking
nonsense on these subjects, and may perceive any repugnance among the
ideas, as well as if we had a fall comprehension of them. Thus if instead
of saying, that in war the weaker have always recourse to negotiation, we
should say, that they have always recourse to conquest, the custom, which
we have acquired of attributing certain relations to ideas, still follows
the words, and makes us immediately perceive the absurdity of that
proposition; in the same manner as one particular idea may serve us in
reasoning concerning other ideas, however different from it in several
circumstances.

Fourthly, As the individuals are collected together, said placed under a
general term with a view to that resemblance, which they bear to each
other, this relation must facilitate their entrance in the imagination,
and make them be suggested more readily upon occasion. And indeed if we
consider the common progress of the thought, either in reflection or
conversation, we shall find great reason to be satisfyed in this
particular. Nothing is more admirable, than the readiness, with which the
imagination suggests its ideas, and presents them at the very instant, in
which they become necessary or useful. The fancy runs from one end of the
universe to the other in collecting those ideas, which belong to any
subject. One would think the whole intellectual world of ideas was at
once subjected to our view, and that we did nothing but pick out such as
were most proper for our purpose. There may not, however, be any present,
beside those very ideas, that are thus collected by a kind of magical
faculty in the soul, which, though it be always most perfect in the
greatest geniuses, and is properly what we call a genius, is however
inexplicable by the utmost efforts of human understanding.

Perhaps these four reflections may help to remove an difficulties to the
hypothesis I have proposed concerning abstract ideas, so contrary to
that, which has hitherto prevailed in philosophy, But, to tell the truth
I place my chief confidence in what I have already proved concerning the
impossibility of general ideas, according to the common method of
explaining them. We must certainly seek some new system on this head, and
there plainly is none beside what I have proposed. If ideas be particular
in their nature, and at the same time finite in their number, it is only
by custom they can become general in their representation, and contain an
infinite number of other ideas under them.

Before I leave this subject I shall employ the same principles to explain
that distinction of reason, which is so much talked of, and is so little
understood, in the schools. Of this kind is the distinction betwixt
figure and the body figured; motion and the body moved. The difficulty of
explaining this distinction arises from the principle above explained,
that all ideas, which are different, are separable. For it follows from
thence, that if the figure be different from the body, their ideas must
be separable as well as distinguishable: if they be not different, their
ideas can neither be separable nor distinguishable. What then is meant by
a distinction of reason, since it implies neither a difference nor
separation.

To remove this difficulty we must have recourse to the foregoing
explication of abstract ideas. It is certain that the mind would never
have dreamed of distinguishing a figure from the body figured, as being
in reality neither distinguishable, nor different, nor separable; did it
not observe, that even in this simplicity there might be contained many
different resemblances and relations. Thus when a globe of white marble
is presented, we receive only the impression of a white colour disposed
in a certain form, nor are we able to separate and distinguish the colour
from the form. But observing afterwards a globe of black marble and a
cube of white, and comparing them with our former object, we find two
separate resemblances, in what formerly seemed, and really is, perfectly
inseparable. After a little more practice of this kind, we begin to
distinguish the figure from the colour by a distinction of reason; that
is, we consider the figure and colour together, since they are in effect
the same and undistinguishable; but still view them in different aspects,
according to the resemblances, of which they are susceptible. When we
would consider only the figure of the globe of white marble, we form in
reality an idea both of the figure and colour, but tacitly carry our eye
to its resemblance with the globe of black marble: And in the same
manner, when we would consider its colour only, we turn our view to its
resemblance with the cube of white marble. By this means we accompany our
ideas with a kind of reflection, of which custom renders us, in a great
measure, insensible. A person, who desires us to consider the figure of a
globe of white marble without thinking on its colour, desires an
impossibility but his meaning is, that we should consider the figure and
colour together, but still keep in our eye the resemblance to the globe
of black marble, or that to any other globe of whatever colour or
substance.




PART II.  OF THE IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME,



SECT. I.  OF THE INFINITE DIVISIBILITY OF OUR IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME.


Whatever has the air of a paradox, and is contrary to the first and most
unprejudiced notions of mankind, is often greedily embraced by
philosophers, as shewing the superiority of their science, which coued
discover opinions so remote from vulgar conception. On the other hand,
anything proposed to us, which causes surprize and admiration, gives such
a satisfaction to the mind, that it indulges itself in those agreeable
emotions, and will never be persuaded that its pleasure is entirely
without foundation. From these dispositions in philosophers and their
disciples arises that mutual complaisance betwixt them; while the former
furnish such plenty of strange and unaccountable opinions, and the latter
so readily believe them. Of this mutual complaisance I cannot give a more
evident instance than in the doctrine of infinite divisibility, with the
examination of which I shall begin this subject of the ideas of space and
time.

It is universally allowed, that the capacity of the mind is limited, and
can never attain a full and adequate conception of infinity: And though it
were not allowed, it would be sufficiently evident from the plainest
observation and experience. It is also obvious, that whatever is capable
of being divided in infinitum, must consist of an infinite number of
parts, and that it is impossible to set any bounds to the number of parts,
without setting bounds at the same time to the division. It requires
scarce any, induction to conclude from hence, that the idea, which we
form of any finite quality, is not infinitely divisible, but that by
proper distinctions and separations we may run up this idea to inferior
ones, which will be perfectly simple and indivisible. In rejecting the
infinite capacity of the mind, we suppose it may arrive at an end in the
division of its ideas; nor are there any possible means of evading the
evidence of this conclusion.

It is therefore certain, that the imagination reaches a minimum, and may
raise up to itself an idea, of which it cannot conceive any sub-division,
and which cannot be diminished without a total annihilation. When you
tell me of the thousandth and ten thousandth part of a grain of sand, I
have a, distinct idea of these numbers and of their different
proportions; but the images, which I form in my mind to represent the
things themselves, are nothing different 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 into them, and what is distinguishable is separable. But
whatever we may imagine of the thing, the idea of a grain of sand is not
distinguishable, nor separable into twenty, much less into a thousand,
ten thousand, or an infinite number of different ideas.

It is the same case with the impressions of the senses as with the ideas
of the imagination. Put a spot of ink upon paper, fix your eye upon that
spot, and retire to such a distance, that, at last you lose sight of it;
it is plain, that the moment before it vanished the image or impression
was perfectly indivisible. It is not for want of rays of light striking on
our eyes, that the minute parts of distant bodies convey not any sensible
impression; but because they are removed beyond that distance, at which
their impressions were reduced to a minimum, and were incapable of any
farther diminution. A microscope or telescope, which renders them
visible, produces not any new rays of light, but only spreads those,
which always flowed from them; and by that means both gives parts to
impressions, which to the naked eye appear simple and uncompounded, and
advances to a minimum, what was formerly imperceptible.

We may hence discover the error of the common opinion, that the capacity
of the mind is limited on both sides, and that it is impossible for the
imagination to form an adequate idea, of what goes beyond a certain
degree of minuteness as well as of greatness. Nothing can be more minute,
than some ideas, which we form in the fancy; and images, which appear to
the senses; since there are ideas and images perfectly simple and
indivisible. The only defect of our senses is, that they give us
disproportioned images of things, and represent as minute and
uncompounded what is really great and composed of a vast number of parts.
This mistake we are not sensible of: but taking the impressions of those
minute objects, which appear to the senses, to be equal or nearly equal
to the objects, and finding by reason, that there are other objects
vastly more minute, we too hastily conclude, that these are inferior to
any idea of our imagination or impression of our senses. This however is
certain, that we can form ideas, which shall be no greater than the
smallest atom of the animal spirits of an insect a thousand times less
than a mite: And we ought rather to conclude, that the difficulty lies in
enlarging our conceptions so much as to form a just notion of a mite, or
even of an insect a thousand times less than a mite. For in order to form
a just notion of these animals, we must have a distinct idea representing
every part of them, which, according to the system of infinite
divisibility, is utterly impossible, and, recording to that of
indivisible parts or atoms, is extremely difficult, by reason of the vast
number and multiplicity of these parts.



SECT. II.  OF THE INFINITE DIVISIBILITY OF SPACE AND TIME.


Wherever ideas are adequate representations of objects, the relations,
contradictions and agreements of the ideas are all applicable to the
objects; and this we may in general observe to be the foundation of all
human knowledge. But our ideas are adequate representations of the most
minute parts of extension; and through whatever divisions and subdivisions
we may suppose these parts to be arrived at, they can never become
inferior to some ideas, which we form. The plain consequence is, that
whatever appears impossible and contradictory upon the comparison of
these ideas, must be really impossible and contradictory, without any
farther excuse or evasion.

Every thing capable of being infinitely divided contains an infinite
number of parts; otherwise the division would be stopt short by the
indivisible parts, which we should immediately arrive at. If therefore
any finite extension be infinitely divisible, it can be no contradiction
to suppose, that a finite extension contains an infinite number of parts:
And vice versa, if it be a contradiction to suppose, that a finite
extension contains an infinite number of parts, no finite extension can
be infinitely divisible. But that this latter supposition is absurd, I
easily convince myself by the consideration of my clear ideas. I first
take the least idea I can form of a part of extension, and being certain
that there is nothing more minute than this idea, I conclude, that
whatever I discover by its means must be a real quality of extension. I
then repeat this idea once, twice, thrice, &c., and find the compound
idea of extension, arising from its repetition, always to augment, and
become double, triple, quadruple, &c., till at last it swells up to a
considerable bulk, greater or smaller, in proportion as I repeat more or
less the same idea. When I stop in the addition of parts, the idea of
extension ceases to augment; and were I to carry on the addition in
infinitum, I clearly perceive, that the idea of extension must also
become infinite. Upon the whole, I conclude, that the idea of all
infinite number of parts is individually the same idea with that of an
infinite extension; that no finite extension is capable of containing an
infinite number of parts; and consequently that no finite extension is
infinitely divisible [Footnote 3.].

[Footnote 3. It has been objected to me, that infinite divisibility
supposes only an infinite number of PROPORTIONAL not of ALIQIOT parts,
and that an infinite number of proportional parts does not form an
infinite extension. But this distinction is entirely frivolous. Whether
these parts be calld ALIQUOT or PROPORTIONAL, they cannot be inferior to
those minute parts we conceive; and therefore cannot form a less extension
by their conjunction.]

I may subjoin another argument proposed by a noted author [Mons.
MALEZIEU], which seems to me very strong and beautiful. It is evident,
that existence in itself belongs only to unity, and is never applicable to
number, but on account of the unites, of which the number is composed.
Twenty men may be said to exist; but it is only because one, two, three,
four, &c. are existent, and if you deny the existence of the latter, that
of the former falls of course. It is therefore utterly absurd to suppose
any number to exist, and yet deny the existence of unites; and as
extension is always a number, according to the common sentiment of
metaphysicians, and never resolves itself into any unite or indivisible
quantity, it follows, that extension can never at all exist. It is in vain
to reply, that any determinate quantity of extension is an unite; but
such-a-one as admits of an infinite number of fractions, and is
inexhaustible in its sub-divisions. For by the same rule these twenty men
may be considered as a unit. The whole globe of the earth, nay the whole
universe, may be considered as a unit. That term of unity is merely a
fictitious denomination, which the mind may apply to any quantity of
objects it collects together; nor can such an unity any more exist alone
than number can, as being in reality a true number. But the unity, which
can exist alone, and whose existence is necessary to that of all number,
is of another kind, and must be perfectly indivisible, and incapable of
being resolved into any lesser unity.

All this reasoning takes place with regard to time; along with an
additional argument, which it may be proper to take notice of. It is a
property inseparable from time, and which in a manner constitutes its
essence, that each of its parts succeeds another, and that none of them,
however contiguous, can ever be co-existent. For the same reason, that
the year 1737 cannot concur with the present year 1738 every moment must
be distinct from, and posterior or antecedent to another. It is certain
then, that time, as it exists, must be composed of indivisible moments.
For if in time we could never arrive at an end of division, and if each
moment, as it succeeds another, were not perfectly single and
indivisible, there would be an infinite number of co-existent moments, or
parts of time; which I believe will be allowed to be an arrant
contradiction.

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

I doubt not but, it will readily be allowed by the most obstinate
defender of the doctrine of infinite divisibility, that these arguments
are difficulties, and that it is impossible to give any answer to them
which will be perfectly clear and satisfactory. But here we may observe,
that nothing can be more absurd, than this custom of calling a difficulty
what pretends to be a demonstration, and endeavouring by that means to
elude its force and evidence. It is not in demonstrations as in
probabilities, that difficulties can take place, and one argument
counter-ballance another, and diminish its authority. A demonstration, if
just, admits of no opposite difficulty; and if not just, it is a mere
sophism, and consequently can never be a difficulty. It is either
irresistible, or has no manner of force. To talk therefore of objections
and replies, and ballancing of arguments in such a question as this, is
to confess, either that human reason is nothing but a play of words, or
that the person himself, who talks so, has not a Capacity equal to such
subjects. Demonstrations may be difficult to be comprehended, because of
abstractedness of the subject; but can never have such difficulties as
will weaken their authority, when once they are comprehended.

It is true, mathematicians are wont to say, that there are here equally
strong arguments on the other side of the question, and that the doctrine
of indivisible points is also liable to unanswerable objections. Before I
examine these arguments and objections in detail, I will here take them
in a body, and endeavour by a short and decisive reason to prove at once,
that it is utterly impossible they can have any just foundation.

It is an established maxim in metaphysics, That whatever the mind clearly
conceives, includes the idea of possible existence, or in other words,
that nothing we imagine is absolutely impossible. We can form the idea of
a golden mountain, and from thence conclude that such a mountain may
actually exist. We can form no idea of a mountain without a valley, and
therefore regard it as impossible.

Now it is certain we have an idea of extension; for otherwise why do we
talk and reason concerning it? It is likewise certain that this idea, as
conceived by the imagination, though divisible into parts or inferior
ideas, is not infinitely divisible, nor consists of an infinite number of
parts: For that exceeds the comprehension of our limited capacities. Here
then is an idea of extension, which consists of parts or inferior ideas,
that are perfectly, indivisible: consequently this idea implies no
contradiction: consequently it is possible for extension really to exist
conformable to it: and consequently all the arguments employed against
the possibility of mathematical points are mere scholastick quibbles, and
unworthy of our attention.

These consequences we may carry one step farther, and conclude that all
the pretended demonstrations for the infinite divisibility of extension
are equally sophistical; since it is certain these demonstrations cannot
be just without proving the impossibility of mathematical points; which
it is an evident absurdity to pretend to.



SECT. III.  OF THE OTHER QUALITIES OF OUR IDEA OF SPACE AND TIME.


No discovery coued have been made more happily for deciding all
controversies concerning ideas, than that abovementioned, that
impressions always take the precedency of them, and that every idea, with
which the imagination is furnished, first makes its appearance in a
correspondent impression. These latter perceptions are all so clear and
evident, that they admit of no controversy; though many of our ideas are
so obscure, that it is almost impossible even for the mind, which forms
them, to tell exactly their nature and composition. Let us apply this
principle, in order to discover farther the nature of our ideas of space
and time.

Upon opening my eyes, and turning them to the surrounding objects, I
perceive many visible bodies; and upon shutting them again, and
considering the distance betwixt these bodies, I acquire the idea of
extension. As every idea is derived from some impression, which is exactly
similar to it, the impressions similar to this idea of extension, must
either be some sensations derived from the sight, or some internal
impressions arising from these sensations.

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

The table before me is alone sufficient by its view to give me the idea
of extension. This idea, then, is borrowed from, and represents some
impression, which this moment appears to the senses. But my senses convey
to me only the impressions of coloured points, disposed in a, certain
manner. If the eye is sensible of any thing farther, I desire it may be
pointed out to me. But if it be impossible to shew any thing farther, we
may conclude with certainty, that the idea of extension is nothing but a
copy of these coloured points, and of the manner of their appearance.

Suppose that in the extended object, or composition of coloured points,
from which we first received the idea of extension, the points were of a
purple colour; it follows, that in every repetition of that idea we would
not only place the points in the same order with respect to each other,
but also bestow on them that precise colour, with which alone we are
acquainted. But afterwards having experience of the other colours of
violet, green, red, white, black, and of all the different compositions
of these, and finding a resemblance in the disposition of coloured
points, of which they are composed, we omit the peculiarities of colour,
as far as possible, and found an abstract idea merely on that disposition
of points, or manner of appearance, in which they agree. Nay even when
the resemblance is carryed beyond the objects of one sense, and the
impressions of touch are found to be Similar to those of sight in the
disposition of their parts; this does not hinder the abstract idea from
representing both, upon account of their resemblance. All abstract ideas
are really nothing but particular ones, considered in a certain light;
but being annexed to general terms, they are able to represent a vast
variety, and to comprehend objects, which, as they are alike in some
particulars, are in others vastly wide of each other.

The idea of time, being derived from the succession of our perceptions of
every kind, ideas as well as impressions, and impressions of reflection
as well as of sensations will afford us an instance of an abstract idea,
which comprehends a still greater variety than that of space, and yet is
represented in the fancy by some particular individual idea of a
determinate quantity and quality.

As it is from the disposition of visible and tangible objects we receive
the idea of space, so from the succession of ideas and impressions we
form the idea of time, nor is it possible for time alone ever to make its
appearance, or be taken notice of by the mind. A man in a sound sleep, or
strongly occupyed with one thought, is insensible of time; and according
as his perceptions succeed each other with greater or less rapidity, the
same duration appears longer or shorter to his imagination. It has been
remarked by a great philosopher, that our perceptions have certain
bounds in this particular, which are fixed by the original nature and
constitution of the mind, and beyond which no influence of external
objects on the senses is ever able to hasten or retard our thought. If
you wheel about a burning coal with rapidity, it will present to the
senses an image of a circle of fire; nor will there seem to be any
interval of time betwixt its revolutions; meerly because it is impossible
for our perceptions to succeed each other with the same rapidity, that
motion may be communicated to external objects. Wherever we have no
successive perceptions, we have no notion of time, even though there be a
real succession in the objects. From these phenomena, as well as from
many others, we may conclude, that time cannot make its appearance to the
mind, either alone, or attended with a steady unchangeable object, but is
always discovered some PERCEIVABLE succession of changeable objects.

To confirm this we may add the following argument, which to me seems
perfectly decisive and convincing. It is evident, that time or duration
consists of different parts: For otherwise we coued not conceive a longer
or shorter duration. It is also evident, that these parts are not
co-existent: For that quality of the co-existence of parts belongs to
extension, and is what distinguishes it from duration. Now as time is
composed of parts, that are not coexistent: an unchangeable object, since
it produces none but coexistent impressions, produces none that can give
us the idea of time; and consequently that idea must be derived from a
succession of changeable objects, and time in its first appearance can
never be severed from such a succession.

Having therefore found, that time in its first appearance to the mind is
always conjoined with a succession of changeable objects, and that
otherwise it can never fall under our notice, we must now examine whether
it can be conceived without our conceiving any succession of objects, and
whether it can alone form a distinct idea in the imagination.

In order to know whether any objects, which are joined in impression, be
inseparable in idea, we need only consider, if they be different from
each other; in which case, it is plain they may be conceived apart. Every
thing, that is different is distinguishable: and everything, that is
distinguishable, may be separated, according to the maxims
above-explained. If on the contrary they be not different, they are not
distinguishable: and if they be not distinguishable, they cannot be
separated. But this is precisely the case with respect to time, compared
with our successive perceptions. The idea of time is not derived from a
particular impression mixed up with others, and plainly distinguishable
from them; but arises altogether from the manner, in which impressions
appear to the mind, without making one of the number. Five notes played
on a flute give us the impression and idea of time; though time be not a
sixth impression, which presents itself to the hearing or any other of
the senses. Nor is it a sixth impression, which the mind by reflection
finds in itself. These five sounds making their appearance in this
particular manner, excite no emotion in the mind, nor produce an
affection of any kind, which being observed by it can give rise to a new
idea. For that is necessary to produce a new idea of reflection, nor can
the mind, by revolving over a thousand times all its ideas of sensation,
ever extract from them any new original idea, unless nature has so framed
its faculties, that it feels some new original impression arise from such
a contemplation. But here it only takes notice of the manner, in which
the different sounds make their appearance; and that it may afterwards
consider without considering these particular sounds, but may conjoin it
with any other objects. The ideas of some objects it certainly must have,
nor is it possible for it without these ideas ever to arrive at any
conception of time; which since it, appears not as any primary distinct
impression, can plainly be nothing but different ideas, or impressions,
or objects disposed in a certain manner, that is, succeeding each other.

I know there are some who pretend, that the idea of duration is
applicable in a proper sense to objects, which are perfectly
unchangeable; and this I take to be the common opinion of philosophers as
well as of the vulgar. But to be convinced of its falsehood we need but
reflect on the foregoing conclusion, that the idea of duration is always
derived from a succession of changeable objects, and can never be
conveyed to the mind by any thing stedfast and unchangeable. For it
inevitably follows from thence, that since the idea of duration cannot be
derived from such an object, it can never-in any propriety or exactness
be applied to it, nor can any thing unchangeable be ever said to have
duration. Ideas always represent the Objects or impressions, from which
they are derived, and can never without a fiction represent or be applied
to any other. By what fiction we apply the idea of time, even to what is
unchangeable, and suppose, as is common, that duration is a measure of
rest as well as of motion, we shall consider [Sect 5.] afterwards.

There is another very decisive argument, which establishes the present
doctrine concerning our ideas of space and time, and is founded only on
that simple principle, that our ideas of them are compounded of parts,
which are indivisible. This argument may be worth the examining.

Every idea, that is distinguishable, being also separable, let us take
one of those simple indivisible ideas, of which the compound one of
extension is formed, and separating it from all others, and considering
it apart, let us form a judgment of its nature and qualities.

It is plain it is not the idea of extension. For the idea of extension
consists of parts; and this idea, according to t-he supposition, is
perfectly simple and indivisible. Is it therefore nothing? That is
absolutely impossible. For as the compound idea of extension, which is
real, is composed of such ideas; were these so many non-entities, there
would be a real existence composed of non-entities; which is absurd.
Here therefore I must ask, What is our idea of a simple and indivisible
point? No wonder if my answer appear somewhat new, since the question
itself has scarce ever yet been thought of. We are wont to dispute
concerning the nature of mathematical points, but seldom concerning the
nature of their ideas.

The idea of space is conveyed to the. mind by two senses, the sight and
touch; nor does anything ever appear extended, that is not either visible
or tangible. That compound impression, which represents extension,
consists of several lesser impressions, that are indivisible to the eye
or feeling, and may be called impressions of atoms or corpuscles endowed
with colour and solidity. But this is not all. It is not only requisite,
that these atoms should be coloured or tangible, in order to discover
themselves to our senses; it is also necessary we should preserve the idea
of their colour or tangibility in order to comprehend them by our
imagination. There is nothing but the idea of their colour or
tangibility, which can render them conceivable by the mind. Upon the
removal of the ideas of these sensible qualities, they are utterly
annihilated to the thought or imagination.

Now such as the parts are, such is the whole. If a point be not
considered as coloured or tangible, it can convey to us no idea; and
consequently the idea of extension, which is composed of the ideas of
these points, can never possibly exist. But if the idea of extension
really can exist, as we are conscious it does, its parts must also exist;
and in order to that, must be considered as coloured or tangible. We have
therefore no idea of space or extension, but when we regard it as an
object either of our sight or feeling.

The same reasoning will prove, that the indivisible moments of time must
be filled with some real object or existence, whose succession forms the
duration, and makes it be conceivable by the mind.



SECT. IV.  OBJECTIONS ANSWERED.


Our system concerning space and time consists of two parts, which are
intimately connected together. The first depends on this chain of
reasoning. The capacity of the mind is not infinite; consequently no idea
of extension or duration consists of an infinite number of parts or
inferior ideas, but of a finite number, and these simple and indivisible:
It is therefore possible for space and time to exist conformable to this
idea: And if it be possible, it is certain they actually do exist
conformable to it; since their infinite divisibility is utterly
impossible and contradictory.

The other part of our system is a consequence of this. The parts, into
which the ideas of space and time resolve themselves, become at last
indivisible; and these indivisible parts, being nothing in themselves,
are inconceivable when not filled with something real and existent. The
ideas of space and time are therefore no separate or distinct ideas, but
merely those of the manner or order, in which objects exist: Or in other
words, it is impossible to conceive either a vacuum and extension without
matter, or a time, when there was no succession or change in any real
existence. The intimate connexion betwixt these parts of our system is
the reason why we shall examine together the objections, which have been
urged against both of them, beginning with those against the finite
divisibility of extension.

I. The first of these objections, which I shall take notice of, is more
proper to prove this connexion and dependence of the one part upon the
other, than to destroy either of them. It has often been maintained in
the schools, that extension must be divisible, in infinitum, because the
system of mathematical points is absurd; and that system is absurd,
because a mathematical point is a non-entity, and consequently can never
by its conjunction with others form a real existence. This would be
perfectly decisive, were there no medium betwixt the infinite
divisibility of matter, and the non-entity of mathematical points. But
there is evidently a medium, viz. the bestowing a colour or solidity on
these points; and the absurdity of both the extremes is a demonstration
of the truth and reality of this medium. The system of physical points,
which is another medium, is too absurd to need a refutation. A real
extension, such as a physical point is supposed to be, can never exist
without parts, different from each other; and wherever objects are
different, they are distinguishable and separable by the imagination.

II. The second objection is derived from the necessity there would be of
PENETRATION, if extension consisted of mathematical points. A simple and
indivisible atom, that touches another, must necessarily penetrate it;
for it is impossible it can touch it by its external parts, from the very
supposition of its perfect simplicity, which excludes all parts. It must
therefore touch it intimately, and in its whole essence, SECUNDUM SE,
TOTA, ET TOTALITER; which is the very definition of penetration. But
penetration is impossible: Mathematical points are of consequence equally
impossible.

I answer this objection by substituting a juster idea of penetration.
Suppose two bodies containing no void within their circumference, to
approach each other, and to unite in such a manner that the body, which
results from their union, is no more extended than either of them; it is
this we must mean when we talk of penetration. But it is evident this
penetration is nothing but the annihilation of one of these bodies, and
the preservation of the other, without our being able to distinguish
particularly which is preserved and which annihilated. Before the
approach we have the idea of two bodies. After it we have the idea only
of one. It is impossible for the mind to preserve any notion of difference
betwixt two bodies of the same nature existing in the same place at the
same time.

Taking then penetration in this sense, for the annihilation of one body
upon its approach to another, I ask any one, if he sees a necessity, that
a coloured or tangible point should be annihilated upon the approach of
another coloured or tangible point? On the contrary, does he not
evidently perceive, that from the union of these points there results an
object, which is compounded and divisible, and may be distinguished into
two parts, of which each preserves its existence distinct and separate,
notwithstanding its contiguity to the other? Let him aid his fancy by
conceiving these points to be of different colours, the better to prevent
their coalition and confusion. A blue and a red point may surely lie
contiguous without any penetration or annihilation. For if they cannot,
what possibly can become of them? Whether shall the red or the blue be
annihilated? Or if these colours unite into one, what new colour will
they produce by their union?

What chiefly gives rise to these objections, and at the same time renders
it so difficult to give a satisfactory answer to them, is the natural
infirmity and unsteadiness both of our imagination and senses, when
employed on such minute objects. Put a spot of ink upon paper, and retire
to such a distance, that the spot becomes altogether invisible; you will
find, that upon your return and nearer approach the spot first becomes
visible by short intervals; and afterwards becomes always visible; and
afterwards acquires only a new force in its colouring without augmenting
its bulk; and afterwards, when it has encreased to such a degree as to be
really extended, it is still difficult for the imagination to break it
into its component parts, because of the uneasiness it finds in the
conception of such a minute object as a single point. This infirmity
affects most of our reasonings on the present subject, and makes it
almost impossible to answer in an intelligible manner, and in proper
expressions, many questions which may arise concerning it.

III. There have been many objections drawn from the mathematics against
the indivisibility of the parts of extension: though at first sight that
science seems rather favourable to the present doctrine; and if it be
contrary in its DEMONSTRATIONS, it is perfectly conformable in its
definitions. My present business then must be to defend the definitions,
and refute the demonstrations.

A surface is DEFINed to be length and breadth without depth: A line to be
length without breadth or depth: A point to be what has neither length,
breadth nor depth. It is evident that all this is perfectly unintelligible
upon any other supposition than that of the. composition 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 been made to this argument; neither
of which is in my opinion satisfactory. The first is, that the objects of
geometry, those surfaces, lines and points, whose proportions and
positions it examines, are mere ideas in the mind; I and not only never
did, but never can exist in nature. They never did exist; for no one will
pretend to draw a line or make a surface entirely conformable to the
definition: They never can exist; for we may produce demonstrations from
these very ideas to prove, that they are impossible.

But can anything be imagined more absurd and contradictory than this
reasoning? Whatever can be conceived by a clear and distinct idea
necessarily implies the possibility of existence; and he who pretends to
prove the impossibility of its existence by any argument derived from the
clear idea, in reality asserts, that we have no clear idea of it, because
we have a clear idea. It is in vain to search for a contradiction in any
thing that is distinctly conceived by the mind. Did it imply any
contradiction, it is impossible it coued ever be conceived.

There is therefore no medium betwixt allowing at least the possibility of
indivisible points, and denying their idea; and it is on this latter
principle, that the second answer to the foregoing argument is founded.
It has been pretended [L'Art de penser.], that though it be impossible to
conceive a length without any breadth, yet by an abstraction without a
separation, we can consider the one without regarding the other; in the
same manner as we may think of the length of the way betwixt two towns,
and overlook its breadth. The length is inseparable from the breadth both
in nature and in our minds; but this excludes not a partial consideration,
and a distinction of reason, after the manner above explained.

In refuting this answer I shall not insist on the argument, which I have
already sufficiently explained, that if it be impossible for the mind to
arrive at a minimum in its ideas, its capacity must be infinite, in order
to comprehend the infinite number of parts, of which its idea of any
extension would be composed. I shall here endeavour to find some new
absurdities in this reasoning.

A surface terminates a solid; a line terminates a surface; a point
terminates a line; but I assert, that if the ideas of a point, line or
surface were not indivisible, it is impossible we should ever conceive
these terminations: For let these ideas be supposed infinitely divisible;
and then let the fancy endeavour to fix itself on the idea of the last
surface, line or point; it immediately finds this idea to break into
parts; and upon its seizing the last of these parts, it loses its hold by
a new division, and so on in infinitum, without any possibility of its
arriving at a concluding idea. The number of fractions bring it no nearer
the last division, than the first idea it formed. Every particle eludes
the grasp by a new fraction; like quicksilver, when we endeavour to seize
it. But as in fact there must be something, which terminates the idea of
every finite quantity; and as this terminating idea cannot itself consist
of parts or inferior ideas; otherwise it would be the last of its parts,
which finished the idea, and so on; this is a clear proof, that the ideas
of surfaces, lines and points admit not of any division; those of
surfaces in depth; of lines in breadth and depth; and of points in any
dimension.

The school were so sensible of the force of this argument, that some of
them maintained, that nature has mixed among those particles of matter,
which are divisible in infinitum, a number of mathematical points, in
order to give a termination to bodies; and others eluded the force of
this reasoning by a heap of unintelligible cavils and distinctions. Both
these adversaries equally yield the victory. A man who hides himself,
confesses as evidently the superiority of his enemy, as another, who
fairly delivers his arms.

Thus it appears, that the definitions of mathematics destroy the
pretended demonstrations; and that if we have the idea of indivisible
points, lines and surfaces conformable to the definition, their existence
is certainly possible: but if we have no such idea, it is impossible we can
ever conceive the termination of any figure; without which conception
there can be no geometrical demonstration.

But I go farther, and maintain, that none of these demonstrations can
have sufficient weight to establish such a principle, as this of infinite
divisibility; and that because with regard to such minute objects, they
are not properly demonstrations, being built on ideas, which are not
exact, and maxims, which are not precisely true. When geometry decides
anything concerning the proportions of quantity, we ought not to look for
the utmost precision and exactness. None of its proofs extend so far. It
takes the dimensions and proportions of figures justly; but roughly, and
with some liberty. Its errors are never considerable; nor would it err at
all, did it not aspire to such an absolute perfection.

I first ask mathematicians, what they mean when they say one line or
surface is EQUAL to, or GREATER or LESS than another? Let any of them
give an answer, to whatever sect he belongs, and whether he maintains the
composition of extension by indivisible points, or by quantities
divisible in infinitum. This question will embarrass both of them.

There are few or no mathematicians, who defend the hypothesis of
indivisible points; and yet these have the readiest and justest answer to
the present question. They need only reply, that lines or surfaces are
equal, when the numbers of points in each are equal; and that as the
proportion of the numbers varies, the proportion of the lines and
surfaces is also varyed. But though this answer be just, as well as
obvious; yet I may affirm, that this standard of equality is entirely
useless, and that it never is from such a comparison we determine objects
to be equal or unequal with respect to each other. For as the points,
which enter into the composition of any line or surface, whether
perceived by the sight or touch, are so minute and so confounded with
each other, that it is utterly impossible for the mind to compute their
number, such a computation will Never afford us a standard by which we
may judge of proportions. No one will ever be able to determine by an
exact numeration, that an inch has fewer points than a foot, or a foot
fewer than an ell or any greater measure: for which reason we seldom or
never consider this as the standard of equality or inequality.

As to those, who imagine, that extension is divisible in infinitum, it is
impossible they can make use of this answer, or fix the equality of any
line or surface by a numeration of its component parts. For since,
according to their hypothesis, the least as well as greatest figures
contain an infinite number of parts; and since infinite numbers, properly
speaking, can neither be equal nor unequal with respect to each other;
the equality or inequality of any portions of space can never depend on
any proportion in the number of their parts. It is true, it may be said,
that the inequality of an ell and a yard consists in the different
numbers of the feet, of which they are composed; and that of a foot and a
yard in the number of the inches. Bat as that quantity we call an inch in
the one is supposed equal to what we call an inch in the other, and as
it is impossible for the mind to find this equality by proceeding in
infinitum with these references to inferior quantities: it is evident,
that at last we must fix some standard of equality different from an
enumeration of the parts.

There are some [See Dr. Barrow's mathematical lectures.], who pretend,
that equality is best defined by congruity, and that any two figures are
equal, when upon the placing of one upon the other, all their parts
correspond to and touch each other. In order to judge of this definition
let us consider, that since equality is a relation, it is not, strictly
speaking, a property in the figures themselves, but arises merely from the
comparison, which the mind makes betwixt them. If it consists, therefore,
in this imaginary application and mutual contact of parts, we must at
least have a distinct notion of these parts, and must conceive their
contact. Now it is plain, that in this conception we would run up these
parts to the greatest minuteness, which can possibly be conceived; since
the contact of large parts would never render the figures equal. But the
minutest parts we can conceive are mathematical points; and consequently
this standard of equality is the same with that derived from the equality
of the number of points; which we have already determined to be a just but
an useless standard. We must therefore look to some other quarter for a
solution of the present difficulty.

There are many philosophers, who refuse to assign any standard of
equality, but assert, that it is sufficient to present two objects, that
are equal, in order to give us a just notion of this proportion. All
definitions, say they, are fruitless, without the perception of such
objects; and where we perceive such objects, we no longer stand in need
of any definition. To this reasoning, I entirely agree; and assert, that
the only useful notion of equality, or inequality, is derived from the
whole united appearance and the comparison of particular objects.

It is evident, that the eye, or rather the mind is often able at one view
to determine the proportions of bodies, and pronounce them equal to, or
greater or less than each other, without examining or comparing the
number of their minute parts. Such judgments are not only common, but in
many cases certain and infallible. When the measure of a yard and that of
a foot are presented, the mind can no more question, that the first is
longer than the second, than it can doubt of those principles, which are
the most clear and self-evident.

There are therefore three proportions, which the mind distinguishes in
the general appearance of its objects, and calls by the names of greater,
less and equal. But though its decisions concerning these proportions be
sometimes infallible, they are not always so; nor are our judgments of
this kind more exempt from doubt and error than those on any other
subject. We frequently correct our first opinion by a review and
reflection; and pronounce those objects to be equal, which at first we
esteemed unequal; and regard an object as less, though before it appeared
greater than another. Nor is this the only correction, which these
judgments of our senses undergo; but we often discover our error by a
juxtaposition of the objects; or where that is impracticable, by the use
of some common and invariable measure, which being successively applied
to each, informs us of their different proportions. And even this
correction is susceptible of a new correction, and of different degrees
of exactness, according to the nature of the instrument, by which we
measure the bodies, and the care which we employ in the comparison.

When therefore the mind is accustomed to these judgments and their
corrections, and finds that the same proportion which makes two figures
have in the eye that appearance, which we call equality, makes them also
correspond to each other, and to any common measure, with which they are
compared, we form a mixed notion of equality derived both from the looser
and stricter methods of comparison. But we are not content with this. For
as sound reason convinces us that there are bodies vastly more minute
than those, which appear to the senses; and as a false reason would
perswade us, that there are bodies infinitely more minute; we clearly
perceive, that we are not possessed of any instrument or art of
measuring, which can secure us from ill error and uncertainty. We are
sensible, that the addition or removal of one of these minute parts, is
not discernible either in the appearance or measuring; and as we imagine,
that two figures, which were equal before, cannot be equal after this
removal or addition, we therefore suppose some imaginary standard of
equality, by which the appearances and measuring are exactly corrected,
and the figures reduced entirely to that proportion. This standard is
plainly imaginary. For as the very idea of equality is that of such a
particular appearance corrected by juxtaposition or a common measure. the
notion of any correction beyond what we have instruments and art to make,
is a mere fiction of the mind, and useless as well as incomprehensible.
But though this standard be only imaginary, the fiction however is very
natural; nor is anything more usual, than for the mind to proceed after
this manner with any action, even after the reason has ceased, which
first determined it to begin. This appears very conspicuously with regard
to time; where though it is evident we have no exact method of determining
the proportions of parts, not even so exact as in extension, yet the
various corrections of our measures, and their different degrees of
exactness, have given as an obscure and implicit notion of a perfect and
entire equality. The case is the same in many other subjects. A musician
finding his ear becoming every day more delicate, and correcting himself
by reflection and attention, proceeds with the same act of the mind, even
when the subject fails him, and entertains a notion of a compleat TIERCE
or OCTAVE, without being able to tell whence he derives his standard. A
painter forms the same fiction with regard to colours. A mechanic with
regard to motion. To the one light and shade; to the other swift and slow
are imagined to be capable of an exact comparison and equality beyond the
judgments of the senses.

We may apply the same reasoning to CURVE and RIGHT lines. Nothing is more
apparent to the senses, than the distinction betwixt a curve and a right
line; nor are there any ideas we more easily form than the ideas of these
objects. But however easily we may form these ideas, it is impossible to
produce any definition of them, which will fix the precise boundaries
betwixt them. When we draw lines upon paper, or any continued surface,
there is a certain order, by which the lines run along from one point to
another, that they may produce the entire impression of a curve or right
line; but this order is perfectly unknown, and nothing is observed but
the united appearance. Thus even upon the system of indivisible points,
we can only form a distant notion of some unknown standard to these
objects. Upon that of infinite divisibility we cannot go even this
length; but are reduced meerly to the general appearance, as the rule by
which we determine lines to be either curve or right ones. But though we
can give no perfect definition of these lines, nor produce any very exact
method of distinguishing the one from the other; yet this hinders us not
from correcting the first appearance by a more accurate consideration,
and by a comparison with some rule, of whose rectitude from repeated
trials we have a greater assurance. And it is from these corrections, and
by carrying on the same action of the mind, even when its reason fails
us, that we form the loose idea of a perfect standard to these figures,
without being able to explain or comprehend it.

It is true, mathematicians pretend they give an exact definition of a
right line, when they say, it is the shortest way betwixt two points. But
in the first place I observe, that this is more properly the discovery of
one of the properties of a right line, than a just deflation of it. For I
ask any one, if upon mention of a right line he thinks not immediately on
such a particular appearance, and if it is not by accident only that he
considers this property? A right line can be comprehended alone; but this
definition is unintelligible without a comparison with other lines, which
we conceive to be more extended. In common life it is established as a
maxim, that the straightest way is always the shortest; which would be as
absurd as to say, the shortest way is always the shortest, if our idea of
a right line was not different from that of the shortest way betwixt two
points.

Secondly, I repeat what I have already established, that we have no
precise idea of equality and inequality, shorter and longer, more than of
a right line or a curve; and consequently that the one can never afford
us a perfect standard for the other. An exact idea can never be built on
such as are loose and undetermined.

The idea of a plain surface is as little susceptible of a precise
standard as that of a right line; nor have we any other means of
distinguishing such a surface, than its general appearance. It is in vain,
that mathematicians represent a plain surface as produced by the flowing
of a right line. It will immediately be objected, that our idea of a
surface is as independent of this method of forming a surface, as our
idea of an ellipse is of that of a cone; that the idea of a right line is
no more precise than that of a plain surface; that a right line may flow
irregularly, and by that means form a figure quite different from a
plane; and that therefore we must suppose it to flow along two right
lines, parallel to each other, and on the same plane; which is a
description, that explains a thing by itself, and returns in a circle.

It appears, then, that the ideas which are most essential to geometry,
viz. those of equality and inequality, of a right line and a plain
surface, are far from being exact and determinate, according to our
common method of conceiving them. Not only we are incapable of telling,
if the case be in any degree doubtful, when such particular figures are
equal; when such a line is a right one, and such a surface a plain one;
but we can form no idea of that proportion, or of these figures, which is
firm and invariable. Our appeal is still to the weak and fallible
judgment, which we make from the appearance of the objects, and correct
by a compass or common measure; and if we join the supposition of any
farther correction, it is of such-a-one as is either useless or
imaginary. In vain should we have recourse to the common topic, and
employ the supposition of a deity, whose omnipotence may enable him to
form a perfect geometrical figure, and describe a right line without any
curve or inflexion. As the ultimate standard of these figures is derived
from nothing but the senses and imagination, it is absurd to talk of any
perfection beyond what these faculties can judge of; since the true
perfection of any thing consists in its conformity to its standard.

Now since these ideas are so loose and uncertain, I would fain ask any
mathematician what infallible assurance he has, not only of the more
intricate, and obscure propositions of his science, but of the most
vulgar and obvious principles? How can he prove to me, for instance, that
two right lines cannot have one common segment? Or that it is impossible
to draw more than one right line betwixt any two points? should be tell
me, that these opinions are obviously absurd, and repugnant to our clear
ideas; I would answer, that I do not deny, where two right lines incline
upon each other with a sensible angle, but it is absurd to imagine them to
have a common segment. But supposing these two lines to approach at the
rate of an inch in twenty leagues, I perceive no absurdity in asserting,
that upon their contact they become one. For, I beseech you, by what rule
or standard do you judge, when you assert, that the line, in which I have
supposed them to concur, cannot make the same right line with those two,
that form so small an angle betwixt them? You must surely have some idea
of a right line, to which this line does not agree. Do you therefore mean
that it takes not the points in the same order and by the same rule, as
is peculiar and essential to a right line? If so, I must inform you, that
besides that in judging after this manner you allow, that extension is
composed of indivisible points (which, perhaps, is more than you intend)
besides this, I say, I must inform you, that neither is this the standard
from which we form the idea of a right line; nor, if it were, is there
any such firmness in our senses or imagination, as to determine when
such an order is violated or preserved. The original standard of a right
line is in reality nothing but a certain general appearance; and it is
evident right lines may be made to concur with each other, and yet
correspond to this standard, though corrected by all the means either
practicable or imaginable.

To whatever side mathematicians turn, this dilemma still meets them. If
they judge of equality, or any other proportion, by the accurate and
exact standard, viz. the enumeration of the minute indivisible parts,
they both employ a standard, which is useless in practice, and actually
establish the indivisibility of extension, which they endeavour to
explode. Or if they employ, as is usual, the inaccurate standard, derived
from a comparison of objects, upon their general appearance, corrected by
measuring and juxtaposition; their first principles, though certain and
infallible, are too coarse to afford any such subtile inferences as they
commonly draw from them. The first principles are founded on the
imagination and senses: The conclusion, therefore, can never go beyond,
much less contradict these faculties.

This may open our eyes a little, and let us see, that no geometrical
demonstration for the infinite divisibility of extension can have so much
force as what we naturally attribute to every argument, which is
supported by such magnificent pretensions. At the same time we may learn
the reason, why geometry falls of evidence in this single point, while
all its other reasonings command our fullest assent and approbation. And
indeed it seems more requisite to give the reason of this exception, than
to shew, that we really must make such an exception, and regard all the
mathematical arguments for infinite divisibility as utterly sophistical.
For it is evident, that as no idea of quantity is infinitely divisible,
there cannot be imagined a more glaring absurdity, than to endeavour to
prove, that quantity itself admits of such a division; and to prove this
by means of ideas, which are directly opposite in that particular. And as
this absurdity is very glaring in itself, so there is no argument founded
on it. which is not attended with a new absurdity, and involves not an
evident contradiction.

I might give as instances those arguments for infinite divisibility,
which are derived from the point of contact. I know there is no
mathematician, who will not refuse to be judged by the diagrams he
describes upon paper, these being loose draughts, as he will tell us, and
serving only to convey with greater facility certain ideas, which are the
true foundation of all our reasoning. This I am satisfyed with, and am
willing to rest the controversy merely upon these ideas. I desire
therefore our mathematician to form, as accurately as possible, the ideas
of a circle and a right line; and I then ask, if upon the conception of
their contact he can conceive them as touching in a mathematical point,
or if he must necessarily imagine them to concur for some space.
Whichever side he chuses, he runs himself into equal difficulties. If he
affirms, that in tracing these figures in his imagination, he can imagine
them to touch only in a point, he allows the possibility of that idea,
and consequently of the thing. If he says, that in his conception of the
contact of those lines he must make them concur, he thereby acknowledges
the fallacy of geometrical demonstrations, when carryed beyond a certain
degree of minuteness; since it is certain he has such demonstrations
against the concurrence of a circle and a right line; that is, in other
words, be can prove an idea, viz. that of concurrence, to be INCOMPATIBLE
with two other ideas, those of a circle and right line; though at the same
time he acknowledges these ideas to be inseparable.



SECT. V.  THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.


If the second part of my system be true, that the idea of space or
extension is nothing but the idea of visible or tangible points
distributed in a certain order; it follows, that we can form no idea of a
vacuum, or space, where there is nothing visible or tangible. This gives
rise to three objections, which I shall examine together, because the
answer I shall give to one is a consequence of that which I shall make
use of for the others.

First, It may be said, that men have disputed for many ages concerning a
vacuum and a plenum, without being able to bring the affair to a final
decision; and philosophers, even at this day, think themselves at liberty
to take part on either side, as their fancy leads them. But whatever
foundation there may be for a controversy concerning the things
themselves, it may be pretended, that the very dispute is decisive
concerning the idea, and that it is impossible men coued so long reason
about a vacuum, and either refute or defend it, without having a notion
of what they refuted or defended.

Secondly, If this argument should be contested, the reality or at least
the possibility of the idea of a vacuum may be proved by the following
reasoning. Every idea is possible, which is a necessary and infallible
consequence of such as are possible. Now though we allow the world to be
at present a plenum, we may easily conceive it to be deprived of motion;
and this idea will certainly be allowed possible. It must also be allowed
possible, to conceive the annihilation of any part of matter by the
omnipotence of the deity, while the other parts remain at rest. For as
every idea, that is distinguishable, is separable by the imagination; and
as every idea, that is separable by the imagination, may be conceived to
be separately existent; it is evident, that the existence of one particle
of matter, no more implies the existence of another, than a square figure
in one body implies a square figure in every one. This being granted, I
now demand what results from the concurrence of these two possible ideas
of rest and annihilation, and what must we conceive to follow upon the
annihilation of all the air and subtile matter in the chamber, supposing
the walls to remain the same, without any motion or alteration? There are
some metaphysicians, who answer, that since matter and extension are the
same, the annihilation of one necessarily implies that of the other; and
there being now no distance betwixt the walls of the chamber, they touch
each other; in the same manner as my hand touches the paper, which is
immediately before me. But though this answer be very common, I defy these
metaphysicians to conceive the matter according to their hypothesis, or
imagine the floor and roof, with all the opposite sides of the chamber,
to touch each other, while they continue in rest, and preserve the same
position. For how can the two walls, that run from south to north, touch
each other, while they touch the opposite ends of two walls, that run
from east to west? And how can the floor and. roof ever meet, while they
are separated by the four walls, that lie in a contrary position? If you
change their position, you suppose a motion. If you conceive any thing
betwixt them, you suppose a new creation. But keeping strictly to the two
ideas of rest and annihilation, it is evident, that the idea, which
results from them, is not that of a contact of parts, but something else;
which is concluded to be the idea of a vacuum.

The third objection carries the matter still farther, and not only
asserts, that the idea of a vacuum is real and possible, but also
necessary and unavoidable. This assertion is founded on the motion we
observe in bodies, which, it is maintained, would be impossible and
inconceivable without a vacuum, into which one body must move in order to
make way for another.. I shall not enlarge upon this objection, because
it principally belongs to natural philosophy, which lies without our
present sphere.

In order to answer these objections, we must take the matter pretty deep,
and consider the nature and origin of several ideas, lest we dispute
without understanding perfectly the subject of the controversy. It is
evident the idea of darkness is no positive idea, but merely the negation
of .light, or more properly speaking, of coloured and visible objects. A
man, who enjoys his sight, receives no other perception from turning his
eyes on every side, when entirely deprived of light, than what is common
to him with one born blind; and it is certain such-a-one has no idea
either of light or darkness. The consequence of this is, that it is not
from the mere removal of visible objects we receive the impression of
extension without matter; and that the idea of utter darkness can never
be the same with that of vacuum.

Suppose again a man to be Supported in the air, and to be softly conveyed
along by some invisible power; it is evident he is sensible of nothing,
and never receives the idea of extension, nor indeed any idea, from this
invariable motion. Even supposing he moves his limbs to and fro, this
cannot convey to him that idea. He feels in that case a certain sensation
or impression, the parts of which are successive to each other, and may
give him the idea of time: But certainly are not disposed in such a
manner, as is necessary to convey the idea of s ace or the idea of space
or extension.

Since then it appears, that darkness and motion, with the utter removal
of every thing visible and tangible, can never give us the idea of
extension without matter, or of a vacuum; the next question is, whether
they can convey this idea, when mixed with something visible and
tangible?

It is commonly allowed by philosophers, that all bodies, which discover
themselves to the eye, appear as if painted on a plain surface, and that
their different degrees of remoteness from ourselves are discovered more
by reason than by the senses. When I hold up my hand before me, and
spread my fingers, they are separated as perfectly by the blue colour of
the firmament, as they coued be by any visible object, which I coued
place betwixt them. In order, therefore, to know whether the sight can
convey the impression and idea of a vacuum, we must suppose, that amidst
an entire darkness, there are luminous bodies presented to us, whose
light discovers only these bodies themselves, without giving us any
impression of the surrounding objects.

We must form a parallel supposition concerning the objects of our
feeling. It is not proper to suppose a perfect removal of all tangible
objects: we must allow something to be perceived by the feeling; and
after an interval and motion of the hand or other organ of sensation,
another object of the touch to be met with; and upon leaving that,
another; and so on, as often as we please. The question is, whether these
intervals do not afford us the idea of extension without body?

To begin with the first case; it is evident, that when only two luminous
bodies appear to the eye, we can perceive, whether they be conjoined or
separate: whether they be separated by a great or small distance; and if
this distance varies, we can perceive its increase or diminution, with
the motion of the bodies. But as the distance is not in this case any
thing coloured or visible, it may be thought that there is here a vacuum
or pure extension, not only intelligible to the mind, but obvious to the
very senses.

This is our natural and most familiar way of thinking; but which we shall
learn to correct by a little reflection. We may observe, that when two
bodies present themselves, where there was formerly an entire darkness,
the only change, that is discoverable, is in the appearance of these two
objects, and that all the rest continues to be as before, a perfect
negation of light, and of every coloured or visible object. This is not
only true of what may be said to be remote from these bodies, but also of
the very distance; which is interposed betwixt them; that being nothing
but darkness, or the negation of light; without parts, without
composition, invariable and indivisible. Now since this distance causes
no perception different from what a blind man receives from his eyes, or
what is conveyed to us in the darkest night, it must partake of the same
properties: And as blindness and darkness afford us no ideas of
extension, it is impossible that the dark and undistinguishable distance
betwixt two bodies can ever produce that idea.

The sole difference betwixt an absolute darkness and the appearance of
two or more visible luminous objects consists, as I said, in the objects
themselves, and in the manner they affect our senses. The angles, which
the rays of light flowing from them, form with each other; the motion
that is required in the eye, in its passage from one to the other; and
the different parts of the organs, which are affected by them; these
produce the only perceptions, from which we can judge of the distance.
But as these perceptions are each of them simple and indivisible, they
can never give us the idea of extension.

We may illustrate this by considering the sense of feeling, and the
imaginary distance or interval interposed betwixt tangible or solid
objects. I suppose two cases, viz. that of a man supported in the air,
and moving his limbs to and fro, without meeting any thing tangible; and
that of a man, who feeling something tangible, leaves it, and after a
motion, of which he is sensible, perceives another tangible object; and I
then ask, wherein consists the difference betwixt these two cases? No one
will make any scruple to affirm, that it consists meerly in the
perceiving those objects, and that the sensation, which arises from the
motion, is in both cases the same: And as that sensation is not capable
of conveying to us an idea of extension, when unaccompanyed with some
other perception, it can no more give us that idea, when mixed with the
impressions of tangible objects; since that mixture produces no
alteration upon it.

But though motion and darkness, either alone, or attended with tangible
and visible objects, convey no idea of a vacuum or extension without
matter, yet they are the causes why we falsly imagine we can form such an
idea. For there is a close relation betwixt that motion and darkness, and
a real extension, or composition of visible and tangible objects.

First, We may observe, that two visible objects appearing in the midst of
utter darkness, affect the senses in the same manner, and form the same
angle by the rays, which flow from them, and meet in the eye, as if the
distance betwixt them were find with visible objects, that give us a true
idea of extension. The sensation of motion is likewise the same, when
there is nothing tangible interposed betwixt two bodies, as when we feel
a compounded body, whose different parts are placed beyond each other.

Secondly, We find by experience, that two bodies, which are so placed as
to affect the senses in the same manner with two others, that have a
certain extent of visible objects interposed betwixt them, are capable of
receiving the same extent, without any sensible impulse or penetration,
and without any change on that angle, under which they appear to the
senses. In like manner, where there is one object, which we cannot feel
after another without an interval, and the perceiving of that sensation
we call motion in our hand or organ of sensation; experience shews us,
that it is possible the same object may be felt with the same sensation of
motion, along with the interposed impression of solid and tangible
objects, attending the sensation. That is, in other words, an invisible
and intangible distance may be converted into a visible and tangible one,
without any change on the distant objects.

Thirdly, We may observe, as another relation betwixt these two kinds of
distance, that they have nearly the same effects on every natural
phaenomenon. For as all qualities, such as heat, cold, light, attraction,
&c. diminish in proportion to the distance; there is but little
difference observed, whether this distance be marled out by compounded
and sensible objects, or be known only by the manner, in which the
distant objects affect the senses.

Here then are three relations betwixt that distance, which conveys the
idea of extension, and that other, which is not filled with any coloured
or solid object. The distant objects affect the senses in the same
manner, whether separated by the one distance or the other; the second
species of distance is found capable of receiving the first; and they
both equally diminish the force of every quality.

These relations betwixt the two kinds of distance will afford us an easy
reason, why the one has so often been taken for the other, and why we
imagine we have an idea of extension without the idea of any object
either of the sight or feeling. For we may establish it as a general
maxim in this science of human nature, that wherever there is a close
relation betwixt two ideas, the mind is very apt to mistake them, and in
all its discourses and reasonings to use the one for the other. This
phaenomenon occurs on so many occasions, and is of such consequence, that
I cannot forbear stopping a moment to examine its causes. I shall only
premise, that we must distinguish exactly betwixt the phaenomenon itself,
and the causes, which I shall assign for it; and must not imagine from
any uncertainty in the latter, that the former is also uncertain. The
phaenomenon may be real, though my explication be chimerical. The falshood
of the one is no consequence of that of the other; though at the same time
we may observe, that it is very natural for us to draw such a consequence;
which is an evident instance of that very principle, which I endeavour to
explain.

When I received the relations of resemblance, contiguity and causation,
as principles of union among ideas, without examining into their causes,
it was more in prosecution of my first maxim, that we must in the end rest
contented with experience, than for want of something specious and
plausible, which I might have displayed on that subject. It would have
been easy to have made an imaginary dissection of the brain, and have
shewn, why upon our conception of any idea, the animal spirits run into
all the contiguous traces, and rouze up the other ideas, that are related
to it. But though I have neglected any advantage, which I might have drawn
from this topic in explaining the relations of ideas, I am afraid I must
here have recourse to it, in order to account for the mistakes that arise
from these relations. I shall therefore observe, that as the mind is
endowed with a power of exciting any idea it pleases; whenever it
dispatches the spirits into that region of the brain, in which the idea
is placed; these spirits always excite the idea, when they run precisely
into the proper traces, and rummage that cell, which belongs to the idea.
But as their motion is seldom direct, and naturally turns a little to the
one side or the other; for this reason the animal spirits, falling into
the contiguous traces, present other related ideas in lieu of that, which
the mind desired at first to survey. This change we are not always
sensible of; but continuing still the same train of thought, make use of
the related idea, which is presented to us, and employ it in our
reasoning, as if it were the same with what we demanded. This is the
cause of many mistakes and sophisms in philosophy; as will naturally be
imagined, and as it would be easy to show, if there was occasion.

Of the three relations above-mentioned that of resemblance is the most
fertile source of error; and indeed there are few mistakes in reasoning,
which do not borrow largely from that origin. Resembling ideas are not
only related together, but the actions of the mind, which we employ in
considering them, are so little different, that we are not able to
distinguish them. This last circumstance is of great consequence, and we
may in general observe, that wherever the actions of the mind in forming
any two ideas are the same or resembling, we are very apt to confound
these ideas, and take the one for the other. Of this we shall see many
instances in the progress of this treatise. But though resemblance be the
relation, which most readily produces a mistake in ideas, yet the others
of causation and contiguity may also concur in the same influence. We
might produce the figures of poets and orators, as sufficient proofs of
this, were it as usual, as it is reasonable, in metaphysical subjects to
draw our arguments from that quarter. But lest metaphysicians should
esteem this below their dignity, I shall borrow a proof from an
observation, which may be made on most of their own discourses, viz. that
it is usual for men to use words for ideas, and to talk instead of
thinking in their reasonings. We use words for ideas, because they are
commonly so closely connected that the mind easily mistakes them. And
this likewise is the reason, why we substitute the idea of a distance,
which is not considered either as visible or tangible, in the room of
extension, which is nothing but a composition of visible or tangible
points disposed in a certain order. In causing this mistake there concur
both the relations of causation and resemblance. As the first species of
distance is found to be convertible into the second, it is in this respect
a kind of cause; and the similarity of their manner of affecting the
senses, and diminishing every quality, forms the relation of resemblance.

After this chain of reasoning and explication of my principles, I am now
prepared to answer all the objections that have been offered, whether
derived from metaphysics or mechanics. The frequent disputes concerning a
vacuum, or extension without matter prove not the reality of the idea,
upon which the dispute turns; there being nothing more common, than to
see men deceive themselves in this particular; especially when by means
of any close relation, there is another idea presented, which may be the
occasion of their mistake.

We may make almost the same answer to the second objection, derived from
the conjunction of the ideas of rest and annihilation. When every thing
is annihilated in the chamber, and the walls continue immoveable, the
chamber must be conceived much in the same manner as at present, when the
air that fills it, is not an object of the senses. This annihilation
leaves to the eye, that fictitious distance, which is discovered by the
different parts of the organ, that are affected, and by the degrees of
light and shade;--and to the feeling, that which consists in a sensation
of motion in the hand, or other member of the body. In vain should we.
search any farther. On whichever side we turn this subject, we shall find
that these are the only impressions such an object can produce after the
supposed annihilation; and it has already been remarked, that impressions
can give rise to no ideas, but to such as resemble them.

Since a body interposed betwixt two others may be supposed to be
annihilated, without producing any change upon such as lie on each hand
of it, it is easily conceived, how it may be created anew, and yet produce
as little alteration. Now the motion of a body has much the same effect
as its creation. The distant bodies are no more affected in the one case,
than in the other. This suffices to satisfy the imagination, and proves
there is no repugnance in such a motion. Afterwards experience comes in
play to persuade us that two bodies, situated in the manner
above-described, have really such a capacity of receiving body betwixt
them, and that there is no obstacle to the conversion of the invisible
and intangible distance into one that is visible and tangible. However
natural that conversion may seem, we cannot be sure it is practicable,
before we have had experience of it.

Thus I seem to have answered the three objections above-mentioned; though
at the same time I am sensible, that few will be satisfyed with these
answers, but will immediately propose new objections and difficulties.
It will probably be said, that my reasoning makes nothing to the matter in
hands and that I explain only the manner in which objects affect the
senses, without endeavouring to account for their real nature and
operations. Though there be nothing visible or tangible interposed betwixt
two bodies, yet we find BY EXPERIENCE, that the bodies may be placed in
the same manner, with regard to the eye, and require the same motion of
the hand in passing from one to the other, as if divided by something
visible and tangible. This invisible and intangible distance is also
found by experience to contain a capacity of receiving body, or of
becoming visible and tangible. Here is the whole of my system; and in no
part of it have I endeavoured to explain the cause, which separates
bodies after this manner, and gives them a capacity of receiving others
betwixt them, without any impulse or penetration.

I answer this objection, by pleading guilty, and by confessing that my
intention never was to penetrate into the nature of bodies, or explain
the secret causes of their operations. For besides that this belongs not
to my present purpose, I am afraid, that such an enterprise is beyond the
reach of human understanding, and that we can never pretend to know body
otherwise than by those external properties, which discover themselves to
the senses. As to those who attempt any thing farther, I cannot approve
of their ambition, till I see, in some one instance at least, that they
have met with success. But at present I content myself with knowing
perfectly the manner in which objects affect my senses, and their
connections with each other, as far as experience informs me of them.
This suffices for the conduct of life; and this also suffices for my
philosophy, which pretends only to explain the nature and causes of our
perceptions, or impressions and ideas [Footnote 4.].

[Footnote 4. As long as we confine our speculations to the appearances of
objects to our senses, without entering into disquisitions concerning
their real nature and operations, we are safe from all difficulties, and
can never be embarrassed by any question. Thus, if it be asked, if the
invisible and intangible distance, interposed betwixt two objects, be
something or nothing: It is easy to answer, that it is SOMETHING, VIZ. a
property of the objects, which affect the SENSES after such a particular
manner. If it be asked whether two objects, having such a distance betwixt
them, touch or not: it may be answered, that this depends upon the
definition of the word, TOUCH. If objects be said to touch, when there is
nothing SENSIBLE interposed betwixt them, these objects touch: it objects
be said to touch, when their IMAGES strike contiguous parts of the eye,
and when the hand FEELS both objects successively, without any interposed
motion, these objects do not touch. The appearances of objects to our
senses are all consistent; and no difficulties can ever arise, but from
the obscurity of the terms we make use of.

If we carry our enquiry beyond the appearances of objects to the senses,
I am afraid, that most of our conclusions will be full of scepticism and
uncertainty. Thus if it be asked, whether or not the invisible and
intangible distance be always full of body, or of something that by an
improvement of our organs might become visible or tangible, I must
acknowledge, that I find no very decisive arguments on either side; though
I am inclined to the contrary opinion, as being more suitable to vulgar
and popular notions. If THE NEWTONIAN philosophy be rightly understood,
it will be found to mean no more. A vacuum is asserted: That is, bodies
are said to be placed after such a manner, is to receive bodies betwixt
them, without impulsion or penetration. The real nature of this position
of bodies is unknown. We are only acquainted with its effects on the
senses, and its power of receiving body. Nothing is more suitable to that
philosophy, than a modest scepticism to a certain degree, and a fair
confession of ignorance in subjects, that exceed all human capacity.]

I shall conclude this subject of extension with a paradox, which will
easily be explained from the foregoing reasoning. This paradox is, that
if you are pleased to give to the in-visible and intangible distance, or
in other words, to the capacity of becoming a visible and tangible
distance, the name of a vacuum, extension and matter are the same, and
yet there is a vacuum. If you will not give it that name, motion is
possible in a plenum, without any impulse in infinitum, without returning
in a circle, and without penetration. But however we may express
ourselves, we must always confess, that we have no idea of any real
extension without filling it with sensible objects, and conceiving its
parts as visible or tangible.

As to the doctrine, that time is nothing but the manner, in which some
real objects exist; we may observe, that it is liable to the same
objections as the similar doctrine with regard to extension. If it be a
sufficient proof, that we have the idea of a vacuum, because we dispute
and reason concerning it; we must for the same reason have the idea of
time without any changeable existence; since there is no subject of
dispute more frequent and common. But that we really have no such idea,
is certain. For whence should it be derived? Does it arise from an
impression of sensation or of reflection? Point it out distinctly to us,
that we may know its nature and qualities. But if you cannot point out
any such impression, you may be certain you are mistaken, when you
imagine you have any such idea.

But though it be impossible to shew the impression, from which the idea of
time without a changeable existence is derived; yet we can easily point
out those appearances, which make us fancy we have that idea. For we may
observe, that there is a continual succession of perceptions in our mind;
so that the idea of time being for ever present with us; when we consider
a stedfast object at five-a-clock, and regard the same at six; we are apt
to apply to it that idea in the same manner as if every moment were
distinguished by a different position, or an alteration of the object.
The first and second appearances of the object, being compared with the
succession of our perceptions, seem equally removed as if the object had
really changed. To which we may add, what experience shews us, that the
object was susceptible of such a number of changes betwixt these
appearances; as also that the unchangeable or rather fictitious duration
has the same effect upon every quality, by encreasing or diminishing it,
as that succession, which is obvious to the senses. From these three
relations we are apt to confound our ideas, and imagine we can form the
idea of a time and duration, without any change or succession.



SECT. VI.  OF THE IDEA OF EXISTENCE, AND OF EXTERNAL EXISTENCE.


It may not be amiss, before we leave this subject, to explain the ideas
of existence and of external existence; which have their difficulties, as
well as the ideas of space and time. By this means we shall be the better
prepared for the examination of knowledge and probability, when we
understand perfectly all those particular ideas, which may enter into our
reasoning.

There is no impression nor idea of any kind, of which we have any
consciousness or memory, that is not conceived as existent; and it is
evident, that from this consciousness the most perfect idea and assurance
of being is derived. From hence we may form a dilemma, the most clear and
conclusive that can be imagined, viz. that since we never remember any
idea or impression without attributing existence to it, the idea of
existence must either be derived from a distinct impression, conjoined
with every perception or object of our thought, or must be the very same
with the idea of the perception or object.

As this dilemma is an evident consequence of the principle, that every
idea arises from a similar impression, so our decision betwixt the
propositions of the dilemma is no more doubtful. go far from there being
any distinct impression, attending every impression and every idea, that
I do not think there are any two distinct impressions, which are
inseparably conjoined. Though certain sensations may at one time be united,
we quickly find they admit of a separation, and may be presented apart.
And thus, though every impression and idea we remember be considered as
existent, the idea of existence is not derived from any particular
impression.

The idea of existence, then, is the very same with the idea of what we
conceive to be existent. To reflect on any thing simply, and to reflect
on it as existent, are nothing different from each other. That idea, when
conjoined with the idea of any object, makes no addition to it. Whatever
we conceive, we conceive to be existent. Any idea we please to form is
the idea of a being; and the idea of a being is any idea we please to
form.

Whoever opposes this, must necessarily point out that distinct
impression, from which the idea of entity is derived, and must prove,
that this impression is inseparable from every perception we believe to
be existent. This we may without hesitation conclude to be impossible.

Our foregoing reasoning [Part I. Sect. 7.] concerning the distinction of
ideas without any real difference will not here serve us in any stead.
That kind of distinction is founded on the different resemblances, which
the same simple idea may have to several different ideas. But no object
can be presented resembling some object with respect to its existence, and
different from others in the same particular; since every object, that is
presented, must necessarily be existent.

A like reasoning will account for the idea of external existence. We may
observe, that it is universally allowed by philosophers, and is besides
pretty obvious of itself, that nothing is ever really present with the
mind but its perceptions or impressions and ideas, and that external
objects become known to us only by those perceptions they occasion. To
hate, to love, to think, to feel, to see; all this is nothing but to
perceive.

Now since nothing is ever present to the mind but perceptions, and since
all ideas are derived from something antecedently present to the mind; it
follows, that it is impossible for us so much as to conceive or form an
idea of any thing specifically different. from ideas and impressions. Let
us fix our attention out of ourselves as much as possible: Let us chase
our imagination to the heavens, or to the utmost limits of the universe;
we never really advance a step beyond ourselves, nor can conceive any
kind of existence, but those perceptions, which have appeared in that
narrow compass. This is the universe of the imagination, nor have we any
idea but what is there produced.

The farthest we can go towards a conception of external objects, when
supposed SPECIFICALLY different from our perceptions, is to form a
relative idea of them, without pretending to comprehend the related
objects. Generally speaking we do not suppose them specifically
different; but only attribute to them different relations, connections
and durations. But of this more fully hereafter.[Part IV, Sect. 2.]




PART III.  OF KNOWLEDGE AND PROBABILITY.



SECT. I.  OF KNOWLEDGE.


There are seven [Part I. Sect. 5.] different kinds of philosophical
relation, viz. RESEMBLANCE, IDENTITY, RELATIONS OF TIME AND PLACE,
PROPORTION IN QUANTITY OR NUMBER, DEGREES IN ANY QUALITY, CONTRARIETY and
CAUSATION. These relations may be divided into two classes; into such as
depend entirely on the ideas, which we compare together, and such as may
be changed without any change in the ideas. It is from the idea of a
triangle, that we discover the relation of equality, which its three
angles bear to two right ones; and this relation is invariable, as long
as our idea remains the same. On the contrary, the relations of
contiguity and distance betwixt two objects may be changed merely by an
alteration of their place, without any change on the objects themselves
or on their ideas; and the place depends on a hundred different
accidents, which cannot be foreseen by the mind. It is the same case with
identity and causation. Two objects, though perfectly resembling each
other, and even appearing in the same place at different times, may be
numerically different: And as the power, by which one object produces
another, is never discoverable merely from their idea, it is evident cause
and effect are relations, of which we receive information from
experience, and not from any abstract reasoning or reflection. There is
no single phaenomenon, even the most simple, which can be accounted for
from the qualities of the objects, as they appear to us; or which we
coued foresee without the help of our memory and experience.

It appears, therefore, that of these seven philosophical relations, there
remain only four, which depending solely upon ideas, can be the objects
of knowledge said certainty. These four are RESEMBLANCE, CONTRARIETY,
DEGREES IN QUALITY, and PROPORTIONS IN QUANTITY OR NUMBER. Three of these
relations are discoverable at first sight, and fall more properly under
the province of intuition than demonstration. When any objects resemble
each other, the resemblance will at first strike the eve, or rather the
mind; and seldom requires a second examination. The case is the same with
contrariety, and with the degrees of any quality. No one can once doubt
but existence and non-existence destroy each other, and are perfectly
incompatible and contrary. And though it be impossible to judge exactly of
the degrees of any quality, such as colour, taste, heat, cold, when the
difference betwixt them is very small: yet it is easy to decide, that any
of them is superior or inferior to another, when their difference is
considerable. And this decision we always pronounce at first sight,
without any enquiry or reasoning.

We might proceed, after the same manner, in fixing the proportions of
quantity or number, and might at one view observe a superiority or
inferiority betwixt any numbers, or figures; especially where the
difference is very great and remarkable. As to equality or any exact
proportion, we can only guess at it from a single consideration; except
in very short numbers, or very limited portions of extension; which are
comprehended in an instant, and where we perceive an impossibility of
falling into any considerable error. In all other cases we must settle
the proportions with some liberty, or proceed in a more artificial
manner.

I have already I observed, that geometry, or the art, by which we fix
the proportions of figures; though it much excels both in universality and
exactness, the loose judgments of the senses and imagination; yet never
attains a perfect precision and exactness. It's first principles are
still drawn from the general appearance of the objects; and that
appearance can never afford us any security, when we examine, the
prodigious minuteness of which nature is susceptible. Our ideas seem to
give a perfect assurance, that no two right lines can have a common
segment; but if we consider these ideas, we shall find, that they always
suppose a sensible inclination of the two lines, and that where the angle
they form is extremely small, we have no standard of a I @ right line so
precise as to assure us of the truth of this proposition. It is the same
case with most of the primary decisions of the mathematics.

There remain, therefore, algebra and arithmetic as the only sciences, in
which we can carry on a chain of reasoning to any degree of intricacy,
and yet preserve a perfect exactness and certainty. We are possest of a
precise standard, by which we can judge of the equality and proportion of
numbers; and according as they correspond or not to that standard, we
determine their relations, without any possibility of error. When two
numbers are so combined, as that the one has always an unite answering to
every unite of the other, we pronounce them equal; and it is for want of
such a standard of equality in extension, that geometry can scarce be
esteemed a perfect and infallible science.

But here it may not be amiss to obviate a difficulty, which may arise
from my asserting, that though geometry falls short of that perfect
precision and certainty, which are peculiar to arithmetic and algebra,
yet it excels the imperfect judgments of our senses and imagination. The
reason why I impute any defect to geometry, is, because its original and
fundamental principles are derived merely from appearances; and it may
perhaps be imagined, that this defect must always attend it, and keep it
from ever reaching a greater exactness in the comparison of objects or
ideas, than what our eye or imagination alone is able to attain. I own
that this defect so far attends it, as to keep it from ever aspiring to a
full certainty: But since these fundamental principles depend on the
easiest and least deceitful appearances, they bestow on their
consequences a degree of exactness, of which these consequences are
singly incapable. It is impossible for the eye to determine the angles of
a chiliagon to be equal to 1996 right angles, or make any conjecture,
that approaches this proportion; but when it determines, that right lines
cannot concur; that we cannot draw more than one right line between two
given points; it's mistakes can never be of any consequence. And this is
the nature and use of geometry, to run us up to such appearances, as, by
reason of their simplicity, cannot lead us into any considerable error.

I shall here take occasion to propose a second observation concerning our
demonstrative reasonings, which is suggested by the same subject of the
mathematics. It is usual with mathematicians, to pretend, that those
ideas, which are their objects, are of so refined and spiritual a nature,
that they fall not under the conception of the fancy, but must be
comprehended by a pure and intellectual view, of which the superior
faculties of the soul are alone capable. The same notion runs through most
parts of philosophy, and is principally made use of to explain oar
abstract ideas, and to shew how we can form an idea of a triangle, for
instance, which shall neither be an isoceles nor scalenum, nor be
confined to any particular length and proportion of sides. It is easy to
see, why philosophers are so fond of this notion of some spiritual and
refined perceptions; since by that means they cover many of their
absurdities, and may refuse to submit to the decisions of clear ideas, by
appealing to such as are obscure and uncertain. But to destroy this
artifice, we need but reflect on that principle so oft insisted on, that
all our ideas are copyed from our impressions. For from thence we may
immediately conclude, that since all impressions are clear and precise,
the ideas, which are copyed from them, must be of the same nature, and
can never, but from our fault, contain any thing so dark and intricate.
An idea is by its very nature weaker and fainter than an impression; but
being in every other respect the same, cannot imply any very great
mystery. If its weakness render it obscure, it is our business to remedy
that defect, as much as possible, by keeping the idea steady and precise;
and till we have done so, it is in vain to pretend to reasoning and
philosophy.



SECT. II.  OF PROBABILITY, AND OF THE IDEA OF CAUSE AND EFFECT.


This is all I think necessary to observe concerning those four relations,
which are the foundation of science; but as to the other three, which
depend not upon the idea, and may be absent or present even while that
remains the same, it will be proper to explain them more particularly.
These three relations are identity, the situations in time and place, and
causation.

All kinds of reasoning consist in nothing but a comparison, and a
discovery of those relations, either constant or inconstant, which two or
more objects bear to each other. This comparison we may make, either when
both the objects are present to the senses, or when neither of them is
present, or when only one. When both the objects are present to the
senses along with the relation, we call this perception rather than
reasoning; nor is there in this case any exercise of the thought, or any
action, properly speaking, but a mere passive admission of the
impressions through the organs of sensation. According to this way of
thinking, we ought not to receive as reasoning any of the observations we
may make concerning identity, and the relations of time and .place; since
in none of them the mind can go beyond what is immediately present to the
senses, either to discover the real existence or the relations of
objects. It is only causation, which produces such a connexion, as to give
us assurance from the existence or action of one object, that it was
followed or preceded by any other existence or action; nor can the other
two relations be ever made use of in reasoning, except so far as they
either affect or are affected by it. There is nothing in any objects to
perswade us, that they are either always remote or always contiguous; and
when from experience and observation we discover, that their relation in
this particular is invariable, we, always conclude there is some secret
cause, which separates or unites them. The same reasoning extends to
identity. We readily suppose an object may continue individually the
same, though several times absent from and present to the senses; and
ascribe to it an identity, notwithstanding the interruption of the
perception, whenever we conclude, that if we had kept our eye or hand
constantly upon it, it would have conveyed an invariable and
uninterrupted perception. But this conclusion beyond the impressions of
our senses can be founded only on the connexion of cause and effect; nor
can we otherwise have any security, that the object is not changed upon
us, however much the new object may resemble that which was formerly
present to the senses. Whenever we discover such a perfect resemblance,
we consider, whether it be common in that species of objects; whether
possibly or probably any cause coued operate in producing the change and
resemblance; and according as we determine concerning these causes and
effects, we form our judgment concerning the identity of the object.

Here then it appears, that of those three relations, which depend not
upon the mere ideas, the only one, that can be traced beyond our senses
and informs us of existences and objects, which we do not see or feel, is
causation. This relation, therefore, we shall endeavour to explain fully
before we leave the subject of the understanding.

To begin regularly, we must consider the idea of causation, and see from
what origin it is derived. It is impossible to reason justly, without
understanding perfectly the idea concerning which we reason; and it is
impossible perfectly to understand any idea, without tracing it up to its
origin, and examining that primary impression, from which it arises. The
examination of the impression bestows a clearness on the idea; and the
examination of the idea bestows a like clearness on all our reasoning.

Let us therefore cast our eye on any two objects, which we call cause
and effect, and turn them on all sides, in order to find that impression,
which produces an idea, of such prodigious consequence. At first sight I
perceive, that I must not search for it in any of the particular
qualities of the objects; since. which-ever of these qualities I pitch
on, I find some object, that is not possessed of it, and yet falls under
the denomination of cause or effect. And indeed there is nothing
existent, either externally or internally, which is not to be considered
either as a cause or an effect; though it is plain there is no one quality,
which universally belongs to all beings, and gives them a title to that
denomination.

The idea, then, of causation must be derived from some relation among
objects; and that relation we must now endeavour to discover. I find in
the first place, that whatever objects are considered as causes or
effects, are contiguous; and that nothing can operate in a time or place,
which is ever so little removed from those of its existence. Though distant
objects may sometimes seem productive of each other, they are commonly
found upon examination to be linked by a chain of causes, which are
contiguous among themselves, and to the distant objects; and when in any
particular instance we cannot discover this connexion, we still presume
it to exist. We may therefore consider the relation of CONTIGUITY as
essential to that of causation; at least may suppose it such, according
to the general opinion, till we can find a more [Part IV. Sect. 5.] proper
occasion to clear up this matter, by examining what objects are or are not
susceptible of juxtaposition and conjunction.

The second relation I shall observe as essential to causes and effects,
is not so universally acknowledged, but is liable to some controversy.
It is that of PRIORITY Of time in the cause before the effect. Some
pretend that it is not absolutely necessary a cause should precede its
effect; but that any object or action, in the very first moment of its
existence, may exert its productive quality, and give rise to another
object or action, perfectly co-temporary with itself. But beside that
experience in most instances seems to contradict this opinion, we may
establish the relation of priority by a kind of inference or reasoning.
It is an established maxim both in natural and moral philosophy, that an
object, which exists for any time in its full perfection without
producing another, is not its sole cause; but is assisted by some other
principle, which pushes it from its state of inactivity, and makes it
exert that energy, of which it was secretly possest. Now if any cause may
be perfectly co-temporary with its effect, it is certain, according to
this maxim, that they must all of them be so; since any one of them,
which retards its operation for a single moment, exerts not itself at
that very individual time, in which it might have operated; and therefore
is no proper cause. The consequence of this would be no less than the
destruction of that succession of causes, which we observe in the world;
and indeed, the utter annihilation of time. For if one cause were
co-temporary with its effect, and this effect with its effect, and so on,
it is plain there would be no such thing as succession, and all objects
must be co-existent.

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

Having thus discovered or supposed the two relations of contiguity and
succession to be essential to causes and effects, I find I am stopt
short, and can proceed no farther in considering any single instance of
cause and effect. Motion in one body is regarded upon impulse as the
cause of motion in another. When we consider these objects with utmost
attention, we find only that the one body approaches the other; and that
the motion of it precedes that of the other, but without any, sensible
interval. It is in vain to rack ourselves with farther thought and
reflection upon this subject. We can go no farther in considering this
particular instance.

Should any one leave this instance, and pretend to define a cause, by
saying it is something productive of another, it is evident he would say
nothing. For what does he mean by production? Can he give any definition
of it, that will not be the same with that of causation? If he can; I
desire it may be produced. If he cannot; he here runs in a circle, and
gives a synonimous term instead of a definition.

Shall we then rest contented with these two relations of contiguity and
succession, as affording a complete idea of causation? By, no means. An
object may be contiguous and prior to another, without being considered
as its cause. There is a NECESSARY CONNEXION to be taken into
consideration; and that relation is of much greater importance, than any
of the other two above-mentioned.

Here again I turn the object on all sides, in order to discover the
nature of this necessary connexion, and find the impression, or
impressions, from which its idea may be derived. When I cast my eye on
the known Qualities of objects, I immediately discover that the relation
of cause and effect depends not in the least on them. When I consider
their relations, I can find none but those of contiguity and succession;
which I have already regarded as imperfect and unsatisfactory. Shall the
despair of success make me assert, that I am here possest of an idea,
which is not preceded by any similar impression? This would be too strong
a proof of levity and inconstancy; since the contrary principle has been
already so firmly established, as to admit of no farther doubt; at least,
till we have more fully examined the present difficulty.

We must, therefore, proceed like those, who being in search of any thing,
that lies concealed from them, and not finding it in the place they
expected, beat about all the neighbouring fields, without any certain
view or design, in hopes their good fortune will at last guide them to
what they search for. It is necessary for us to leave the direct survey of
this question concerning 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 afford a hint,
that may serve to clear up the present difficulty. Of these questions
there occur two, which I shall proceed to examine, viz.

First, For what reason we pronounce it necessary, that every thing whose
existence has a beginning, should also have a cause.

Secondly, Why we conclude, that such particular causes must necessarily
have such particular effects; and what is the nature of that inference we
draw from the one to the other, and of the belief we repose in it?

I shall only observe before I proceed any farther, that though the ideas
of cause and effect be derived from the impressions of reflection as well
as from those of sensation, yet for brevity's sake, I commonly mention
only the latter as the origin of these ideas; though I desire that
whatever I say of them may also extend to the former. Passions are
connected with their objects and with one another; no less than external
bodies are connected together. The same relation, then, of cause and
effect, which belongs to one, must be common to all of them.



SECT. III.  WHY A CAUSE IS ALWAYS NECESSARY.


To begin with the first question concerning the necessity of a cause:
It is a general maxim in philosophy, that whatever begins to exist, must
have a cause of existence. This is commonly taken for granted in all
reasonings, without any proof given or demanded. It is supposed to be
founded on intuition, and to be one of those maxims, which though they may
be denyed with the lips, it is impossible for men in their hearts really
to doubt of. But if we examine this maxim by the idea of knowledge
above-explained, we shall discover in it no mark of any such intuitive
certainty; but on the contrary shall find, that it is of a nature quite
foreign to that species of conviction.

All certainty arises from the comparison of ideas, and from the discovery
of such relations as are unalterable, so long as the ideas continue the
same. These relations are RESEMBLANCE, PROPORTIONS IN QUANTITY AND
NUMBER, DEGREES OF ANY QUALITY, and CONTRARIETY; none of which are
implyed in this proposition, Whatever has a beginning has also a cause of
existence. That proposition therefore is not intuitively certain. At
least any one, who would assert it to be intuitively certain, must deny
these to be the only infallible relations, and must find some other
relation of that kind to be implyed in it; which it will then be time
enough to examine.

But here is an argument, which proves at once, that the foregoing
proposition is neither intuitively nor demonstrably certain. We can never
demonstrate the necessity of a cause to every new existence, or new
modification of existence, without shewing at the same time the
impossibility there is, that any thing can ever begin to exist without
some productive principle; and where the latter proposition cannot be
proved, we must despair of ever being able to prove the former. Now that
the latter proposition is utterly incapable of a demonstrative proof, we
may satisfy ourselves by considering that as all distinct ideas are
separable from each other, and as the ideas of cause and effect are
evidently distinct, it will be easy for us to conceive any object to be
non-existent this moment, and existent the next, without conjoining to it
the distinct idea of a cause or productive principle. The separation,
therefore, of the idea of a cause from that of a beginning of existence,
is plainly possible for the imagination; and consequently the actual
separation of these objects is so far possible, that it implies no
contradiction nor absurdity; and is therefore incapable of being refuted
by any reasoning from mere ideas; without which it is impossible to
demonstrate the necessity of a cause.

Accordingly we shall find upon examination, that every demonstration,
which has been produced for the necessity of a cause, is fallacious and
sophistical. All the points of time and place, say some philosophers
[Mr. Hobbes.], in which we can suppose any object to be-in to exist, are
in themselves equal; and unless there be some cause, which is peculiar to
one time and to one place, and which by that means determines and fixes
the existence, it must remain in eternal suspence; and the object can
never begin to be, for want of something to fix its beginning. But I ask;
Is there any more difficulty in supposing the time and place to be fixed
without a cause, than to suppose the existence to be determined in that
manner? The first question that occurs on this subject is always, whether
the object shall exist or not: The next, when and where it shall begin to
exist. If the removal of a cause be intuitively absurd in the one case, it
must be so in the other: And if that absurdity be not clear without a
proof in the one case, it will equally require one in the other. The
absurdity, then, of the one supposition can never be a proof of that of
the other; since they are both upon the same footing, and must stand or
fall by the same reasoning.

The second argument[Dr, Clarke and others.], which I find used on this
head, labours under an equal difficulty. Every thing, it is said, must
have a cause; for if any thing wanted a cause, it would produce ITSELF;
that is, exist before it existed; which is impossible. But this reasoning
is plainly unconclusive; because it supposes, that in our denial of a
cause we still grant what we expressly deny, viz. that there must be a
cause; which therefore is taken to be the object itself; and that, no
doubt, is an evident contradiction. But to say that any thing is produced,
of to express myself more properly, comes into existence, without a cause,
is not to affirm, that it is itself its own cause; but on the contrary in
excluding all external causes, excludes a fortiori the thing itself, which
is created. An object, that exists absolutely without any cause, certainly
is not its own cause; and when you assert, that the one follows from the
other, you suppose the very point in questions and take it for granted,
that it is utterly impossible any thing can ever begin to exist without a
cause, but that, upon the exclusion of one productive principle, we must
still have recourse to another.

It is exactly the same case with the third argument[Mr. Locke.], which has
been employed to demonstrate the necessity of a cause. Whatever is
produced without any cause, is produced by nothing; or in other words, has
nothing for its cause. But nothing can never be a cause, no more than it
can be something, or equal to two right angles. By the same intuition,
that we perceive nothing not to be equal to two right angles, or not to be
something, we perceive, that it can never be a cause; and consequently
must perceive, that every object has a real cause of its existence.

I believe it will not be necessary to employ many words in shewing the
weakness of this argument, after what I have said of the foregoing. They
are all of them founded on the same fallacy, and are derived from the
same turn of thought. It is sufficient only to observe, that when we
exclude all causes we really do exclude them, and neither suppose nothing
nor the object itself to be the causes of the existence; and consequently
can draw no argument from the absurdity of these suppositions to prove
the absurdity of that exclusion. If every thing must have a cause, it
follows, that upon the exclusion of other causes we must accept of the
object itself or of nothing as causes. But it is the very point in
question, whether every thing must have a cause or not; and therefore,
according to all just reasoning, it ought never to be taken for granted.

They are still more frivolous, who say, that every effect must have a,
cause, because it is implyed in the very idea of effect. Every effect
necessarily pre-supposes a cause; effect being a relative term, of which
cause is the correlative. But this does not prove, that every being must
be preceded by a cause; no more than it follows, because every husband
must have a wife, that therefore every man must be marryed. The true
state of the question is, whether every object, which begins to exist,
must owe its existence to a cause: and this I assert neither to be
intuitively nor demonstratively certain, and hope to have proved it
sufficiently by the foregoing arguments.

Since it is not from knowledge or any scientific reasoning, that we
derive the opinion of the necessity of a cause to every new production,
that opinion must necessarily arise from observation and experience. The
next question, then, should naturally be, how experience gives rise to
such a principle? But as I find it will be more convenient to sink this
question in the following, Why we conclude, that such particular causes
must necessarily have such particular erects, and why we form an
inference from one to another? we shall make that the subject of our
future enquiry. It will, perhaps, be found in the end, that the same
answer will serve for both questions.



SECT. IV.  OF THE COMPONENT PARTS OF OUR REASONINGS CONCERNING
            CAUSE AND EFFECT.


Though the mind in its reasonings from causes or effects carries its view
beyond those objects, which it sees or remembers, it must never lose
sight of them entirely, nor reason merely upon its own ideas, without
some mixture of impressions, or at least of ideas of the memory, which
are equivalent to impressions. When we infer effects from causes, we must
establish the existence of these causes; which we have only two ways of
doing, either by an immediate perception of our memory or senses, or by
an inference from other causes; which causes again we must ascertain in
the same manner, either by a present impression, or by an inference from
their causes, and so on, till we arrive at some object, which we see or
remember. It is impossible for us to carry on our inferences IN INFINITUM;
and the only thing, that can stop them, is an impression of the memory or
senses, beyond which there is no room for doubt or enquiry.

To give an instance of this, we may chuse any point of history, and
consider for what reason we either believe or reject it. Thus we believe
that Caesar was killed in the senate-house on the ides of March; and that
because this fact is established on the unanimous testimony of
historians, who agree to assign this precise time and place to that
event. Here are certain characters and letters present either to our
memory or senses; which characters we likewise remember to have been used
as the signs of certain ideas; and these ideas were either in the minds
of such as were immediately present at that action, and received the
ideas directly from its existence; or they were derived from the
testimony of others, and that again from another testimony, by a visible
gradation, it will we arrive at those who were eyewitnesses and spectators
of the event. It is obvious all this chain of argument or connexion of
causes and effects, is at first founded on those characters or letters,
which are seen or remembered, and that without the authority either of
the memory or senses our whole reasoning would be chimerical and without
foundation. Every link of the chain would in that case hang upon another;
but there would not be any thing fixed to one end of it, capable of
sustaining the whole; and consequently there would be no belief nor
evidence. And this actually is the case with all hypothetical arguments,
or reasonings upon a supposition; there being in them, neither any
present impression, nor belief of a real existence,

I need not observe, that it is no just objection to the present doctrine,
that we can reason upon our past conclusions or principles, without
having recourse to those impressions, from which they first arose. For
even supposing these impressions should be entirely effaced from the
memory, the conviction they produced may still remain; and it is equally
true, that all reasonings concerning causes and effects are originally
derived from some impression; in the same manner, as the assurance of a
demonstration proceeds always from a comparison of ideas, though it may
continue after the comparison is forgot.



SECT. V.  OF THE IMPRESSIONS OF THE SENSES AND MEMORY.


In this kind of reasoning, then, from causation, we employ materials,
which are of a mixed and heterogeneous nature, and which, however
connected, are yet essentially different from each other. All our
arguments concerning causes and effects consist both of an impression of
the memory or, senses, and of the idea of that existence, which produces
the object of the impression, or is produced by it. Here therefore we
have three things to explain, viz. First, The original impression.
Secondly, The transition to the idea of the connected cause or effect.
Thirdly, The nature and qualities of that idea.

As to those impressions, which arise from the senses, their ultimate
cause is, in my opinion, perfectly inexplicable by human reason, and
it will always be impossible to decide with certainty, whether they arise
immediately from the object, or are produced by the creative power of the
mind, or are derived from the author of our being. Nor is such a question
any way material to our present purpose. We may draw inferences from the
coherence of our perceptions, whether they be true or false; whether they
represent nature justly, or be mere illusions of the senses.

When we search for the characteristic, which distinguishes the memory
from the imagination, we must immediately perceive, that it cannot lie in
the simple ideas it presents to us; since both these faculties borrow
their simple ideas from the impressions, and can never go beyond these
original perceptions. These faculties are as little distinguished from
each other by the arrangement of their complex ideas. For though it be a
peculiar property of the memory to preserve the original order and
position of its ideas, while the imagination transposes and changes them,
as it pleases; yet this difference is not sufficient to distinguish them
in their operation, or make us know the one from the other; it being
impossible to recal the past impressions, in order to compare them with
our present ideas, and see whether their arrangement be exactly similar.
Since therefore the memory, is known, neither by the order of its complex
ideas, nor the nature of its simple ones; it follows, that the difference
betwixt it and the imagination lies in its superior force and vivacity. A
man may indulge his fancy in feigning any past scene of adventures; nor
would there be any possibility of distinguishing this from a remembrance
of a like kind, were not the ideas of the imagination fainter and more
obscure.

It frequently happens, that when two men have been engaged in any scene
of action, the one shall remember it much better than the other, and
shall have all the difficulty in the world to make his companion
recollect it. He runs over several circumstances in vain; mentions the
time, the place, the company, what was said, what was done on all sides;
till at last he hits on some lucky circumstance, that revives the whole,
and gives his friend a perfect memory of every thing. Here the person
that forgets receives at first all the ideas from the discourse of the
other, with the same circumstances of time and place; though he considers
them as mere fictions of the imagination. But as soon as the circumstance
is mentioned, that touches the memory, the very same ideas now appear in
a new light, and have, in a manner, a different feeling from what they
had before. Without any other alteration, beside that of the feeling,
they become immediately ideas of the memory, and are assented to.

Since, therefore, the imagination can represent all the same objects that
the memory can offer to us, and since those faculties are only
distinguished by the different feeling of the ideas they present, it may
be proper to consider what is the nature of that feeling. And here I
believe every one will readily agree with me, that the ideas of the
memory are more strong and lively than those of the fancy.

A painter, who intended to represent a passion or emotion of any kind,
would endeavour to get a sight of a person actuated by a like emotion, in
order to enliven his ideas, and give them a force and vivacity superior
to what is found in those, which are mere fictions of the imagination.
The more recent this memory is, the clearer is the idea; and when after a
long interval he would return to the contemplation of his object, he
always finds its idea to be much decayed, if not wholly obliterated. We
are frequently in doubt concerning the ideas of the memory, as they
become very weak and feeble; and are at a loss to determine whether any
image proceeds from the fancy or the memory, when it is not drawn in such
lively colours as distinguish that latter faculty. I think, I remember
such an event, says one; but am not sure. A long tract of time has almost
worn it out of my memory, and leaves me uncertain whether or not it be
the pure offspring of my fancy.

And as an idea of the memory, by losing its force and vivacity, may
degenerate to such a degree, as to be taken for an idea of the
imagination; so on the other hand an idea of the imagination may acquire
such a force and vivacity, as to pass for an idea of the memory, and
counterfeit its effects on the belief and judgment. This is noted in the
case of liars; who by the frequent repetition of their lies, come at last
to believe and remember them, as realities; custom and habit having in
this case, as in many others, the same influence on the mind as nature,
and infixing the idea with equal force and vigour.

Thus it appears, that the belief or assent, which always attends the
memory and senses, is nothing but the vivacity of those perceptions they
present; and that this alone distinguishes them from the imagination. To
believe is in this case to feel an immediate impression of the senses, or
a repetition of that impression in the memory. It is merely the force and
liveliness of the perception, which constitutes the first act of the
judgment, and lays the foundation of that reasoning, which we build upon
it, when we trace the relation of cause and effect.



SECT. VI.  OF THE INFERENCE FROM THE IMPRESSION TO THE IDEA.


It is easy to observe, that in tracing this relation, the inference we
draw from cause to effect, is not derived merely from a survey of these
particular objects, and from such a penetration into their essences as
may discover the dependance of the one upon the other. There is no
object, which implies the existence of any other if we consider these
objects in themselves, and never look beyond the ideas which we form of
them. Such an inference would amount to knowledge, and would imply the
absolute contradiction and impossibility of conceiving any thing
different. But as all distinct ideas are separable, it is evident there
can be no impossibility of that kind. When we pass from a present
impression to the idea of any object, we might possibly have separated
the idea from the impression, and have substituted any other idea in its
room.

It is therefore by EXPERIENCE only, that we can infer the existence of one
object from that of another. The nature of experience is this. We
remember to have had frequent instances of the existence of one species
of objects; and also remember, that the individuals of another species of
objects have always attended them, and have existed in a regular order of
contiguity and succession with regard to them. Thus we remember, to have
seen that species of object we call flame, and to have felt that species
of sensation we call heat. We likewise call to mind their constant
conjunction in all past instances. Without any farther ceremony, we call
the one cause and the other effect, and infer the existence of the one
from that of the other. In all those instances, from which we learn the
conjunction of particular causes and effects, both the causes and effects
have been perceived by the senses, and are remembered But in all cases,
wherein we reason concerning them, there is only one perceived or
remembered, and the other is supplyed in conformity to our past
experience.

Thus in advancing we have insensibly discovered a new relation betwixt
cause and effect, when we least expected it, and were entirely employed
upon another subject. This relation is their CONSTANT CONJUNCTION.
Contiguity and succession are not sufficient to make us pronounce any two
objects to be cause and effect, unless we perceive, that these two
relations are preserved in several instances. We may now see the
advantage of quitting the direct survey of this relation, in order to
discover the nature of that necessary connexion, which makes so essential
a part of it. There are hopes, that by this means we may at last arrive
at our proposed end; though to tell the truth, this new-discovered
relation of a constant conjunction seems to advance us but very little in
our way. For it implies no more than this, that like objects have always
been placed in like relations of contiguity and succession; and it seems
evident, at least at first sight, that by this means we can never
discover any new idea, and can only multiply, but not enlarge the objects
of our mind. It may be thought, that what we learn not from one object,
we can never learn from a hundred, which are all of the same kind, and
are perfectly resembling in every circumstance. As our senses shew us in
one instance two bodies, or motions, or qualities in certain relations of
success and contiguity; so our memory presents us only with a multitude
of instances, wherein we always find like bodies, motions, or qualities
in like relations. From the mere repetition of any past impression, even
to infinity, there never will arise any new original idea, such as that
of a necessary connexion; and the number of impressions has in this case
no more effect than if we confined ourselves to one only. But though this
reasoning seems just and obvious; 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 of the constant conjunction of any objects, we
always draw an inference from one object to another, we shall now examine
the nature of that inference, and of the transition from the impression
to the idea. Perhaps it will appear in the end, that the necessary
connexion depends on the inference, instead of the inference's depending
on the necessary connexion.

Since it appears, that the transition from an impression present to the
memory or senses to the idea of an object, which we call cause or effect,
is founded on past experience, and on our remembrance of their constant
conjunction, the next question is, Whether experience produces the idea
by means of the understanding or imagination; whether we are determined
by reason to make the transition, or by a certain association and
relation of perceptions. If reason determined us, it would proceed upon
that principle, that instances, of which we have had no experience, must
resemble those, of which we have had experience, and that the course of
nature continues always uniformly the same. In order therefore to clear
up this matter, let us consider all the arguments, upon which such a
proposition may be supposed to be founded; and as these must be derived
either from knowledge or probability, let us cast our eve on each of
these degrees of evidence, and see whether they afford any just
conclusion of this nature.

Our foregoing method of reasoning will easily convince us, that there can
be no demonstrative arguments to prove, that those instances, of which we
have, had no experience, resemble those, of which we have had experience.
We can at least conceive a change in the course of nature; which
sufficiently proves, that such a change is not absolutely impossible. To
form a clear idea of any thing, is an undeniable argument for its
possibility, and is alone a refutation of any pretended demonstration
against it.

Probability, as it discovers not the relations of ideas, considered as
such, but only those of objects, must in some respects be founded on the
impressions of our memory and senses, and in some respects on our ideas.
Were there no mixture of any impression in our probable reasonings, the
conclusion would be entirely chimerical: And were there no mixture of
ideas, the action of the mind, in observing the relation, would, properly
speaking, be sensation, not reasoning. It is therefore necessary, that in
all probable reasonings there be something present to the mind, either
seen or remembered; and that from this we infer something connected with
it, which is not seen nor remembered.

The only connexion or relation of objects, which can lead us beyond the
immediate impressions of our memory and senses, is that of cause and
effect; and that because it is the only one, on which we can found a just
inference from one object to another. The idea of cause and effect is
derived from experience, which informs us, that such particular objects,
in all past instances, have been constantly conjoined with each other:
And as an object similar to one of these is supposed to be immediately
present in its impression, we thence presume on the existence of one
similar to its usual attendant. According to this account of things,
which is, I think, in every point unquestionable, probability is founded
on the presumption of a resemblance betwixt those objects, of which we
have had experience, and those, of which we have had none; and therefore
it is impossible this presumption can arise from probability. The same
principle cannot be both the, cause and effect of another; and this is,
perhaps, the only proposition concerning that relation, which is either
intuitively or demonstratively certain.

Should any one think to elude this argument; and without determining
whether our reasoning on this subject be derived from demonstration or
probability, pretend that all conclusions from causes and effects are
built on solid reasoning: I can only desire, that this reasoning may be
produced, in order to be exposed to our examination. It may, perhaps, be
said, that after experience of the constant conjunction of certain
objects, we reason in the following manner. Such an object is always
found to produce another. It is impossible it coued have this effect, if
it was not endowed with a power of production. The power necessarily
implies the effect; and therefore there is a just foundation for drawing
a conclusion from the existence of one object to that of its usual
attendant. The past production implies a power: The power implies a new
production: And the new production is what we infer from the power and
the past production.

It were easy for me to shew the weakness of this reasoning, were I willing
to make use of those observations, I have already made, that the idea of
production is the same with that of causation, and that no existence
certainly and demonstratively implies a power in any other object; or
were it proper to anticipate what I shall have occasion to remark
afterwards concerning the idea we form of power and efficacy. But as such
a method of proceeding may seem either to weaken my system, by resting
one part of it on another, or to breed a confusion in my reasoning, I
shall endeavour to maintain my present assertion without any such
assistance.

It shall therefore be allowed for a moment, that the production of one
object by another in any one instance implies a power; and that this
power is connected with its effect. But it having been already proved,
that the power lies not in the sensible qualities of the cause; and there
being nothing but the sensible qualities present to us; I ask, why in
other instances you presume that the same power still exists, merely upon
the appearance of these qualities? Your appeal to past experience decides
nothing in the present case; and at the utmost can only prove, that that
very object, which produced any other, was at that very instant endowed
with such a power; but can never prove, that the same power must continue
in the same object or collection of sensible qualities; much less, that a
like power is always conjoined with like sensible qualities. should it be
said, that we have experience, that the same power continues united with
the same object, and that like objects are endowed with like powers, I
would renew my question, why from this experience we form any conclusion
beyond those past instances, of which we have had experience. If you
answer this question in, the same manner as the preceding, your answer
gives still occasion to a new question of the same kind, even in
infinitum; which clearly proves, that the foregoing reasoning had no just
foundation.

Thus not only our reason fails us in the discovery of the ultimate
connexion of causes and effects, but even after experience has informed
us of their constant conjunction, it is impossible for us to satisfy
ourselves by our reason, why we should extend that experience beyond
those particular instances, which have fallen under our observation. We
suppose, but are never able to prove, that there must be a resemblance
betwixt those objects, of which we have had experience, and those which
lie beyond the reach of our discovery.

We have already taken notice of certain relations, which make us pass
from one object to another, even though there be no reason to determine us
to that transition; and this we may establish for a general rule, that
wherever the mind constantly and uniformly makes a transition without any
reason, it is influenced by these relations. Now this is exactly the
present case. Reason can never shew us the connexion of one object with
another, though aided by experience, and the observation of their constant
conjunction in all past instances. When the mind, therefore, passes from
the idea or impression of one object to the idea or belief of another, it
is not determined by reason, but by certain principles, which associate
together the ideas of these objects, and unite them in the imagination.
Had ideas no more union in the fancy than objects seem to have to the
understanding, we coued never draw any inference from causes to effects,
nor repose belief in any matter of fact. The inference, therefore,
depends solely on the union of ideas.

The principles of union among ideas, I have reduced to three general
ones, and have asserted, that the idea or impression of any object
naturally introduces the idea of any other object, that is resembling,
contiguous to, or connected with it. These principles I allow to be
neither the infallible nor the sole causes of an union among ideas. They
are not the infallible causes. For one may fix his attention during
Sometime on any one object without looking farther. They are not the sole
causes. For the thought has evidently a very irregular motion in running
along its objects, and may leap from the heavens to the earth, from one
end of the creation to the other, without any certain method or order.
But though I allow this weakness in these three relations, and this
irregularity in the imagination; yet I assert that the only general
principles, which associate ideas, are resemblance, contiguity and
causation.

There is indeed a principle of union among ideas, which at first sight
may be esteemed different from any of these, but will be found at the
bottom to depend on the same origin. When every individual of any species
of objects is found by experience to be constantly united with an
individual of another species, the appearance of any new individual of
either species naturally conveys the thought to its usual attendant. Thus
because such a particular idea is commonly annexed to such a particular
word, nothing is required but the hearing of that word to produce the
correspondent idea; and it will scarce be possible for the mind, by its
utmost efforts, to prevent that transition. In this case it is not
absolutely necessary, that upon hearing such a particular sound we
should reflect on any past experience, and consider what idea has been
usually connected with the sound. The imagination of itself supplies the
place of this reflection, and is so accustomed to pass from the word to
the idea, that it interposes not a moment's delay betwixt the hearing of
the one, and the conception of the other.

But though I acknowledge this to be a true principle of association among
ideas, I assert it to be the very same with that betwixt the ideas of
cause and effects and to be an essential part in all our reasonings from
that relation. We have no other notion of cause and effect, but that of
certain objects, which have been always conjoined together, and which in
all past instances have been found inseparable. We cannot penetrate into
the reason of the conjunction. We only observe the thing itself, and
always find that from the constant conjunction the objects acquire an
union in the imagination. When the impression of one becomes present to
us, we immediately form an idea of its usual attendant; and consequently
we may establish this as one part of the definition of an opinion or
belief, that it is an idea related to or associated with a present
impression.

Thus though causation be a philosophical relation, as implying contiguity,
succession, and constant conjunction, yet it is only so far as it is a
natural relation, and produces an union among our ideas, that we are able
to reason upon it, or draw any inference from it.



SECT. VII.  OF THE NATURE OF THE IDEA OR BELIEF.


The idea of an object is an essential part of the belief of it, but not
the whole. We conceive many things, which we do not believe. In order
then to discover more fully the nature of belief, or the qualities of
those ideas we assent to, let us weigh the following considerations.

It is evident, that all reasonings from causes or effects terminate in
conclusions, concerning matter of fact; that is, concerning the existence
of objects or of their qualities. It is also evident, that the idea, of
existence is nothing different from the idea of any object, and that when
after the simple conception of any thing we would conceive it as
existent, we in reality make no addition to or alteration on our first
idea. Thus when we affirm, that God is existent, we simply form the idea
of such a being, as he is represented to us; nor is the existence, which
we attribute to him, conceived by a particular idea, which we join to the
idea of his other qualities, and can again separate and distinguish from
them. But I go farther; and not content with asserting, that the
conception of the existence of any object is no addition to the simple
conception of it, I likewise maintain, that the belief of the existence
joins no new ideas to those which compose the idea of the object. When
I think of God, when I think of him as existent, and when I believe him
to be existent, my idea of him neither encreases nor diminishes. But as
it is certain there is a great difference betwixt the simple conception of
the existence of an object, and the belief of it, and as this difference
lies not in the parts or composition of the idea, which we conceive; it
follows, that it must lie in the manner, in which we conceive it.

Suppose a person present with me, who advances propositions, to which I
do not assent, that Caesar dyed in his bed, that silver is more fusible,
than lead, or mercury heavier than gold; it is evident, that
notwithstanding my incredulity, I clearly understand his meaning, and
form all the same ideas, which he forms. My imagination is endowed with
the same powers as his; nor is it possible for him to conceive any idea,
which I cannot conceive; nor conjoin any, which I cannot conjoin. I
therefore ask, Wherein consists the difference betwixt believing and
disbelieving any proposition? The answer is easy with regard to
propositions, that are proved by intuition or demonstration. In that
case, the person, who assents, not only conceives the ideas according to
the proposition, but is necessarily determined to conceive them in that
particular manner, either immediately or by the interposition of other
ideas. Whatever is absurd is unintelligible; nor is it possible for the
imagination to conceive any thing contrary to a demonstration. But as in
reasonings from causation, and concerning matters of fact, this absolute
necessity cannot take place, and the imagination is free to conceive both
sides of the question, I still ask, Wherein consists the deference
betwixt incredulity and belief? since in both cases the conception of the
idea is equally possible and requisite.

It will not be a satisfactory answer to say, that a person, who does not
assent to a proposition you advance; after having conceived the object in
the same manner with you; immediately conceives it in a different manner,
and has different ideas of it. This answer is unsatisfactory; not because
it contains any falshood, but because it discovers not all the truth.
It is contest, that in all cases, wherein we dissent from any person, we
conceive both sides of the question; but as we can believe only one, it
evidently follows, that the belief must make some difference betwixt that
conception to which we assent, and that from which we dissent. We may
mingle, and unite, and separate, and confound, and vary our ideas in a
hundred different ways; but until there appears some principle, which
fixes one of these different situations, we have in reality no opinion:
And this principle, as it plainly makes no addition to our precedent
ideas, can only change the manner of our conceiving them.

All the perceptions of the mind are of two kinds, viz. impressions and
ideas, which differ from each other only in their different degrees of
force and vivacity. Our ideas are copyed from our impressions, and
represent them in all their parts. When you would any way vary the idea
of a particular object, you can only encrease or diminish its force and
vivacity. If you make any other change on it, it represents a different
object or impression. The case is the same as in colours. A particular
shade of any colour may acquire a new degree of liveliness or brightness
without any other variation. But when you produce any other variation,
it is no longer the same shade or colour. So that as belief does nothing
but vary the manner, in which we conceive any object, it can only bestow
on our ideas an additional force and vivacity. An opinion, therefore, or
belief may be most accurately defined, a lively idea related to or
associated with a present impression.

We may here take occasion to observe a very remarkable error, which
being frequently inculcated in the schools, has become a kind of
establishd maxim, and is universally received by all logicians. This
error consists in the vulgar division of the acts of the understanding,
into CONCEPTION, JUDGMENT and REASONING, and in the definitions we give
of them. Conception is defind to be the simple survey of one or more
ideas: Judgment to be the separating or uniting of different ideas:
Reasoning to be the separating or uniting of different ideas by the
interposition of others, which show the relation they bear to each other.
But these distinctions and definitions are faulty in very considerable
articles. For FIRST, it is far from being true, that in every judgment,
which we form, we unite two different ideas; since in that proposition,
GOD IS, or indeed any other, which regards existence, the idea of
existence is no distinct idea, which we unite with that of the object,
and which is capable of forming a compound idea by the union. SECONDLY,
As we can thus form a proposition, which contains only one idea, so we
may exert our reason without employing more than two ideas, and without
having recourse to a third to serve as a medium betwixt them. We infer a
cause immediately from its effect; and this inference is not only a true
species of reasoning, but the strongest of all others, and more
convincing than when we interpose another idea to connect the two
extremes. What we may in general affirm concerning these three acts of
the understanding is, that taking them in a proper light, they all
resolve themselves into the first, and are nothing but particular ways of
conceiving our objects. Whether we consider a single object, or several;
whether we dwell on these objects, or run from them to others; and in
whatever form or order we survey them, the act of the mind exceeds not a
simple conception; and the only remarkable difference, which occurs on
this occasion, is, when we join belief to the conception, and are
persuaded of the truth of what we conceive. This act of the mind has
never yet been explaind by any philosopher; and therefore I am at liberty
to propose my hypothesis concerning it; which is, that it is only a strong
and steady conception of any idea, and such as approaches in some measure
to an immediate impression. [Footnote 5.]

[Footnote 5. Here are the heads of those arguments, which lead us to this
conclusion. When we infer the existence of an object from that of others,
some object must always be present either to the memory or senses, in
order to be the foundation of our reasoning; since the mind cannot run up
with its inferences IN INFINITUM. Reason can never satisfy us that the
existence of any one object does ever imply that of another; so that when
we pass from the impression of one to the idea or belief of another, we
are not determined by reason, but by custom or a principle of association.
But belief is somewhat more than a simple idea. It is a particular manner
of forming an idea: And as the same idea can only be varyed by a variation
of its degrees of force and vivacity; it follows upon the whole, that
belief is a lively idea produced by a relation to a present impression,
according to the foregoing definition.]

This operation of the mind, which forms the belief of any matter of fact,
seems hitherto to have been one of the greatest mysteries of philosophy;
though no one has so much as suspected, that there was any difficulty in
explaining it. For my part I must own, that I find a considerable
difficulty in the case; and that even when I think I understand the
subject perfectly, I am at a loss for terms to express my meaning. I
conclude, by an induction which seems to me very evident, that an opinion
or belief is nothing but an idea, that is different from a fiction, not
in the nature or the order of its parts, but in the manner of its being
conceived. But when I would explain this manner, I scarce find any word
that fully answers the case, but am obliged to have recourse to every
one's feeling, in order to give him a perfect notion of this operation of
the mind. An idea assented to FEELS different from a fictitious idea,
that the fancy alone presents to us: And this different feeling I
endeavour to explain by calling it a superior force, or vivacity, or
solidity, or FIRMNESS, or steadiness. This variety of terms, which may
seem so unphilosophical, is intended only to express that act of the
mind, which renders realities more present to us than fictions, causes
them to weigh more in the thought, and gives them a superior influence on
the passions and imagination. Provided we agree about the thing, it is
needless to dispute about the terms. The imagination has the command over
all its ideas, and can join, and mix, and vary them in all the ways
possible. It may conceive objects with all the circumstances of place and
time. It may set them, in a, manner, before our eyes in their true
colours, just as they might have existed. But as it is impossible, that
that faculty can ever, of itself, reach belief, it is evident, that belief
consists not in the nature and order of our ideas, but in the manner of
their conception, and in their feeling to the mind. T confess, that it is
impossible to explain perfectly this feeling or manner of conception. We
may make use of words, that express something near it. But its true and
proper name is belief, which is a term that every one sufficiently
understands in common life. And in philosophy we can go no farther, than
assert, that it is something felt by the mind, which distinguishes the
ideas of the judgment from the fictions of the imagination. It gives them
more force and influence; makes them appear of greater importance;
infixes them in the mind; and renders them the governing principles of
all our actions.

This definition will also be found to be entirely conformable to every
one's feeling and experience. Nothing is more evident, than that those
ideas, to which we assent, are more strong, firm and vivid, than the
loose reveries of a castle-builder. If one person sits down to read a
book as a romance, and another as a true history, they plainly receive
the same ideas, and in the same order; nor does the incredulity of the
one, and the belief of the other hinder them from putting the very same
sense upon their author. His words produce the same ideas in both; though
his testimony has not the same influence on them. The latter has a more
lively conception of all the incidents. He enters deeper into the
concerns of the persons: represents to himself their actions, and
characters, and friendships, and enmities: He even goes so far as to form
a notion of their features, and air, and person. While the former, who
gives no credit to the testimony of the author, has a more faint and
languid conception of all these particulars; and except on account of the
style and ingenuity of the composition, can receive little entertainment
from it.



SECT. VIII.  OF THE CAUSES OF BELIEF.


Having thus explained the nature of belief, and shewn that it consists in
a lively idea related to a present impression; let us now proceed to
examine from what principles it is derived, and what bestows the vivacity
on the idea.

I would willingly establish it as a general maxim in the science of human
nature, that when any impression becomes present to us, it not only
transports the mind to such ideas as are related to it, but likewise
communicates to them a share of its force and vivacity. All the
operations of the mind depend in a great measure on its disposition, when
it performs them; and according as the spirits are more or less elevated,
and the attention more or less fixed, the action will always have more or
less vigour and vivacity. When therefore any object is presented, which
elevates and enlivens the thought, every action, to which the mind
applies itself, will be more strong and vivid, as Tong as that
disposition continues, Now it is evident the continuance of the
disposition depends entirely on the objects, about which the mind is
employed; and that any new object naturally gives a new direction to the
spirits, and changes the disposition; as on the contrary, when the mind
fixes constantly on the same object, or passes easily and insensibly
along related objects, the disposition has a much longer duration. Hence
it happens, that when the mind is once inlivened by a present impression,
it proceeds to form a more lively idea of the related objects, by a
natural transition of the disposition from the one to the other. The
change of the objects is so easy, that the mind is scarce sensible of it,
but applies itself to the conception of the related idea with all the
force and vivacity it acquired from the present impression.

If in considering the nature of relation, and that facility of
transition, which is essential to it, we can satisfy ourselves concerning
the reality of this phaenomenon, it is well: But I must confess I place my
chief confidence in experience to prove so material a principle. We may,
therefore, observe, as the first experiment to our present purpose, that
upon the appearance of the picture of an absent friend, our idea of him
is evidently inlivened by the resemblance, and that every passion, which
that idea occasions, whether of joy or sorrow, acquires new force and
vigour. In producing this effect there concur both a relation and a
present impression. Where the picture bears him no resemblance, or at
least was not intended for him, it never 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 of the one to that of the other; it feels its idea
to be rather weekend than inlivened by that transition. We take a
pleasure in viewing the picture of a friend, when it is set before us; but
when it is removed, rather choose to consider him directly, than by
reflexion in an image, which is equally distinct and obscure.

The ceremonies of the Roman Catholic religion may be considered as
experiments of the same nature. The devotees of that strange superstition
usually plead in excuse of the mummeries, with which they are upbraided,
that they feel the good effect of those external motions, and postures,
and actions, in enlivening their devotion, and quickening their fervour,
which otherwise would decay away, if directed entirely to distant and
immaterial objects. We shadow out the objects of our faith, say they, in
sensible types and images, and render them more present to us by the
immediate presence of these types, than it is possible for us to do,
merely by an intellectual view and contemplation. Sensible objects have
always a greater influence on the fancy than any other; and this
influence they readily convey to those ideas, to which they are related,
and which they Resemble. I shall only infer from these practices, and
this reasoning, that the effect of resemblance in inlivening the idea is
very common; and as in every case a resemblance and a present impression
must concur, we are abundantly supplyed with experiments to prove the
reality of the foregoing principle.

We may add force to these experiments by others of a different kind, in
considering the effects of contiguity, as well as of resemblance. It is
certain, that distance diminishes the force of every idea, and that upon
our approach to any object; though it does not discover itself to our
senses; it operates upon the mind with an influence that imitates an
immediate impression. The thinking on any object readily transports the
mind to what is contiguous; but it is only the actual presence of an
object, that transports it with a superior vivacity. When I am a few
miles from home, whatever relates to it touches me more nearly than when
I am two hundred leagues distant; though even at that distance the
reflecting on any thing in the neighbourhood of my friends and family
naturally produces an idea of them. But as in this latter case, both the
objects of the mind are ideas; notwithstanding there is an easy
transition betwixt them; that transition alone is not able to give a
superior vivacity to any of the ideas, for want of some immediate
impression. [Footnote 6.]

[Footnote 6. NATURANE NOBIS, IN QUIT, DATUM DICAM, AN ERRORE QUODAM, UT,
CUM EA LOCA VIDEAMUS, IN QUIBUS MEMORIA DIGNOS VIROS ACCEPERIMUS MULTURN
ESSE VERSATOS, MAGIS MOVEAMUR, QUAM SIQUANDO EORUM IPSORUM AUT JACTA
AUDIAMUS, AUT SCRIPTUM ALIQUOD LEGAMUS? VELUT EGO NUNC MOVEOR. VENIT ENIM
MIHI PLATONIS IN MENTEM: QUEM ACCIPIMUS PRIMURN HIC DISPUTARE SOLITUM:
CUJUS ETIAM ILLI HORTULI PROPINQUI NON MEMORIAM SOLUM MIHI AFFERUNT, SED
IPSUM VIDENTUR IN CONSPECTU MEO HIC PONERE. HIC SPEUSIPPUS, HIC
XENOCRATES, HIC EJUS AUDITOR POLEMO; CUJUS IPSA ILLA SESSIO FUIT, QUAM
VIDEAMUS. EQUIDEM ETIAM CURIAM NOSTRAM, HOSTILIAM DICO, NON HANC NOVAM,
QUAE MIHI MINOR ESSE VIDETUR POST QUAM EST MAJOR, SOLE BARN INTUENS
SCIPIONEM, CATONEM, LACLIUM, NOSTRUM VERO IN PRIMIS AVUM COGITARE. TANTA
VIS ADMONITIONIS INEST IN LOCIS; UT NON SINE CAUSA EX HIS MEMORIAE DUCTA
SIT DISCIPLINA. Cicero de Finibus, lib. 5.

{"Should I, he said, "attribute to instinct or to some kind of illusion
the fact that when we see those places in which we are told notable men
spent much of their time, we are more powerfully affected than when we
hear of the exploits of the men themselves or read something written?
This is just what is happening to me now; for I am reminded of Plato who,
we are told, was the first to make a practice of holding discussions
here. Those gardens of his near by do not merely put me in mind of him;
they seem to set the man himself before my very eyes. Speusippus was
here; so was Xenocrates; so was his pupil, Polemo, and that very seat
which we may view was his.

"Then again, when I looked at our Senate-house (I mean the old building
of Hostilius, not this new one; when it was enlarged, it diminished in my
estimation), I used to think of Scipio, Cato, Laelius and in particular
of my own grandfather.

"Such is the power of places to evoke associations; so it is with good
reason that they are used as a basis for memory training."}]


No one can doubt but causation has the same influence as the other two
relations; of resemblance and contiguity. Superstitious people are fond
of the relicks of saints and holy men, for the same reason that they seek
after types and images, in order to enliven their devotion, and give them
a more intimate and strong conception of those exemplary lives, which
they desire to imitate. Now it is evident, one of the best relicks a
devotee coued procure, would be the handywork of a saint; and if his
cloaths and furniture are ever to be considered in this light, it is
because they were once at his disposal, and were moved and affected by
him; in which respect they are to be considered as imperfect effects, and
as connected with him by a shorter chain of consequences than any of
those, from which we learn the reality of his existence. This phaenomenon
clearly proves, that a present impression with a relation of causation
may, inliven any idea, and consequently produce belief or assent,
according to the precedent definition of it.

But why need we seek for other arguments to prove, that a present
impression with a relation or transition of the fancy may inliven any
idea, when this very instance of our reasonings from cause and effect
will alone suffice to that purpose? It is certain we must have an idea of
every matter of fact, which we believe. It is certain, that this idea
arises only from a relation to a present impression. It is certain, that
the belief super-adds nothing to the idea, but only changes our manner of
conceiving it, and renders it more strong and lively. The present
conclusion concerning the influence of relation is the immediate
consequence of all these steps; and every step appears to me sure end
infallible. There enters nothing into this operation of the mind but a
present impression, a lively idea, and a relation or association in the
fancy betwixt the impression and idea; so that there can be no suspicion
of mistake.

In order to put this whole affair in a fuller light, let us consider it
as a question in natural philosophy, which we must determine by
experience and observation. I suppose there is an object presented, from
which I draw a certain conclusion, and form to myself ideas, which I am
said to believe or assent to. Here it is evident, that however that
object, which is present to my senses, and that other, whose existence I
infer by reasoning, may be thought to influence each other by their
particular powers or qualities; yet as the phenomenon of belief, which we
at present examine, is merely internal, these powers and qualities, being
entirely unknown, can have no hand in producing it. It is the present
impression, which is to be considered as the true and real cause of the
idea, and of the belief which attends it. We must therefore endeavour to
discover by experiments the particular qualities, by which it is enabled
to produce so extraordinary an effect.

First then I observe, that the present impression has not this effect by
its own proper power and efficacy, and when considered alone, as a single
perception, limited to the present moment. I find, that an impression,
from which, on its first appearance, I can draw no conclusion, may
afterwards become the foundation of belief, when I have had experience of
its usual consequences. We must in every case have observed the same
impression in past instances, and have found it to be constantly
conjoined with some other impression. This is confirmed by such a
multitude of experiments, that it admits not of the smallest doubt.

From a second observation I conclude, that the belief, which attends the
present impression, and is produced by a number of past impressions and
conjunctions; that this belief, I say, arises immediately, without any
new operation of the reason or imagination. Of this I can be certain,
because I never am conscious of any such operation, and find nothing in
the subject, on which it can be founded. Now as we call every thing
CUSTOM, which proceeds from a past repetition, without any new reasoning
or conclusion, we-may establish it as a certain truth, that all the
belief, which follows upon any present impression, is derived solely from
that origin. When we are accustomed to see two impressions conjoined
together, the appearance or idea of the one immediately carries us to the
idea of the other.

Being fully satisfyed on this head, I make a third set of experiments, in
order to know, whether any thing be requisite, beside the customary
transition, towards the production of this phaenomenon of belief. I
therefore change the first impression into an idea; and observe, that
though the customary transition to the correlative idea still remains, yet
there is in reality no belief nor perswasion. A present impression, then,
is absolutely requisite to this whole operation; and when after this I
compare an impression with an idea, and find that their only difference
consists in their different degrees of force and vivacity, I conclude
upon the whole, that belief is a more vivid and intense conception of an
idea, proceeding from its relation to a present impression.

Thus all probable reasoning is nothing but a species of sensation. It is
not solely in poetry and music, we must follow our taste and sentiment,
but likewise in philosophy. When I am convinced of any principle, it is
only an idea, which strikes more strongly upon me. When I give the
preference to one set of arguments above another, I do nothing but decide
from my feeling concerning the superiority of their influence. Objects
have no discoverable connexion together; nor is it from any other
principle but custom operating upon the imagination, that we can draw any
inference from the appearance of one to the existence of another.

It will here be worth our observation, that the past experience, on which
all our judgments concerning cause and effect depend, may operate on our
mind in such an insensible manner as never to be taken notice of, and may
even in some measure be unknown to us. A person, who stops short in his
journey upon meeting a river in his way, foresees the consequences of his
proceeding forward; and his knowledge of these consequences is conveyed
to him by past experience, which informs him of such certain conjunctions
of causes and effects. But can we think, that on this occasion he
reflects on any past experience, and calls to remembrance instances, that
he has seen or heard of, in order to discover the effects of water on
animal bodies? No surely; this is not the method, in which he proceeds in
his reasoning. The idea of sinking is so closely connected with that of
water, and the idea of suffocating with that of sinking, that the mind
makes the transition without the assistance of the memory. The custom
operates before we have time for reflection. The objects seem so
inseparable, that we interpose not a moment's delay in passing from the
one to the other. But as this transition proceeds from experience, and
not from any primary connexion betwixt the ideas, we must necessarily
acknowledge, that experience may produce a belief and a judgment of
causes and effects by a secret operation, and without being once thought
of. This removes all pretext, if there yet remains any, for asserting
that the mind is convinced by reasoning of that principle, that instances
of which we have no experience, must necessarily resemble those, of which
we have. For we here find, that the understanding or imagination can draw
inferences from past experience, without reflecting on it; much more
without forming any principle concerning it, or reasoning upon that
principle.

In general we may observe, that in all the most established and uniform
conjunctions of causes and effects, such as those of gravity, impulse,
solidity, &c. the mind never carries its view expressly to consider any
past experience: Though in other associations of objects, which are more
rare and unusual, it may assist the custom and transition of ideas by
this reflection. Nay we find in some cases, that the reflection produces
the belief without the custom; or more properly speaking, that the
reflection produces the custom in an oblique and artificial manner. I
explain myself. It is certain, that not only in philosophy, but even in
common life, we may attain the knowledge of a particular cause merely by
one experiment, provided it be made with judgment, and after a careful
removal of all foreign and superfluous circumstances. Now as after one
experiment of this kind, the mind, upon the appearance either of the
cause or the effect, can draw an inference concerning the existence of
its correlative; and as a habit can never be acquired merely by one
instance; it may be thought, that belief cannot in this case be esteemed
the effect of custom. But this difficulty will vanish, if we consider,
that though we are here supposed to have had only one experiment of a
particular effect, yet we have many millions to convince us of this
principle; that like objects placed in like circumstances, will always
produce like effects; and as this principle has established itself by a
sufficient custom, it bestows an evidence and firmness on any opinion, to
which it can be applied. The connexion of the ideas is not habitual after
one experiment: but this connexion is comprehended under another
principle, that is habitual; which brings us back to our hypothesis. In
all cases we transfer our experience to instances, of which we have no
experience, either expressly or tacitly, either directly or indirectly.

I must not conclude this subject without observing, that it is very
difficult to talk of the operations of the mind with perfect propriety
and exactness; because common language has seldom made any very nice
distinctions among them, but has generally called by the same term all
such as nearly resemble each other. And as this is a source almost
inevitable of obscurity and confusion in the author; so it may frequently
give rise to doubts and objections in the reader, which otherwise he
would never have dreamed of. Thus my general position, that an opinion or
belief is nothing but a strong and lively idea derived from a present
impression related to it, maybe liable to the following objection, by
reason of a little ambiguity in those words strong and lively. It may be
said, that not only an impression may give rise to reasoning, but that an
idea may also have the same influence; especially upon my principle, that
all our ideas are derived from correspondent impressions. For suppose I
form at present an idea, of which I have forgot the correspondent
impression, I am able to conclude from this idea, that such an impression
did once exist; and as this conclusion is attended with belief, it may be
asked, from whence are the qualities of force and vivacity derived, which
constitute this belief? And to this I answer very readily, from the
present idea. For as this idea is not here considered, as the
representation of any absent object, but as a real perception in the
mind, of which we are intimately conscious, it must be able to bestow on
whatever is related to it the same quality, call it firmness, or
solidity, or force, or vivacity, with which the mind reflects upon it,
and is assured of its present existence. The idea here supplies the place
of an impression, and is entirely the same, so far as regards our present
purpose.

Upon the same principles we need not be surprized to hear of the
remembrance of an idea: that is, of the idea of an idea, and of its force
and vivacity superior to the loose conceptions of the imagination. In
thinking of our past thoughts we not only delineate out the objects, of
which we were thinking, but also conceive the action of the mind in the
meditation, that certain JE-NE-SCAI-QUOI, of which it is impossible to
give any definition or description, but which every one sufficiently
understands. When the memory offers an idea of this, and represents it as
past, it is easily conceived how that idea may have more vigour and
firmness, than when we think of a past thought, of which we have no
remembrance.

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



SECT. IX.  OF THE EFFECTS OF OTHER RELATIONS AND OTHER HABITS.


However convincing the foregoing arguments may appear, we must not rest
contented with them, but must turn the subject on every side, in order to
find some new points of view, from which we may illustrate and confirm
such extraordinary, and such fundamental principles. A scrupulous
hesitation to receive any new hypothesis is so laudable a disposition in
philosophers, and so necessary to the examination of truth, that it
deserves to be complyed with, and requires that every argument be
produced, which may tend to their satisfaction, and every objection
removed, which may stop them in their reasoning.

I have often observed, that, beside cause and effect, the two relations
of resemblance and contiguity, are to be considered as associating
principles of thought, and as capable of conveying the imagination from
one idea to another. I have also observed, that when of two objects
connected to-ether by any of these relations, one is immediately present
to the memory or senses, not only the mind is conveyed to its co-relative
by means of the associating principle; but likewise conceives it with an
additional force and vigour, by the united operation of that principle,
and of the present impression. All this I have observed, in order to
confirm by analogy, my explication of our judgments concerning cause and
effect. But this very argument may, perhaps, be turned against me, and
instead of a confirmation of my hypothesis, may become an objection to
it. For it may be said, that if all the parts of that hypothesis be true,
viz. that these three species of relation are derived from the same
principles; that their effects in informing and enlivening our ideas are
the same; and that belief is nothing but a more forcible and vivid
conception of an idea; it should follow, that that action of the mind may
not only be derived from the relation of cause and effect, but also from
those of contiguity and resemblance. But as we find by experience, that
belief arises only from causation, and that we can draw no inference
from one object to another, except they be connected by this relation, we
may conclude, that there is some error in that reasoning, which leads us
into such difficulties.

This is the objection; let us now consider its solution. It is evident,
that whatever is present to the memory, striking upon the mind with a
vivacity, which resembles an immediate impression, must become of
considerable moment in all the operations of the mind, and must easily
distinguish itself above the mere fictions of the imagination. Of these
impressions or ideas of the memory we form a kind of system,
comprehending whatever we remember to have been present, either to our
internal perception or senses; and every particular of that system,
joined to the present impressions, we are pleased to call a reality. But
the mind stops not here. For finding, that with this system of
perceptions, there is another connected by custom, or if you will, by the
relation of cause or effect, it proceeds to the consideration of their
ideas; and as it feels that it is in a manner necessarily determined to
view these particular ideas, and that the custom or relation, by which it
is determined, admits not of the least change, it forms them into a new
system, which it likewise dignifies with the title of realities. The
first of these systems is the object of the memory and senses; the second
of the judgment.

It is this latter principle, which peoples the world, and brings us
acquainted with such existences, as by their removal in time and place,
lie beyond the reach of the senses and memory. By means of it I paint the
universe in my imagination, and fix my attention on any part of it I
please. I form an idea of ROME, which I neither see nor remember; but
which is connected with such impressions as I remember to have received
from the conversation and books of travellers and historians. This idea
of Rome I place in a certain situation on the idea of an object, which I
call the globe. I join to it the conception of a particular government,
and religion, and manners. I look backward and consider its first
foundation; its several revolutions, successes, and misfortunes. All
this, and everything else, which I believe, are nothing but ideas; though
by their force and settled order, arising from custom and the relation of
cause and effect, they distinguish themselves from the other ideas, which
are merely the offspring of the imagination.

As to the influence of contiguity and resemblance, we may observe, that
if the contiguous and resembling object be comprehended in this system of
realities, there is no doubt but these two relations will assist that of
cause and effect, and infix the related idea with more force in the
imagination. This I shall enlarge upon presently. Mean while I shall
carry my observation a step farther, and assert, that even where the
related object is but feigned, the relation will serve to enliven the
idea, and encrease its influence. A poet, no doubt, will be the better
able to form a strong description of the Elysian fields, that he prompts
his imagination by the view of a beautiful meadow or garden; as at
another time he may by his fancy place himself in the midst of these
fabulous regions, that by the feigned contiguity he may enliven his
imagination.

But though I cannot altogether exclude the relations of resemblance and
contiguity from operating on the fancy in this manner, it is observable
that, when single, their influence is very feeble and uncertain. As the
relation of cause and effect is requisite to persuade us of any real
existence, so is this persuasion requisite to give force to these other
relations. For where upon the appearance of an impression we not only
feign another object, but likewise arbitrarily, and of our mere good-will
and pleasure give it a particular relation to the impression, this can
have but a small effect upon the mind; nor is there any reason, why, upon
the return of the same impression, we should be determined to place the
same object in the same relation to it. There is no manner of necessity
for the mind to feign any resembling and contiguous objects; and if it
feigns such, there is as little necessity for it always to confine itself
to the same, without any difference or variation. And indeed such a
fiction is founded on so little reason, that nothing but pure caprice can
determine the mind to form it; and that principle being fluctuating and
uncertain, it is impossible it can ever operate with any considerable
degree of force and constancy. The mind forsees and anticipates the
change; and even from the very first instant feels the looseness of its
actions, and the weak hold it has of its objects. And as this
imperfection is very sensible in every single instance, it still
encreases by experience and observation, when we compare the several
instances we may remember, and form a general rule against the reposing
any assurance in those momentary glimpses of light, which arise in the
imagination from a feigned resemblance and contiguity.

The relation of cause and effect has all the opposite advantages. The
objects it presents are fixt and unalterable. The impressions of the
memory never change in any considerable degree; and each impression draws
along with it a precise idea, which takes its place in the imagination as
something solid and real, certain and invariable. The thought is always
determined to pass from the impression to the idea, and from that
particular impression to that particular idea, without any choice or
hesitation.

But not content with removing this objection, I shall endeavour to
extract from it a proof of the present doctrine. Contiguity and
resemblance have an effect much inferior to causation; but still have
some effect, and augment the conviction of any opinion, and the vivacity
of any conception. If this can be proved in several new instances, beside
what we have already observed, it will be allowed no inconsiderable
argument, that belief is nothing but a lively idea related to a present
impression.

To begin with contiguity; it has been remarked among the Mahometans as
well as Christians, that those pilgrims, who have seen MECCA or the HOLY
LAND, are ever after more faithful and zealous believers, than those who
have not had that advantage. A man, whose memory presents him with a
lively image of the Red-Sea, and the Desert, and Jerusalem, and Galilee,
can never doubt of any miraculous events, which are related either by
Moses or the Evangelists. The lively idea of the places passes by an easy
transition to the facts, which are supposed to have been related to them
by contiguity, and encreases the belief by encreasing the vivacity of the
conception. The remembrance of these fields and rivers has the same
influence on the vulgar as a new argument; and from the same causes.

We may form a like observation concerning resemblance. We have remarked,
that the conclusion, which we draw from a present object to its absent
cause or effect, is never founded on any qualities, which we observe in
that object, considered in itself, or, in other words, that it is
impossible to determine, otherwise than by experience, what will result
from any phenomenon, or what has preceded it. But though this be so evident
in itself, that it seemed not to require any, proof; yet some
philosophers have imagined that there is an apparent cause for the
communication of motion, and that a reasonable man might immediately
infer the motion of one body from the impulse of another, without having
recourse to any past observation. That this opinion is false will admit
of an easy proof. For if such an inference may be drawn merely from the
ideas of body, of motion, and of impulse, it must amount to a
demonstration, and must imply the absolute impossibility of any contrary
supposition. Every effect, then, beside the communication of motion,
implies a formal contradiction; and it is impossible not only that it can
exist, but also that it can be conceived. But we may soon satisfy
ourselves of the contrary, by forming a clear and consistent idea of one
body's moving upon another, and of its rest immediately upon the contact,
or of its returning back in the same line in which it came; or of its
annihilation; or circular or elliptical motion: and in short, of an
infinite number of other changes, which we may suppose it to undergo.
These suppositions are all consistent and natural; and the reason, Why we
imagine the communication of motion to be more consistent and natural not
only than those suppositions, but also than any other natural effect, is
founded on the relation of resemblance betwixt the cause and effect,
which is here united to experience, and binds the objects in the closest
and most intimate manner to each other, so as to make us imagine them to
be absolutely inseparable. Resemblance, then, has the same or a parallel
influence with experience; and as the only immediate effect of experience
is to associate our ideas together, it follows, that all belief arises
from the association of ideas, according to my hypothesis.

It is universally allowed by the writers on optics, that the eye at all
times sees an equal number of physical points, and that a man on the top
of a mountain has no larger an image presented to his senses, than when
he is cooped up in the narrowest court or chamber. It is only by
experience that he infers the greatness of the object from some peculiar
qualities of the image; and this inference of the judgment he confounds
with sensation, as is common on other occasions. Now it is evident, that
the inference of the judgment is here much more lively than what is usual
in our common reasonings, and that a man has a more vivid conception of
the vast extent of the ocean from the image he receives by the eye, when
he stands on the top of the high promontory, than merely from hearing the
roaring of the waters. He feels a more sensible pleasure from its
magnificence; which is a proof of a more lively idea: And he confounds
his judgment with sensation, which is another proof of it. But as the
inference is equally certain and immediate in both cases, this superior
vivacity of our conception in one case can proceed from nothing but this,
that in drawing an inference from the sight, beside the customary
conjunction, there is also a resemblance betwixt the image and the object
we infer; which strengthens the relation, and conveys the vivacity of the
impression to the related idea with an easier and more natural movement.

No weakness of human nature is more universal and conspicuous than what
we commonly call CREDULITY, or a too easy faith in the testimony of
others; and this weakness is also very naturally accounted for from the
influence of resemblance. When we receive any matter of fact upon human
testimony, our faith arises from the very same origin as our inferences
from causes to effects, and from effects to causes; nor is there anything
but our experience of the governing principles of human nature, which can
give us any assurance of the veracity of men. But though experience be the
true standard of this, as well as of all other judgments, we. seldom
regulate ourselves entirely by it; but have a remarkable propensity to
believe whatever is reported, even concerning apparitions, enchantments,
and prodigies, however contrary to daily experience and observation. The
words or discourses of others have an intimate connexion with certain
ideas in their mind; and these ideas have also a connexion with the facts
or objects, which they represent. This latter connexion is generally much
over-rated, and commands our assent beyond what experience will justify;
which can proceed from nothing beside the resemblance betwixt the ideas
and the facts. Other effects only point out their causes in an oblique
manner; but the testimony of men does it directly, and is to be
considered as an image as well as an effect. No wonder, therefore, we are
so rash in drawing our inferences from it, and are less guided by
experience in our judgments concerning it, than in those upon any other
subject.

As resemblance, when conjoined with causation, fortifies our reasonings;
so the want of it in any very great degree is able almost entirely to
destroy them. Of this there is a remarkable instance in the universal
carelessness and stupidity of men with regard to a future state, where
they show as obstinate an incredulity, as they do a blind credulity on
other occasions. There is not indeed a more ample matter of wonder to the
studious, and of regret to the pious man, than to observe the negligence
of the bulk of mankind concerning their approaching condition; and it is
with reason, that many eminent theologians have not scrupled to affirm,
that though the vulgar have no formal principles of infidelity, yet they
are really infidels in their hearts, and have nothing like what we can
call a belief of the eternal duration of their souls. For let us consider
on the one hand what divines have displayed with such eloquence
concerning the importance of eternity; and at the same time reflect, that
though in matters of rhetoric we ought to lay our account with some
exaggeration, we must in this case allow, that the strongest figures are
infinitely inferior to the subject: And after this let us view on the
other hand, the prodigious security of men in this particular: I ask, if
these people really believe what is inculcated on them, and what they
pretend to affirm; and the answer is obviously in the negative. As belief
is an act of the mind arising from custom, it is not strange the want of
resemblance should overthrow what custom has established, and diminish
the force of the idea, as much as that latter principle encreases it. A
future state is so far removed from our comprehension, and we have so
obscure an idea of the manner, in which we shall exist after the
dissolution of the body, that all the reasons we can invent, however
strong in themselves, and however much assisted by education, are never
able with slow imaginations to surmount this difficulty, or bestow a
sufficient authority and force on the idea. I rather choose to ascribe
this incredulity to the faint idea we form of our future condition,
derived from its want of resemblance to the present life, than to that
derived from its remoteness. For I observe, that men are everywhere
concerned about what may happen after their death, provided it regard
this world; and that there are few to whom their name, their family,
their friends, and their country are in. any period of time entirely
indifferent.

And indeed the want of resemblance in this case so entirely destroys
belief, that except those few, who upon cool reflection on the importance
of the subject, have taken care by repeated meditation to imprint in
their minds the arguments for a future state, there scarce are any, who
believe the immortality of the soul with a true and established judgment;
such as is derived from the testimony of travellers and historians. This
appears very conspicuously wherever men have occasion to compare the
pleasures and pains, the rewards and punishments of this life with those
of a future; even though the case does not concern themselves, and there
is no violent passion to disturb their judgment. The Roman Clatholicks are
certainly the most zealous of any sect in the Christian world; and yet
you'll find few among the more sensible people of that communion who do
not blame the Gunpowder-treason, and the massacre of St. Bartholomew, as
cruel and barbarous, though projected or executed against those very
people, whom without any scruple they condemn to eternal and infinite
punishments. All we can say in excuse for this inconsistency is, that
they really do not believe what they affirm concerning a future state;
nor is there any better proof of it than the very inconsistency.

We may add to this a remark; that in matters of religion men take a
pleasure in being terrifyed, and that no preachers are so popular, as
those who excite the most dismal and gloomy passions. In the common
affairs of life, where we feel and are penetrated with the solidity of
the subject, nothing can be more disagreeable than fear and terror; and
it is only in dramatic performances and in religious discourses, that they
ever give pleasure. In these latter cases the imagination reposes itself
indolently on the idea; and the passion, being softened by the want of
belief in the subject, has no more than the agreeable effect of
enlivening the mind, and fixing the attention.

The present hypothesis will receive additional confirmation, if we
examine the effects of other kinds of custom, as well as of other
relations. To understand this we must consider, that custom, to which I
attribute all belief and reasoning, may operate upon the mind in
invigorating an idea after two several ways. For supposing that in all
past experience we have found two objects to have been always conjoined
together, it is evident, that upon the appearance of one of these objects
in an impression, we must from custom make an easy transition to the idea
of that object, which usually attends it; and by means of the present
impression and easy transition must conceive that idea in a stronger and
more lively manner, than we 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 artificial preparation, should frequently make its appearance
in the mind, this idea must by degrees acquire a facility and force; and
both by its firm hold and easy introduction distinguish itself from any
new and unusual idea. This is the only particular, in which these two
kinds of custom agree; and if it appear, that their effects on the
judgment, are similar and proportionable, we may certainly conclude, that
the foregoing explication of that faculty is satisfactory. But can we
doubt of this agreement in their influence on the judgment, when we
consider the nature and effects Of EDUCATION?

All those opinions and notions of things, to which we have been
accustomed from our infancy, take such deep root, that it is impossible
for us, by all the powers of reason and experience, to eradicate them;
and this habit not only approaches in its influence, but even on many
occasions prevails over that which a-rises from the constant and
inseparable union of causes and effects. Here we most not be contented
with saying, that the vividness of the idea produces the belief: We must
maintain that they are individually the same. The frequent repetition of
any idea infixes it in the imagination; but coued never possibly of
itself produce belief, if that act of the mind was, by the original
constitution of our natures, annexed only to a reasoning and comparison
of ideas. Custom may lead us into some false comparison of ideas. This is
the utmost effect we can conceive of it. But it is certain it coued never
supply the place of that comparison, nor produce any act of the mind,
which naturally belonged to that principle.

A person, that has lost a leg or an arm by amputation, endeavours for a
long time afterwards to serve himself with them. After the death of any
one, it is a common remark of the whole family, but especially of the
servants, that they can scarce believe him to be dead, but still imagine
him to be in his chamber or in any other place, where they were
accustomed to find him. I have often heard in conversation, after talking
of a person, that is any way celebrated, that one, who has no
acquaintance with him, will say, I have never seen such-a-one, but almost
fancy I have; so often have I heard talk of him. All these are parallel
instances.

If we consider this argument from EDUCATION in a proper light, it will
appear very convincing; and the more so, that it is founded on one of the
most common phaenomena, that is any where to be met with. I am persuaded,
that upon examination we shall find more than one half of those opinions,
that prevail among mankind, to be owing to education, and that the
principles, which are thus implicitely embraced, overballance those,
which are owing either to abstract reasoning or experience. As liars, by
the frequent repetition of their lies, come at last to remember them; so
the judgment, or rather the imagination, by the like means, may have
ideas so strongly imprinted on it, and conceive them in so full a light,
that they may operate upon the mind in the same manner with those, which
the senses, memory or reason present to us. But as education is an
artificial and not a natural cause, and as its maxims are frequently
contrary to reason, and even to themselves in different times and places,
it is never upon that account recognized by philosophers; though in
reality it be built almost on the same foundation of custom and repetition
as our reasonings from causes and effects.

[Footnote 7. In general we may observe, that as our assent to all probable
reasonings is founded on the vivacity of ideas, It resembles many of
those whimsies and prejudices, which are rejected under the opprobrious
character of being the offspring of the imagination. By this expression
it appears that the word, imagination, is commonly usd in two different
senses; and tho nothing be more contrary to true philosophy, than this
inaccuracy, yet in the following reasonings I have often been obligd to
fall into it. When I oppose the Imagination to the memory, I mean the
faculty, by which we form our fainter ideas. When I oppose it to reason,
I mean the same faculty, excluding only our demonstrative and probable
reasonings. When I oppose it to neither, it is indifferent whether it be
taken in the larger or more limited sense, or at least the context will
sufficiently explain the meaning.]




SECT. X.  OF THE INFLUENCE OF BELIEF.


But though education be disclaimed by philosophy, as a fallacious ground
of assent to any opinion, it prevails nevertheless in the world, and is
the cause why all systems are apt to be rejected at first as new and
unusual. This perhaps will be the fate of what I have here advanced
concerning belief, and though the proofs I have produced appear to me
perfectly conclusive, I expect not to make many proselytes to my opinion.
Men will scarce ever be persuaded, that effects of such consequence can
flow from principles, which are seemingly so inconsiderable, and that the
far greatest part of our reasonings with all our actions and passions, can
be derived from nothing but custom and habit. To obviate this objection, I
shall here anticipate a little what would more properly fall under our
consideration afterwards, when we come to treat of the passions and the
sense of beauty.

There is implanted in the human mind a perception of pain and pleasure,
as the chief spring and moving principle of all its actions. But pain and
pleasure have two ways of making their appearance in the mind; of which
the one has effects very different from the other. They may either appear
in impression to the actual feeling, or only in idea, as at present when
I mention them. It is evident the influence of these upon our actions is
far from being equal. Impressions always actuate the soul, and that in
the highest degree; but it is not every idea which has the same effect.
Nature has proceeded with caution in this came, and seems to have
carefully avoided the inconveniences of two extremes. Did impressions
alone influence the will, we should every moment of our lives be subject
to the greatest calamities; because, though we foresaw their approach, we
should not be provided by nature with any principle of action, which
might impel us to avoid them. On the other hand, did every idea influence
our actions, our condition would not be much mended. For such is the
unsteadiness and activity of thought, that the images of every thing,
especially of goods and evils, are always wandering in the mind; and were
it moved by every idle conception of this kind, it would never enjoy a
moment's peace and tranquillity.

Nature has, therefore, chosen a medium, and has neither bestowed on every
idea of good and evil the power of actuating the will, nor yet has
entirely excluded them from this influence. Though an idle fiction has no
efficacy, yet we find by experience, that the ideas of those objects,
which we believe either are or will be existent, produce in a lesser
degree the same effect with those impressions, which are immediately
present to the senses and perception. The effect, then, of belief is to
raise up a simple idea to an equality with our impressions, and bestow on
it a like influence on the passions. This effect it can only have by
making an idea approach an impression in force and vivacity. For as the
different degrees of force make all the original difference betwixt an
impression and an idea, they must of consequence be the source of all the
differences in the effects of these perceptions, and their removal, in
whole or in part, the cause of every new resemblance they acquire.
Wherever we can make an idea approach the impressions in force and
vivacity, it will likewise imitate them in its influence on the mind; and
vice versa, where it imitates them in that influence, as in the present
case, this must proceed from its approaching them in force and vivacity.
Belief, therefore, since it causes an idea to imitate the effects of the
impressions, must make it resemble them in these qualities, and is
nothing but A MORE VIVID AND INTENSE CONCEPTION OF ANY IDEA. This, then,
may both serve as an additional argument for the present system, and may
give us a notion after what manner our reasonings from causation are able
to operate on the will and passions.

As belief is almost absolutely requisite to the exciting our passions, so
the passions in their turn are very favourable to belief; and not only
such facts as convey agreeable emotions, but very often such as give
pain, do upon that account become more readily the objects of faith and
opinion. A coward, whose fears are easily awakened, readily assents to
every account of danger he meets with; as a person of a sorrowful and
melancholy disposition is very credulous of every thing, that nourishes
his prevailing passion. When any affecting object is presented, it gives
the alarm, and excites immediately a degree of its proper passion;
especially in persons who are naturally inclined to that passion. This
emotion passes by an easy transition to the imagination; and diffusing
itself over our idea of the affecting object, makes us form that idea
with greater force and vivacity, and consequently assent to it, according
to the precedent system. Admiration and surprize have the same effect as
the other passions; and accordingly we may observe, that among the
vulgar, quacks and projectors meet with a more easy faith upon account of
their magnificent pretensions, than if they kept themselves within the
bounds of moderation. The first astonishment, which naturally attends
their miraculous relations, spreads itself over the whole soul, and so
vivifies and enlivens the idea, that it resembles the inferences we draw
from experience. This is a mystery, with which we may be already a little
acquainted, and which we shall have farther occasion to be let into in
the progress of this treatise.

After this account of the influence of belief on the passions, we shall
find less difficulty in explaining its effects on the imagination,
however extraordinary they may appear. It is certain we cannot take
pleasure in any discourse, where our judgment gives no assent to those
images which are presented to our fancy. The conversation of those who
have acquired a habit of lying, though in affairs of no moment, never
gives any satisfaction; and that because those ideas they present to us,
not being attended with belief, make no impression upon the mind. Poets
themselves, though liars by profession, always endeavour to give an air of
truth to their fictions; and where that is totally neglected, their
performances, however ingenious, will never be able to afford much
pleasure. In short, we may observe, that even when ideas have no manner
of influence on the will and passions, truth and reality are still
requisite, in order to make them entertaining to the imagination.

But if we compare together all the phenomena that occur on this head, we
shall find, that truth, however necessary it may seem in all works of
genius, has no other effect than to procure an easy reception for the
ideas, and to make the mind acquiesce in them with satisfaction, or at
least without reluctance. But as this is an effect, which may easily be
supposed to flow from that solidity and force, which, according to my
system, attend those ideas that are established by reasonings from
causation; it follows, that all the influence of belief upon the fancy
may be explained from that system. Accordingly we may observe, that
wherever that influence arises from any other principles beside truth or
reality, they supply its place, and give an equal entertainment to the
imagination. Poets have formed what they call a poetical system of
things, which though it be believed neither by themselves nor readers, is
commonly esteemed a sufficient foundation for any fiction. We have been
so much accustomed to the names of MARS, JUPITER, VENUS, that in the same
manner as education infixes any opinion, the constant repetition of these
ideas makes them enter into the mind with facility, and prevail upon the
fancy, without influencing the judgment. In like manner tragedians always
borrow their fable, or at least the names of their principal actors, from
some known passage in history; and that not in order to deceive the
spectators; for they will frankly confess, that truth is not in any
circumstance inviolably observed: but in order to procure a more easy
reception into the imagination for those extraordinary events, which they
represent. But this is a precaution, which is not required of comic
poets, whose personages and incidents, being of a more familiar kind,
enter easily into the conception, and are received without any such
formality, even though at first night they be known to be fictitious, and
the pure offspring of the fancy.

This mixture of truth and falshood in the fables of tragic poets not only
serves our present purpose, by shewing, that the imagination can be
satisfyed without any absolute belief or assurance; but may in another
view be regarded as a very strong confirmation of this system. It is
evident, that poets make use of this artifice of borrowing the names of
their persons, and the chief events of their poems, from history, in
order to procure a more easy reception for the whole, and cause it to
make a deeper impression on the fancy and affections. The several
incidents of the piece acquire a kind of relation by being united into
one poem or representation; and if any of these incidents be an object of
belief, it bestows a force and vivacity on the others, which are related
to it. The vividness of the first conception diffuses itself along the
relations, and is conveyed, as by so many pipes or canals, to every idea
that has any communication with the primary one. This, indeed, can never
amount to a perfect assurance; and that because the union among the ideas
is, in a manner, accidental: But still it approaches so near, in its
influence, as may convince us, that they are derived from the same
origin. Belief must please the imagination by means of the force and
vivacity which attends it; since every idea, which has force and
vivacity, is found to be agreeable to that faculty.

To confirm this we may observe, that the assistance is mutual betwixt the
judgment and fancy, as well as betwixt the judgment and passion; and that
belief not only gives vigour to the imagination, but that a vigorous and
strong imagination is of all talents the most proper to procure belief
and authority. It is difficult for us to withhold our assent from what is
painted out to us in all the colours of eloquence; and the vivacity
produced by the fancy is in many cases greater than that which arises
from custom and experience. We are hurried away by the lively imagination
of our author or companion; and even be himself is often a victim to his
own fire and genius.

Nor will it be amiss to remark, that as a lively imagination very often
degenerates into madness or folly, and bears it a great resemblance in
its operations; so they influence the judgment after the same manner, and
produce belief from the very same principles. When the imagination, from
any extraordinary ferment of the blood and spirits, acquires such a
vivacity as disorders all its powers and faculties, there is no means of
distinguishing betwixt truth and falshood; but every loose fiction or
idea, having the same influence as the impressions of the memory, or the
conclusions of the judgment, is received on the same footing, and
operates with equal force on the passions. A present impression and a
customary transition are now no longer necessary to enliven our ideas.
Every chimera of the brain is as vivid and intense as any of those
inferences, which we formerly dignifyed with the name of conclusions
concerning matters of fact, and sometimes as the present impressions of
the senses.

We may observe the same effect of poetry in a lesser degree; and this is
common both to poetry and madness, that the vivacity they bestow on the
ideas is not derived from the particular situations or connexions of the
objects of these ideas, but from the present temper and disposition of
the person. But how great soever the pitch may be, to which this vivacity
rises, it is evident, that in poetry it never has the same feeling with
that which arises in the mind, when we reason, though even upon the lowest
species of probability. The mind can easily distinguish betwixt the one
and the other; and whatever emotion the poetical enthusiasm may give to
the spirits, it is still the mere phantom of belief or persuasion. The
case is the same with the idea, as with the passion it occasions. There
is no passion of the human mind but what may arise from poetry; though at
the same time the feelings of the passions are very different when
excited by poetical fictions, from what they are when they are from
belief and reality. A passion, which is disagreeable in real life, may
afford the highest entertainment in a tragedy, or epic poem. In the
latter case, it lies not with that weight upon us: It feels less firm and
solid: And has no other than the agreeable effect of exciting the
spirits, and rouzing the attention. The difference in the passions is a
clear proof of a like difference in those ideas, from which the passions
are derived. Where the vivacity arises from a customary conjunction with
a present impression; though the imagination may not, in appearance, be so
much moved; yet there is always something more forcible and real in its
actions, than in the fervors of poetry and eloquence. The force of our
mental actions in this case, no more than in any other, is not to be
measured by the apparent agitation of the mind. A poetical description
may have a more sensible effect on the fancy, than an historical
narration. It may collect more of those circumstances, that form a
compleat image or picture. It may seem to set the object before us in
more lively colours. But still the ideas it presents are different to the
feeling from those, which arise from the memory and the judgment. There
is something weak and imperfect amidst all that seeming vehemence of
thought and sentiment, which attends the fictions of poetry.

We shall afterwards have occasion to remark both the resemblance and
differences betwixt a poetical enthusiasm, and a serious conviction. In
the mean time I cannot forbear observing, that the great difference in
their feeling proceeds in some measure from reflection and GENERAL RULES.
We observe, that the vigour of conception, which fictions receive from
poetry and eloquence, is a circumstance merely accidental, of which every
idea is equally susceptible; and that such fictions are connected with
nothing that is real. This observation makes us only lend ourselves, so
to speak, to the fiction: But causes the idea to feel very different from
the eternal established persuasions founded on memory and custom. They
are somewhat of the same kind: But the one is much inferior to the other,
both in its causes and effects.

A like reflection on general rules keeps us from augmenting our belief
upon every encrease of the force and vivacity of our ideas. Where an
opinion admits of no doubt, or opposite probability, we attribute to it a
full conviction: though the want of resemblance, or contiguity, may render
its force inferior to that of other opinions. It is thus the understanding
corrects the appearances of the senses, and makes us imagine, that an
object at twenty foot distance seems even to the eye as large as one of
the same dimensions at ten.

We may observe the same effect of poetry in a lesser degree; only with
this difference, that the least reflection dissipates the illusions of
poetry, and Places the objects in their proper light. It is however
certain, that in the warmth of a poetical enthusiasm, a poet has a,
counterfeit belief, and even a kind of vision of his objects: And if
there be any shadow of argument to support this belief, nothing
contributes more to his full conviction than a blaze of poetical figures
and images, which have their effect upon the poet himself, as well as
upon his readers.



SECT. XI.  OF THE PROBABILITY OF CHANCES.


But in order to bestow on this system its full force and evidence, we
must carry our eye from it a moment to consider its consequences, and
explain from the same principles some other species of reasoning, which
are derived from the same origin.

Those philosophers, who have divided human reason into knowledge and
probability, and have defined the first to be that evidence, which arises
from the comparison of ideas, are obliged to comprehend all our arguments
from causes or effects under the general term of probability. But though
every one be free to use his terms in what sense he pleases; and
accordingly in the precedent part of this discourse, I have followed this
method of expression; it is however certain, that in common discourse we
readily affirm, that many arguments from causation exceed probability,
and may be received as a superior kind of evidence. One would appear
ridiculous, who would say, that it is only probable the sun will rise
to-morrow, or that all men must dye; though it is plain we have no further
assurance of these facts, than what experience affords us. For this
reason, it would perhaps be more convenient, in order at once to preserve
the common signification of words, and mark the several degrees of
evidence, to distinguish human reason into three kinds, viz. THAT FROM
KNOWLEDGE, FROM PROOFS, AND FROM PROBABILITIES. By knowledge, I mean the
assurance arising from the comparison of ideas. By proofs, those
arguments, which are derived from the relation of cause and effect, and
which are entirely free from doubt and uncertainty. By probability, that
evidence, which is still attended with uncertainty. It is this last
species of reasoning, I proceed to examine.

Probability or reasoning from conjecture may be divided into two kinds,
viz. that which is founded on chance, and that which arises from causes.
We shall consider each of these in order.

The idea of cause and effect is derived from experience, which presenting
us with certain objects constantly conjoined with each other, produces
such a habit of surveying them in that relation, that we cannot without a
sensible violence survey them iii any other. On the other hand, as chance
is nothing real in itself, and, properly speaking, is merely the negation
of a cause, its influence on the mind is contrary to that of causation;
and it is essential to it, to leave the imagination perfectly indifferent,
either to consider the existence or non-existence of that object, which
is regarded as contingent. A cause traces the way to our thought, and in
a manner forces us to survey such certain objects, in such certain
relations. Chance can only destroy this determination of the thought, and
leave the mind in its native situation of indifference; in which, upon
the absence of a cause, it is instantly re-instated.

Since therefore an entire indifference is essential to chance, no one
chance can possibly be superior to another, otherwise than as it is
composed of a superior number of equal chances. For if we affirm that one
chance can, after any other manner, be superior to another, we must at
the same time affirm, that there is something, which gives it the
superiority, and determines the event rather to that side than the other:
That is, in other words, we must allow of a cause, and destroy the
supposition of chance; which we had before established. A perfect and
total indifference is essential to chance, and one total indifference can
never in itself be either superior or inferior to another. This truth is
not peculiar to my system, but is acknowledged by every one, that forms
calculations concerning chances.

And here it is remarkable, that though chance and causation be directly
contrary, yet it is impossible for us to conceive this combination of
chances, which is requisite to render one hazard superior to another,
without supposing a mixture of causes among the chances, and a
conjunction of necessity in some particulars, with a total indifference
in others. Where nothing limits the chances, every notion, that the most
extravagant fancy can form, is upon a footing of equality; nor can there
be any circumstance to give one the advantage above another. Thus unless
we allow, that there are some causes to make the dice fall, and preserve
their form in their fall, and lie upon some one of their sides, we can
form no calculation concerning the laws of hazard. But supposing these
causes to operate, and supposing likewise all the rest to be indifferent
and to be determined by chance, it is easy to arrive at a notion of a
superior combination of chances. A dye that has four sides marked with a
certain number of spots, and only two with another, affords us an obvious
and easy instance of this superiority. The mind is here limited by the
causes to such a precise number and quality of the events; and at the
same time is undetermined in its choice of any particular event.

Proceeding then in that reasoning, wherein we have advanced three steps;
that chance is merely the negation of a cause, and produces a total
indifference in the mind; that one negation of a cause and one total
indifference can never be superior or inferior to another; and that there
must always be a mixture of causes among the chances, in order to be the
foundation of any reasoning: We are next to consider what effect a
superior combination of chances can have upon the mind, and after what
manner it influences our judgment and opinion. Here we may repeat all the
same arguments we employed in examining that belief, which arises from
causes; and may prove, after the same manner, that a superior number of
chances produces our assent neither by demonstration nor probability.
It is indeed evident that we can never by the comparison of mere ideas
make any discovery, which can be of consequence in this affairs and that
it is impossible to prove with certainty, that any event must fall on that
side where there is a superior number of chances. To, suppose in this
case any certainty, were to overthrow what we have established concerning
the opposition of chances, and their perfect equality and indifference.

Should it be said, that though in an opposition of chances it is
impossible to determine with certainty, on which side the event will fall,
yet we can pronounce with certainty, that it is more likely and probable,
it will be on that side where there is a superior number of chances, than
where there is an inferior: should this be said, I would ask, what is here
meant by likelihood and probability? The likelihood and probability of
chances is a superior number of equal chances; and consequently when we
say it is likely the event win fall on the side, which is superior, rather
than on the inferior, we do no more than affirm, that where there is a
superior number of chances there is actually a superior, and where there
is an inferior there is an inferior; which are identical propositions,
and of no consequence. The question is, by what means a superior number
of equal chances operates upon the mind, and produces belief or assent;
since it appears, that it is neither by arguments derived from
demonstration, nor from probability.

In order to clear up this difficulty, we shall suppose a person to take a
dye, formed after such a manner as that four of its sides are marked with
one figure, or one number of spots, and two with another; and to put this
dye into the box with an intention of throwing it: It is plain, he must
conclude the one figure to be more probable than the other, and give the
preference to that which is inscribed on the greatest number of sides. He
in a manner believes, that this will lie uppermost; though still with
hesitation and doubt, in proportion to the number of chances, which are
contrary: And according as these contrary chances diminish, and the
superiority encreases on the other side, his belief acquires new degrees
of stability and assurance. This belief arises from an operation of the
mind upon the simple and limited object before us; and therefore its
nature will be the more easily discovered and explained. We have nothing
but one single dye to contemplate, in order to comprehend one of the most
curious operations of the understanding.

This dye, formed as above, contains three circumstances worthy of our
attention. First, Certain causes, such as gravity, solidity, a cubical
figure, &c. which determine it to fall, to preserve its form in its fall,
and to turn up one of its sides. Secondly, A certain number of sides,
which are supposed indifferent. Thirdly, A certain figure inscribed on
each side. These three particulars form the whole nature of the dye, so
far as relates to our present purpose; and consequently are the only
circumstances regarded by the mind in its forming a judgment concerning
the result of such a throw. Let us, therefore, consider gradually and
carefully what must be the influence of these circumstances on the
thought and imagination.

First, We have already observed, that the mind is determined by custom to
pass from any cause to its effect, and that upon the appearance of the
one, it is almost impossible for it not to form an idea of the other.
Their constant conjunction in past instances has produced such a habit in
the mind, that it always conjoins them in its thought, and infers the
existence of the one from that of its usual attendant. When it considers
the dye as no longer supported by the box, it can not without violence
regard it as suspended in the air; but naturally places it on the table,
and views it as turning up one of its sides. This is the effect of the
intermingled causes, which are requisite to our forming any calculation
concerning chances.

Secondly, It is supposed, that though the dye be necessarily determined to
fall, and turn up one of its sides, yet there is nothing to fix the
particular side, but that this is determined entirely by chance. The very
nature and essence of chance is a negation of causes, and the leaving the
mind in a perfect indifference among those events, which are supposed
contingent. When therefore the thought is determined by the causes to
consider the dye as falling and turning up one of its sides, the chances
present all these sides as equal, and make us consider every one of them,
one after another, as alike probable and possible. The imagination passes
from the cause, viz. the throwing of the dye, to the effect, viz. the
turning up one of the six sides; and feels a kind of impossibility both
of stopping short in the way, and of forming any other idea. But as all
these six sides are incompatible, and the dye cannot turn up above one at
once, this principle directs us not to consider all of them at once as
lying uppermost; which we look upon as impossible: Neither does it direct
us with its entire force to any particular side; for in that case this
side would be considered as certain and inevitable; but it directs us to
the whole six sides after such a manner as to divide its force equally
among them. We conclude in general, that some one of them must result
from the throw: We run all of them over in our minds: The determination
of the thought is common to all; but no more of its force falls to the
share of any one, than what is suitable to its proportion with the rest.
It is after this manner the original impulse, and consequently the
vivacity of thought, arising from the causes, is divided and split in
pieces by the intermingled chances.

We have already seen the influence of the two first qualities of the dye,
viz. the causes, and the number and indifference of the sides, and have
learned how they give an impulse to the thought, and divide that impulse
into as many parts as there are unites in the number of sides. We must
now consider the effects of the third particular, viz. the figures
inscribed on each side. It is evident that where several sides have the
same figure inscribe on them, they must concur in their influence on the
mind, and must unite upon one image or idea of a figure all those divided
impulses, that were dispersed over the several sides, upon which that
figure is inscribed. Were the question only what side will be turned up,
these are all perfectly equal, and no one coued ever have any advantage
above another. But as the question is concerning the figure, and as the
same figure is presented by more than one side: it is evident, that the
impulses belonging to all these sides must re-unite in that one figure,
and become stronger and more forcible by the union. Four sides are
supposed in the present case to have the same figure inscribed on them,
and two to have another figure. The impulses of the former are,
therefore, superior to those of the latter. But as the events are
contrary, and it is impossible both these figures can be turned up; the
impulses likewise become contrary, and the inferior destroys the
superior, as far as its strength goes. The vivacity of the idea is always
proportionable to the degrees of the impulse or tendency to the
transition; and belief is the same with the vivacity of the idea,
according to the precedent doctrine.



SECT. XII.  OF THE PROBABILITY OF CAUSES.


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

The probabilities of causes are of several kinds; but are all derived
from the same origin, viz. THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS TO A PRESENT
IMPRESSION. As the habit, which produces the association, arises from the
frequent conjunction of objects, it must arrive at its perfection by
degrees, and must acquire new force from each instance, that falls under
our observation. The first instance has little or no force: The second
makes some addition to it: The third becomes still 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, it passes through several
inferior degrees, and in all of them is only to be esteemed a presumption
or probability. The gradation, therefore, from probabilities to proofs is
in many cases insensible; and the difference betwixt these kinds of
evidence is more easily perceived in the remote degrees, than in the near
and contiguous.

It is worthy of remark on this occasion, that though the species of
probability here explained be the first in order, and naturally takes
place before any entire proof can exist, yet no one, who is arrived at
the age of maturity, can any longer be acquainted with it. It is true,
nothing is more common than for people of the most advanced knowledge to
have attained only an imperfect experience of many particular events;
which naturally produces only an imperfect habit and transition: But then
we must consider, that the mind, having formed another observation
concerning the connexion of causes and effects, gives new force to its
reasoning from that observation; and by means of it can build an argument
on one single experiment, when duly prepared and examined. What we have
found once to follow from any object, we conclude will for ever follow
from it; and if this maxim be not always built upon as certain, it is not
for want of a sufficient number of experiments, but because we frequently
meet with instances to the contrary; which leads us to the second species
of probability, where there is a contrariety in our experience and
observation.

It would be very happy for men in the conduct of their lives and actions,
were the same objects always conjoined together, and, we had nothing to
fear but the mistakes of our own judgment, without having any reason to
apprehend the uncertainty of nature. But as it is frequently found, that
one observation is contrary to another, and that causes and effects
follow not in the same order, of which we have I had experience, we are
obliged to vary our reasoning on, account of this uncertainty, and take
into consideration the contrariety of events. The first question, that
occurs on this head, is concerning the nature and causes of the
contrariety.

The vulgar, who take things according to their first appearance,
attribute the uncertainty of events to such an uncertainty in the causes,
as makes them often fail of their usual influence, though they meet with
no obstacle nor impediment in their operation. But philosophers observing,
that almost in every part of nature there is contained a vast variety of
springs and principles, which are hid, by reason of their minuteness or
remoteness, find that it is at least possible the contrariety of events
may not proceed from any contingency in the cause, but from the secret
operation of contrary causes. This possibility is converted into
certainty by farther observation, when they remark, that upon an exact
scrutiny, a contrariety of effects always betrays a contrariety of
causes, and proceeds from their mutual hindrance and opposition. A
peasant can give no better reason for the stopping of any clock or watch
than to say, that commonly it does not go right: But an artizan easily
perceives, that the same force in the spring or pendulum has always the
same influence on the wheels; but fails of its usual effect, perhaps by
reason of a grain of dust, which puts a stop to the whole movement. From
the observation of several parallel instances, philosophers form a maxim,
that the connexion betwixt all causes and effects is equally necessary,
and that its seeming uncertainty in some instances proceeds from the
secret opposition of contrary causes.

But however philosophers and the vulgar may differ in their explication
of the contrariety of events, their inferences from it are always of the
same kind, and founded on the same principles. A contrariety of events in
the past may give us a kind of hesitating belief for the future after two
several ways. First, By producing an imperfect habit and transition from
the present impression to the related idea. When the conjunction of any
two objects is frequent, without being entirely constant, the mind is
determined to pass from one object to the other; but not with so entire a
habit, as when the union is uninterrupted, and all the instances we have
ever met with are uniform and of a piece-.. We find from common
experience, in our actions as well as reasonings, that a constant
perseverance in any course of life produces a strong inclination and
tendency to continue for the future; though there are habits of inferior
degrees of force, proportioned to the inferior degrees of steadiness and
uniformity in our conduct.

There is no doubt but this principle sometimes takes place, and produces
those inferences we draw from contrary phaenomena: though I am perswaded,
that upon examination we shall not find it to be the principle, that most
commonly influences the mind in this species of reasoning. When we follow
only the habitual determination of the mind, we make the transition
without any reflection, and interpose not a moment's delay betwixt the
view of one object and the belief of that, which is often found to attend
it. As the custom depends not upon any deliberation, it operates
immediately, without allowing any time for reflection. But this method of
proceeding we have but few instances of in our probable reasonings; and
even fewer than in those, which are derived from the uninterrupted
conjunction of objects. In the former species of reasoning we commonly
take knowingly into consideration the contrariety of past events; we
compare the different sides of the contrariety, and carefully weigh the
experiments, which we have on each side: Whence we may conclude, that our
reasonings of this kind arise not directly from the habit, but in an
oblique manner; which we must now endeavour to explain.

It is evident, that when an object is attended with contrary effects, we
judge of them only by our past experience, and always consider those as
possible, which we have observed to follow from it. And as past
experience regulates our judgment concerning the possibility of these
effects, so it does that concerning their probability; and that effect,
which has been the most common, we always esteem the most likely. Here
then are two things to be considered, viz. the reasons which determine us
to make the past a standard for the future, and the manner how we extract
a single judgment from a contrariety of past events.

First we may observe, that the supposition, that the future resembles the
past, is not founded on arguments of any kind, but is derived entirely
from habit, by which we are determined to expect for the future the same
train of objects, to which we have been accustomed. This habit or
determination to transfer the past to the future is full and perfect; and
consequently the first impulse of the imagination in this species of
reasoning is endowed with the same qualities.

But, secondly, when in considering past experiments we find them of a
contrary nature, this determination, though full and perfect in itself,
presents us with no steady object, but offers us a number of disagreeing
images in a certain order and proportion. The first impulse, therefore,
is here broke into pieces, and diffuses itself over all those images, of
which each partakes an equal share of that force and vivacity, that is
derived from the impulse. Any of these past events may again happen; and
we judge, that when they do happen, they will be mixed in the same
proportion as in the past.

If our intention, therefore, be to consider the proportions of contrary
events in a great number of instances, the images presented by our past
experience must remain in their FIRST FORM, and preserve their first
proportions. Suppose, for instance, I have found by long observation,
that of twenty ships, which go to sea, only nineteen return. Suppose I
see at present twenty ships that leave the port: I transfer my past
experience to the future, and represent to myself nineteen of these ships
as returning in safety, and one as perishing. Concerning this there can
be no difficulty. But as we frequently run over those several ideas of
past events, in order to form a judgment concerning one single event,
which appears uncertain; this consideration must change the FIRST FORM of
our ideas, and draw together the divided images presented by experience;
since it is to it we refer the determination of that particular event,
upon which we reason. Many of these images are supposed to concur, and a
superior number to concur on one side. These agreeing images unite
together, and render the idea more strong and lively, not only than a
mere fiction of the imagination, but also than any idea, which is
supported by a lesser number of experiments. Each new experiment is as a
new stroke of the pencil, which bestows an additional vivacity on the
colours without either multiplying or enlarging the figure. This
operation of the mind has been so fully explained in treating of the
probability of chance, that I need not here endeavour to render it more
intelligible. Every past experiment may be considered as a kind of
chance; I it being uncertain to us, whether the object will exist
conformable to one experiment or another. And for this reason every thing
that has been said on the one subject is applicable to both.

Thus upon the whole, contrary experiments produce an imperfect belief,
either by weakening the habit, or by dividing and afterwards joining in
different parts, that perfect habit, which makes us conclude in general,
that instances, of which we have no experience, must necessarily resemble
those of which we have.

To justify still farther this account of the second species of
probability, where we reason with knowledge and reflection from a
contrariety of past experiments, I shall propose the following
considerations, without fearing to give offence by that air of subtilty,
which attends them. Just reasoning ought still, perhaps, to retain its
force, however subtile; in the same manner as matter preserves its
solidity in the air, and fire, and animal spirits, as well as in the
grosser and more sensible forms.

First, We may observe, that there is no probability so great as not to
allow of a contrary possibility; because otherwise it would cease to be a
probability, and would become a certainty. That probability of causes,
which is most extensive, and which we at present examine, depends on a
contrariety of experiments: and it is evident An experiment in the past
proves at least a possibility for the future.

Secondly, The component parts of this possibility and probability are of
the same nature, and differ in number only, but not in kind. It has been
observed, that all single chances are entirely equal, and that the only
circumstance, which can give any event, that is contingent, a superiority
over another is a superior number of chances. In like manner, as the
uncertainty of causes is discovery by experience, which presents us with
a view of contrary events, it is plain, that when we transfer the past to
the future, the known to the unknown, every past experiment has the same
weight, and that it is only a superior number of them, which can throw the
ballance on any side. The possibility, therefore, which enters into every
reasoning of this kind, is composed of parts, which are of the same
nature both among themselves, and with those, that compose the opposite
probability.

Thirdly, We may establish it as a certain maxim, that in all moral as
well as natural phaenomena, wherever any cause consists of a number of
parts, and the effect encreases or diminishes, according to the variation
of that number, the effects properly speaking, is a compounded one, and
arises from the union of the several effects, that proceed from each part
of the cause. Thus, because the gravity of a body encreases or diminishes
by the encrease or diminution of its parts, we conclude that each part
contains this quality and contributes to the gravity of the whole. The
absence or presence of a part of the cause is attended with that of a
proportionable part of the effect. This connexion or constant conjunction
sufficiently proves the one part to be the cause of the other. As the
belief which we have of any event, encreases or diminishes according to
the number of chances or past experiments, it is to be considered as a
compounded effect, of which each part arises from a proportionable number
of chances or experiments.

Let us now join these three observations, and see what conclusion we can
draw from them. To every probability there is an opposite possibility.
This possibility is composed of parts, that are entirely of the same
nature with those of the probability; and consequently have the same
influence on the mind and understanding. The belief, which attends the
probability, is a compounded effect, and is formed by the concurrence of
the several effects, which proceed from each part of the probability.
Since therefore each part of the probability contributes to the
production of the belief, each part of the possibility must have the same
influence on the opposite side; the nature of these parts being entirely
the same. The contrary belief, attending the possibility, implies a view
of a certain object, as well as the probability does an opposite view. In
this particular both these degrees of belief are alike. The only manner
then, in which the superior number of similar component parts in the one
can exert its influence, and prevail above the inferior in the other, is
by producing a stronger and more lively view of its object. Each part
presents a particular view; and all these views uniting together produce
one general view, which is fuller and more distinct by the greater number
of causes or principles, from which it is derived.

The component parts of the probability and possibility, being alike in
their nature, must produce like effects; and the likeness of their
effects consists in this, that each of them presents a view of a
particular object. But though these parts be alike in their nature, they
are very different in their quantity and number; and this difference must
appear in the effect as well as the similarity. Now as the view they
present is in both cases full and entire, and comprehends the object in
all its parts, it is impossible that in this particular there can be any
difference; nor is there any thing but a superior vivacity in the
probability, arising from the concurrence of a superior number of views,
which can distinguish these effects.

Here is almost the same argument in a different light. All our reasonings
concerning the probability of causes are founded on the transferring of
past to future. The transferring of any past experiment to the future is
sufficient to give us a view of the object; whether that experiment be
single or combined with others of the same kind; whether it be entire, or
opposed by others of a contrary kind. Suppose, then, it acquires both
these qualities of combination and opposition, it loses not upon that
account its former power of presenting a view of the object, but only
concurs with and opposes other experiments, that have a like influence. A
question, therefore, may arise concerning the manner both of the
concurrence and opposition. As to the concurrence, there is only the
choice left betwixt these two hypotheses. First, That the view of the
object, occasioned by the transference of each past experiment, preserves
itself entire, and only multiplies the number of views. Or, SECONDLY,
That it runs into the other similar and correspondent views, and gives
them a superior degree of force and vivacity. But that the first
hypothesis is erroneous, is evident from experience, which informs us,
that the belief, attending any reasoning, consists in one conclusion, not
in a multitude of similar ones, which would only distract the mind, and
in many cases would be too numerous to be comprehended distinctly by any
finite capacity. It remains, therefore, as the only reasonable opinion,
that these similar views run into each other, and unite their forces; so
as to produce a stronger and clearer view, than what arises from any one
alone. This is the manner, in which past experiments concur, when they
are transfered to any future event. As to the manner of their opposition,
it is evident, that as the contrary views are incompatible with each
other, and it is impossible the object can at once exist conformable to
both of them, their influence becomes mutually destructive, and the mind
is determined to the superior only with that force, which remains, after
subtracting the inferior.

I am sensible how abstruse all this reasoning must appear to the
generality of readers, who not being accustomed to such profound
reflections on the intellectual faculties of the mind, will be apt to
reject as chimerical whatever strikes not in with the common received
notions, and with the easiest and most obvious principles of philosophy.
And no doubt there are some pains required to enter into these arguments;
though perhaps very little are necessary to perceive the imperfection of
every vulgar hypothesis on this subject, and the little light, which
philosophy can yet afford us in such sublime and such curious
speculations. Let men be once fully perswaded of these two principles,
THAT THERE, IS NOTHING IN ANY OBJECT, CONSIDERed IN ITSELF, WHICH CAN
AFFORD US A REASON FOR DRAWING A CONCLUSION BEYOND it; and, THAT EVEN
AFTER THE OBSERVATION OF THE FREQUENT OR CONSTANT CONJUNCTION OF OBJECTS,
WE HAVE NO REASON TO DRAW ANY INFERENCE CONCERNING ANY OBJECT BEYOND
THOSE OF WHICH WE HAVE HAD EXPERIENCE; I say, let men be once fully
convinced of these two principles, and this will throw them so loose from
all common systems, that they will make no difficulty of receiving any,
which may appear the most extraordinary. These principles we have found
to be sufficiently convincing, even with regard to our most certain
reasonings from causation: But I shall venture to affirm, that with
regard to these conjectural or probable reasonings they still acquire a
new degree of evidence.

First, It is obvious, that in reasonings of this kind, it is not the
object presented to us, which, considered in itself, affords us any reason
to draw a conclusion concerning any other object or event. For as this
latter object is supposed uncertain, and as the uncertainty is derived
from a concealed contrariety of causes in the former, were any of the
causes placed in the known qualities of that object, they would no longer
be concealed, nor would our conclusion be uncertain.

But, secondly, it is equally obvious in this species of reasoning, that if
the transference of the past to the future were founded merely on a
conclusion of the understanding, it coued never occasion any belief or
assurance. When we transfer contrary experiments to the future, we can
only repeat these contrary experiments with their particular proportions;
which coued not produce assurance in any single event, upon which we
reason, unless the fancy melted together all those images that concur,
and extracted from them one single idea or image, which is intense and
lively in proportion to the number of experiments from which it is
derived, and their superiority above their antagonists. Our past
experience presents no determinate object; and as our belief, however
faint, fixes itself on a determinate object, it is evident that the belief
arises not merely from the transference of past to future, but from some
operation of the fancy conjoined with it. This may lead us to conceive
the manner, in which that faculty enters into all our reasonings.

I shall conclude this subject with two reflections, which may deserve our
attention. The FIRST may be explained after this manner. When the mind
forms a reasoning concerning any matter of fact, which is only probable,
it casts its eye backward upon past experience, and transferring it to
the future, is presented with so many contrary views of its object, of
which those that are of the same kind uniting together, and running into
one act of the mind, serve to fortify and inliven it. But suppose that
this multitude of views or glimpses of an object proceeds not from
experience, but from. a voluntary act of the imagination; this effect
does not follow, or at least, follows not in the same degree. For though
custom and education produce belief by such a repetition, as is not
derived from experience, yet this requires a long tract of time, along
with a very frequent and undesigned repetition. In general we may
pronounce, that a person who would voluntarily repeat any idea in his
mind, though supported by one past experience, would be no more inclined
to believe the existence of its object, than if he had contented himself
with one survey of it. Beside the effect of design; each act of the mind,
being separate and independent, has a separate influence, and joins not
its force with that of its fellows. Not being united by any common
object, producing them, they have no relation to each other; and
consequently make no transition or union of forces. This phaenomenon we
shall understand better afterwards.

My second reflection is founded on those large probabilities, which the
mind can judge of, and the minute differences it can observe betwixt
them. When the chances or experiments on one side amount to ten thousand,
and on the other to ten thousand and one, the judgment gives the
preference to the latter, upon account of that superiority; though it is
plainly impossible for the mind to run over every particular view, and
distinguish the superior vivacity of the image arising from the superior
number, where the difference is so inconsiderable. We have a parallel
instance in the affections. It is evident, according to the principles
above-mentioned, that when an object produces any passion in us, which
varies according to the different quantity of the object; I say, it is
evident, that the passion, properly speaking, is not a simple emotion,
but a compounded one, of a great number of weaker passions, derived from
a view of each part of the object. For otherwise it were impossible the
passion should encrease by the encrease of these parts. Thus a man, who
desires a thousand pound, has in reality a thousand or more desires which
uniting together, seem to make only one passion; though the composition
evidently betrays itself upon every alteration of the object, by the
preference he gives to the larger number, if superior only by an unite.
Yet nothing can be more certain, than that so small a difference would
not be discernible in the passions, nor coued render them distinguishable
from each other. The difference, therefore, of our conduct in preferring
the greater number depends not upon our passions, but upon custom, and
general rules. We have found in a multitude of instances, that the
augmenting the numbers of any sum augments the passion, where the numbers
are precise and the difference sensible. The mind can perceive from its
immediate feeling, that three guineas produce a greater passion than two;
and this it transfers to larger numbers, because of the resemblance; and
by a general rule assigns to a thousand guineas, a stronger passion than
to nine hundred and ninety nine. These general rules we shall explain
presently.

But beside these two species of probability, which a-re derived from an
imperfect experience and from contrary causes, there is a third arising
from ANALOGY, which differs from them in some material circumstances.
According to the hypothesis above explained all kinds of reasoning from
causes or effects are founded on two particulars, viz., the constant
conjunction of any two objects in all past experience, and the
resemblance of a present object to any one of them. The effect of these
two particulars is, that the present object invigorates and inlivens the
imagination; and the resemblance, along with the constant union, conveys
this force and vivacity to the related idea; which we are therefore said
to believe, or assent to. If you weaken either the union or resemblance,
you weaken the principle of transition, and of consequence that belief,
which arises from it. The vivacity of the first impression cannot be
fully conveyed to the related idea, either where the conjunction of their
objects is not constant, or where the present impression does not
perfectly resemble any of those, whose union we are accustomed to
observe. In those probabilities of chance and causes above-explained,
it is the constancy 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 well as union, it is
impossible there can be any reasoning: but as this resemblance admits of
many different degrees, the reasoning becomes proportionably more or less
firm and certain. An experiment loses of its force, when transferred to
instances, which are not exactly resembling; though it is evident it may
still retain as much as may be the foundation of probability, as long as
there is any resemblance remaining.



SECT. XIII.  OF UNPHILOSOPHICAL PROBABILITY.


All these kinds of probability are received by philosophers, and allowed
to be reasonable foundations of belief and opinion. But there are others,
that are derived from the same principles, though they have not had the
good fortune to obtain the same sanction. The first probability of this
kind may be accounted for thus. The diminution of the union, and of the
resemblance, as above explained, diminishes the facility of the
transition, and by that means weakens the evidence; and we may farther
observe, that the same diminution of the evidence will follow from a
diminution of the impression, and from the shading of those colours,
under which it appears to the memory or senses. The argument, which we
found on any matter of fact we remember, is more or less convincing
according as the fact is recent or remote; and though the difference in
these degrees of evidence be not received by philosophy as solid and
legitimate; because in that case an argument must have a different force
to day, from what it shall have a month hence; yet notwithstanding the
opposition of philosophy, it is certain, this circumstance has a
considerable influence on the understanding, and secretly changes the
authority of the same argument, according to the different times, in
which it is proposed to us. A greater force and vivacity in the
impression naturally conveys a greater to the related idea; and it is on
the degrees of force and vivacity, that the belief depends, according to
the foregoing system.

There is a second difference, which we may frequently observe in our
degrees of belief and assurance, and which never fails to take place,
though disclaimed by philosophers. An experiment, that is recent and fresh
in the memory, affects us more than one that is in some measure
obliterated; and has a superior influence on the judgment, as well as on
the passions. A lively impression produces more assurance than a faint
one; because it has more original force to communicate to the related
idea, which thereby acquires a greater force and vivacity. A recent
observation has a like effect; because the custom and transition is there
more entire, and preserves better the original force in the
communication. Thus a drunkard, who has seen his companion die of a
debauch, is struck with that instance for some time, and dreads a like
accident for himself: But as the memory of it decays away by degrees, his
former security returns, and the danger seems less certain and real.

I add, as a third instance of this kind, that though our reasonings from
proofs and from probabilities be considerably different from each other,
yet the former species of reasoning often degenerates insensibly into the
latter, by nothing but the multitude of connected arguments. It is
certain, that when an inference is drawn immediately from an object,
without any intermediate cause or effect, the conviction is much
stronger, and the persuasion more lively, than when the imagination is
carryed through a long chain of connected arguments, however infallible
the connexion of each link may be esteemed. It is from the original
impression, that the vivacity of all the ideas is derived, by means of
the customary transition of the imagination; and it is evident this
vivacity must gradually decay in proportion to the distance, and must
lose somewhat in each transition. Sometimes this distance has a greater
influence than even contrary experiments would have; and a man may
receive a more lively conviction from a probable reasoning, which is
close and immediate, than from a long chain of consequences, though just
and conclusive in each part. Nay it is seldom such reasonings produce any
conviction; and one must have a very strong and firm imagination to
preserve the evidence to the end, where it passes through so many, stages.

But here it may not be amiss to remark a very curious phaenomenon, which
the present subject suggests to us. It is evident there is no point of
ancient history, of which we can have any assurance, but by passing
through many millions of causes and effects, and through a chain of
arguments of almost an immeasurable length. Before the knowledge of the
fact coued come to the first historian, it must be conveyed through many
mouths; and after it is committed to writing, each new copy is a new
object, of which the connexion with the foregoing is known only by
experience and observation. Perhaps, therefore, it may be concluded from
the precedent reasoning, that the evidence of all ancient history must now
be lost; or at least, will be lost in time, as the chain of causes
encreases, and runs on to a greater length. But as it seems contrary to
common sense to think, that if the republic of letters, and the art of
printing continue on the same footing as at present, our posterity, even
after a thousand ages, can ever doubt if there has been such a man as
JULIUS CAESAR; this may be considered as an objection to the present
system. If belief consisted only in a certain vivacity, conveyed from an
original impression, it would decay by the length of the transition, and
must at last be utterly extinguished: And vice versa, if belief on some
occasions be not capable of such an extinction; it must be something
different from that vivacity.

Before I answer this objection I shall observe, that from this topic
there has been borrowed a very celebrated argument against the Christian
Religion; but with this difference, that the connexion betwixt each link
of the chain in human testimony has been there supposed not to go beyond
probability, and to be liable to a degree of doubt and uncertainty. And
indeed it must be confest, that in this manner of considering the
subject, (which however is not a true one) there is no history or
tradition, but what must in the end lose all its force and evidence.
Every new probability diminishes the original conviction; and however
great that conviction may be supposed, it is impossible it can subsist
under such re-iterated diminutions. This is true in general; though we
shall find [Part IV. Sect. 1.] afterwards, that there is one very
memorable exception, which is of vast consequence in the present subject
of the understanding.

Mean while to give a solution of the preceding objection upon the
supposition, that historical evidence amounts at first to an entire proof;
let us consider, that though the links are innumerable, that connect
any original fact with the present impression, which is the foundation of
belief; yet they are all of the same kind, and depend on the fidelity of
Printers and Copyists. One edition passes into another, and that into a
third, and so on, till we come to that volume we peruse at present. There
is no variation in the steps. After we know one we know all of them; and
after we have made one, we can have no scruple as to the rest. This
circumstance alone preserves the evidence of history, and will perpetuate
the memory of the present age to the latest posterity. If all the long
chain of causes and effects, which connect any past event with any volume
of history, were composed of parts different from each other, and which
it were necessary for the mind distinctly to conceive, it is impossible we
should preserve to the end any belief or evidence. But as most of these
proofs are perfectly resembling, the mind runs easily along them, jumps
from one part to another with facility, and forms but a confused and
general notion of each link. By this means a long chain of argument, has
as little effect in diminishing the original vivacity, as a much shorter
would have, if composed of parts, which were different from each other,
and of which each required a distinct consideration.

A fourth unphilosophical species of probability is that derived from
general rules, which we rashly form to ourselves, and which are the
source of what we properly call PREJUDICE. An IRISHMAN cannot have wit,
and a Frenchman cannot have solidity; for which reason, though the
conversation of the former in any instance be visibly very agreeable, and
of the latter very judicious, we have entertained such a prejudice
against them, that they must be dunces or fops in spite of sense and
reason. Human nature is very subject to errors of this kind; and perhaps
this nation as much as any other.

Should it be demanded why men form general rules, and allow them to
influence their judgment, even contrary to present observation and
experience, I should reply, that in my opinion it proceeds from those
very principles, on which all judgments concerning causes and effects
depend. Our judgments concerning cause and effect are derived from habit
and experience; and when we have been accustomed to see one object united
to another, our imagination passes from the first to the second, by a
natural transition, which precedes reflection, and which cannot be
prevented by it. Now it is the nature of custom not only to operate with
its full force, when objects are presented, that are exactly the, same
with those to which we have been accustomed; but also to operate in an
inferior degree, when we discover such as are similar; and though the
habit loses somewhat of its force by every difference, yet it is seldom
entirely destroyed, where any considerable circumstances remain the same.
A man, who has contracted a custom of eating fruit by the use of pears or
peaches, will satisfy himself with melons, where he cannot find his
favourite fruit; as one, who has become a drunkard by the use of red
wines, will be carried almost with the same violence to white, if
presented to him. From this principle I have accounted for that species
of probability, derived from analogy, where we transfer our experience in
past instances to objects which are resembling, but are not exactly the
same with those concerning which we have had experience. In proportion as
the resemblance decays, the probability diminishes; but still has some
force as long as there remain any traces of the resemblance.

This observation we may carry farther; and may remark, that though custom
be the foundation of all our judgments, yet sometimes it has an effect on
the imagination in opposition to the judgment, and produces a contrariety
in our sentiments concerning the same object. I explain myself. In almost
all kinds of causes there is a complication of circumstances, of which
some are essential, and others superfluous; some are absolutely requisite
to the production of the effect, and others are only conjoined by
accident. Now we may observe, that when these superfluous circumstances
are numerous, and remarkable, and frequently conjoined with the
essential, they have such an influence on the imagination, that even in
the absence of the latter they carry us on to t-he conception of the
usual effect, and give to that conception a force and vivacity, which
make it superior to the mere fictions of the fancy. We may correct this
propensity by a reflection on the nature of those circumstances: but it is
still certain, that custom takes the start, and gives a biass to the
imagination.

To illustrate this by a familiar instance, let us consider the case of a
man, who, being hung out from a high tower in a cage of iron cannot
forbear trembling, when he surveys the precipice below him, though he
knows himself to be perfectly secure from falling, by his experience of
the solidity of the iron, which supports him; and though the ideas of fall
and descent, and harm and death, be derived solely from custom and
experience. The same custom goes beyond the instances, from which it is
derived, and to which it perfectly corresponds; and influences his ideas
of such objects as are in some respect resembling, but fall not precisely
under the same rule. The circumstances of depth and descent strike so
strongly upon him, that their influence can-not be destroyed by the
contrary circumstances of support and solidity, which ought to give him a
perfect security. His imagination runs away with its object, and excites
a passion proportioned to it. That passion returns back upon the
imagination and inlivens the idea; which lively idea has a new influence
on the passion, and in its turn augments its force and violence; and both
his fancy and affections, thus mutually supporting each other, cause the
whole to have a very great influence upon him.

But why need we seek for other instances, while the present subject of
philosophical probabilities offers us so obvious an one, in the
opposition betwixt the judgment and imagination arising from these
effects of custom? According to my system, all reasonings are nothing but
the effects of custom; and custom has no influence, but by inlivening the
imagination, and giving us a strong conception of any object. It may,
therefore, be concluded, that our judgment and imagination can never be
contrary, and that custom cannot operate on the latter faculty after such
a manner, as to render it opposite to the former. This difficulty we can
remove after no other manner, than by supposing the influence of general
rules. We shall afterwards take [Sect. 15.] notice of some general rules,
by which we ought to regulate our judgment concerning causes and effects;
and these rules are formed on the nature of our understanding, and on our
experience of its operations in the judgments we form concerning objects.
By them we learn to distinguish the accidental circumstances from the
efficacious causes; and when we find that an effect can be produced
without the concurrence of any particular circumstance, we conclude that
that circumstance makes not a part of the efficacious cause, however
frequently conjoined with it. But as this frequent conjunction necessity
makes it have some effect on the imagination, in spite of the opposite
conclusion from general rules, the opposition of these two principles
produces a contrariety in our thoughts, and causes us to ascribe the one
inference to our judgment, and the other to our imagination. The general
rule is attributed to our judgment; as being more extensive and constant.
The exception to the imagination, as being more capricious and uncertain.

Thus our general rules are in a manner set in opposition to each other.
When an object appears, that resembles any cause in very considerable
circumstances, the imagination naturally carries us to a lively
conception of the usual effect, Though the object be different in the most
material and most efficacious circumstances from that cause. Here is the
first influence of general rules. But when we take a review of this act
of the mind, and compare it with the more general and authentic
operations of the understanding, we find it to be of an irregular nature,
and destructive of all the most established principles of reasonings;
which is the cause of our rejecting it. This is a second influence of
general rules, and implies the condemnation of the former. Sometimes the
one, sometimes the other prevails, according to the disposition and
character of the person. The vulgar are commonly guided by the first, and
wise men by the second. Mean while the sceptics may here have the
pleasure of observing a new and signal contradiction in our reason, and
of seeing all philosophy ready to be subverted by a principle of human
nature, and again saved by a new direction of the very same principle.
The following of general rules is a very unphilosophical species of
probability; and yet it is only by following them that we can correct
this, and all other unphilosophical probabilities.

Since we have instances, where general rules operate on the imagination
even contrary to the judgment, we need not be surprized to see their
effects encrease, when conjoined with that latter faculty, and to observe
that they bestow on the ideas they present to us a force superior to what
attends any other. Every one knows, there is an indirect manner of
insinuating praise or blame, which is much less shocking than the open
flattery or censure of any person. However be may communicate his
sentiments by such secret insinuations, and make them known with equal
certainty as by the open discovery of them, it is certain that their
influence is not equally strong and powerful. One who lashes me with
concealed strokes of satire, moves not my indignation to such a degree,
as if he flatly told me I was a fool and coxcomb; though I equally
understand his meaning, as if he did. This difference is to be attributed
to the influence of general rules.

Whether a person openly, abuses me, or slyly intimates his contempt, in
neither case do I immediately perceive his sentiment or opinion; and it is
only by signs, that is, by its effects, I become sensible of it. The only
difference, then, betwixt these two cases consists in this, that in the
open discovery of his sentiments he makes use of signs, which are general
and universal; and in the secret intimation employs such as are more
singular and uncommon. The effect of this circumstance is, that the
imagination, in running from the present impression to the absent idea,
makes the transition with greater facility, and consequently conceives
the object with greater force, where the connexion is common and
universal, than where it is more rare and particular. Accordingly we may
observe, that the open declaration of our sentiments is called the taking
off the mask, as the secret intimation of our opinions is said to be the
veiling of them. The difference betwixt an idea produced by a general
connexion, and that arising from a particular one is here compared to the
difference betwixt an impression and an idea. This difference in the
imagination has a suitable effect on the passions; and this effect is
augmented by another circumstance. A secret intimation of anger or
contempt shews that we still have some consideration for the person, and
avoid the directly abusing him. This makes a concealed satire less
disagreeable; but still this depends on the same principle. For if an
idea were not more feeble, when only intimated, it would never be
esteemed a mark of greater respect to proceed in this method than in the
other.

Sometimes scurrility is less displeasing than delicate satire, because it
revenges us in a manner for the injury at the very time it is committed,
by affording us a just reason to blame and contemn the person, who
injures us. But this phaenomenon likewise depends upon the same
principle. For why do we blame all gross and injurious language, unless
it be, because we esteem it contrary to good breeding and humanity? And
why is it contrary, unless it be more shocking than any delicate satire?
The rules of good breeding condemn whatever is openly disobliging, and
gives a sensible pain and confusion to those, with whom we converse.
After this is once established, abusive language is universally blamed,
and gives less pain upon account of its coarseness and incivility, which
render the person despicable, that employs it. It becomes less
disagreeable, merely because originally it is more so; and it is more
disagreeable, because it affords an inference by general and common
rules, that are palpable and undeniable.

To this explication of the different influence of open and concealed
flattery or satire, I shall add the consideration of another phenomenon,
which is analogous to it. There are many particulars in the point of
honour both of men and women, whose violations, when open and avowed, the
world never excuses, but which it is more apt to overlook, when the
appearances are saved, and the transgression is secret and concealed.
Even those, who know with equal certainty, that the fault is committed,
pardon it more easily, when the proofs seem in some measure oblique and
equivocal, than when they are direct and undeniable. The same idea is
presented in both cases, and, properly speaking, is equally assented to
by the judgment; and yet its influence is different, because of the
different manner, in which it is presented.

Now if we compare these two cases, of the open and concealed violations
of the laws of honour, we shall find, that the difference betwixt them
consists in this, that in the first ease the sign, from which we infer
the blameable action, is single, and suffices alone to be the foundation
of our reasoning and judgment; whereas in the latter the signs are
numerous, and decide little or nothing when alone and unaccompanyed with
many minute circumstances, which are almost imperceptible. But it is
certainly true, that any reasoning is always the more convincing, the
more single and united it is to the eye, and the less exercise it gives
to the imagination to collect all its parts, and run from them to the
correlative idea, which forms the conclusion. The labour of the thought
disturbs the regular progress of the sentiments, as we shall observe
presently.[Part IV. Sect. 1.] The idea strikes not on us with ouch
vivacity; and consequently has no such influence on the passion and
imagination.

From the same principles we may account for those observations of the
CARDINAL DE RETZ, that there are many things, in which the world wishes
to be deceived; and that it more easily excuses a person in acting than
in talking contrary to the decorum of his profession and character. A
fault in words is commonly more open and distinct than one in actions,
which admit of many palliating excuses, and decide not so clearly
concerning the intention and views of the actor.

Thus it appears upon the whole, that every kind of opinion or judgment,
which amounts not to knowledge, is derived entirely from the force and
vivacity of the perception, and that these qualities constitute in the
mind, what we call the BELIEF Of the existence of any object. This force
and this vivacity are most conspicuous in the memory; and therefore our
confidence in the veracity of that faculty is the greatest imaginable,
and equals in many respects the assurance of a demonstration. The next
degree of these qualities is that derived from the relation of cause and
effect; and this too is very great, especially when the conjunction is
found by experience to be perfectly constant, and when the object, which
is present to us, exactly resembles those, of which we have had
experience. But below this degree of evidence there are many others,
which have an influence on the passions and imagination, proportioned to
that degree of force and vivacity, which they communicate to the ideas.
It is by habit we make the transition from cause to effect; and it is from
some present impression we borrow that vivacity, which we diffuse over
the correlative idea. But when we have not observed a sufficient number
of instances, to produce a strong habit; or when these instances are
contrary to each other; or when the resemblance is not exact; or the
present impression is faint and obscure; or the experience in some
measure obliterated from the memory; or the connexion dependent on a long
chain of objects; or the inference derived from general rules, and yet
not conformable to them: In all these cases the evidence diminishes by
the diminution of the force and intenseness of the idea. This therefore
is the nature of the judgment and probability.

What principally gives authority to this system is, beside the undoubted
arguments, upon which each part is founded, the agreement of these parts,
and the necessity of one to explain another. The belief, which attends
our memory, is of the same nature with that, which is derived from our
judgments: Nor is there any difference betwixt that judgment, which is
derived from a constant and uniform connexion of causes and effects, and
that which depends upon an interrupted and uncertain. It is indeed
evident, that in all determinations, where the mind decides from contrary
experiments, it is first divided within itself, and has an inclination to
either side in proportion to the number of experiments we have seen and
remember. This contest is at last determined to the advantage of that
side, where we observe a superior number of these experiments; but still
with a diminution of force in the evidence correspondent to the number of
the opposite experiments. Each possibility, of which the probability is
composed, operates separately upon the imagination; and it is the larger
collection of possibilities, which at last prevails, and that with a
force proportionable to its superiority. All these phenomena lead
directly to the precedent system; nor will it ever be possible upon any
other principles to give a satisfactory and consistent explication of
them. Without considering these judgments as the effects of custom on the
imagination, we shall lose ourselves in perpetual contradiction and
absurdity.



SECT. XIV.  OF THE IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION.


Having thus explained the manner, in which we reason beyond our immediate
impressions, and conclude that such particular causes must have such
particular effects; we must now return upon our footsteps to examine that
question, which [Sect. 2.] first occured to us, and which we dropt in our
way, viz. What is our idea of necessity, when we say that two objects are
necessarily connected together. Upon this head I repeat what I have often
had occasion to observe, that as we have no idea, that is not derived
from an impression, we must find some impression, that gives rise to this
idea of necessity, if we assert we have really such an idea. In order to
this I consider, in what objects necessity is commonly supposed to lie;
and finding that it is always ascribed to causes and effects, I turn my
eye to two objects supposed to be placed in that relation; and examine
them in all the situations, of which they are susceptible. I immediately
perceive, that they are contiguous in time and place, and that the object
we call cause precedes the other we call effect. In no one instance can
I go any farther, nor is it possible for me to discover any third
relation betwixt these objects. I therefore enlarge my view to comprehend
several instances; where I find like objects always existing in like
relations of contiguity and succession. At first sight this seems to
serve but little to my purpose. The reflection on several instances only
repeats the same objects; and therefore can never give rise to a new
idea. But upon farther enquiry I find, that the repetition is not in
every particular the same, but produces a new impression, and by that
means the idea, which I at present examine. For after a frequent
repetition, I find, that upon the appearance of one of the objects, the
mind is determined by custom to consider its usual attendant, and to
consider it in a stronger light upon account of its relation to the first
object. It is this impression, then, or determination, which affords me
the idea of necessity.

I doubt not but these consequences will at first sight be received
without difficulty, as being evident deductions from principles, which we
have already established, and which we have often employed in our
reasonings. This evidence both in the first principles, and in the
deductions, may seduce us unwarily into the conclusion, and make us
imagine it contains nothing extraordinary, nor worthy of our curiosity.
But though such an inadvertence may facilitate the reception of this
reasoning, it will make it be the more easily forgot; for which reason I
think it proper to give warning, that I have just now examined one of the
most sublime questions in philosophy, viz. that concerning the power and
efficacy of causes; where all the sciences seem so much interested. Such
a warning will naturally rouze up the attention of the reader, and make
him desire a more full account of my doctrine, as well as of the
arguments, on which it is founded. This request is so reasonable, that I
cannot refuse complying with it; especially as I am hopeful that these
principles, the more they are examined, will acquire the more force and
evidence.

There is no question, which on account of its importance, as well as
difficulty, has caused more disputes both among antient and modern
philosophers, than this concerning the efficacy of causes, or that
quality which makes them be followed by their effects. But before they
entered upon these disputes, methinks it would not have been improper to
have examined what idea we have of that efficacy, which is the subject of
the controversy. This is what I find principally wanting in their
reasonings, and what I shall here endeavour to supply.

I begin with observing that the terms of EFFICACY, AGENCY, POWER, FORCE,
ENERGY, NECESSITY, CONNEXION, and PRODUCTIVE QUALITY, are all nearly
synonymous; and therefore it is an absurdity to employ any of them in
defining the rest. By this observation we reject at once all the vulgar
definitions, which philosophers have given of power and efficacy; and
instead of searching for the idea in these definitions, must look for it
in the impressions, from which it is originally derived. If it be a
compound idea, it must arise from compound impressions. If simple, from
simple impressions.

I believe the most general and most popular explication of this matter, is
to say [See Mr. Locke, chapter of power.], that finding from experience,
that there are several new productions in matter, such as the motions and
variations of body, and concluding that there must somewhere be a power
capable of producing them, we arrive at last by this reasoning at the idea
of power and efficacy. But to be convinced that this explication is more
popular than philosophical, we need but reflect on two very obvious
principles. First, That reason alone can never give rise to any original
idea, and secondly, that reason, as distinguished from experience, can
never make us conclude, that a cause or productive quality is absolutely
requisite to every beginning of existence. Both these considerations have
been sufficiently explained: and therefore shall not at present be any
farther insisted on.

I shall only infer from them, that since reason can never give rise to
the idea of efficacy, that idea must be derived from experience, and from
some particular instances of this efficacy, which make their passage into
the mind by the common channels of sensation or reflection. Ideas always
represent their objects or impressions; and vice versa, there are some
objects necessary to give rise to every idea. If we pretend, therefore,
to have any just idea of this efficacy, we must produce some instance,
wherein the efficacy is plainly discoverable to the mind, and its
operations obvious to our consciousness or sensation. By the refusal of
this, we acknowledge, that the idea is impossible and imaginary, since
the principle of innate ideas, which alone can save us from this dilemma,
has been already refuted, and is now almost universally rejected in the
learned world. Our present business, then, must be to find some natural
production, where the operation and efficacy of a cause can be clearly
conceived and comprehended by the mind, without any danger of obscurity
or mistake.

In this research we meet with very little encouragement from that
prodigious diversity, which is found in the opinions of those
philosophers, who have pretended to explain the secret force and energy
of causes. [See Father Malbranche, Book vi. Part 2, chap. 3. And the
illustrations upon it.] There are some, who maintain, that bodies operate
by their substantial form; others, by their accidents or qualities;
several, by their matter and form; some, by their form and accidents;
others, by certain virtues and faculties distinct from all this. All these
sentiments again are mixed and varyed in a thousand different ways; and
form a strong presumption, that none of them have any solidity or
evidence, and that the supposition of an efficacy in any of the known
qualities of matter is entirely without foundation. This presumption must
encrease upon us, when we consider, that these principles of substantial
forms, and accidents, and faculties, are not in reality any of the known
properties of bodies, but are perfectly unintelligible and inexplicable.
For it is evident philosophers would never have had recourse to such
obscure and uncertain principles, had they met with any satisfaction in
such as are clear and intelligible; especially in such an affair as this,
which must be an object of the simplest understanding, if not of the
senses. Upon the whole, we may conclude, that it is impossible in any one
instance to shew the principle, in which the force and agency of a cause
is placed; and that the most refined and most vulgar understandings are
equally at a loss in this particular. If any one think proper to refute
this assertion, he need not put himself to the trouble of inventing any
long reasonings: but may at once shew us an instance of a cause, where we
discover the power or operating principle. This defiance we are obliged
frequently to make use of, as being almost the only means of proving a
negative in philosophy.

The small success, which has been met with in all the attempts to fix
this power, has at last obliged philosophers to conclude, that the
ultimate force and efficacy of nature is perfectly unknown to us, and
that it is in vain we search for it in all the known qualities of matter.
In this opinion they are almost unanimous; and it is only in the inference
they draw from it, that they discover any difference in their sentiments.
For some of them, as the CARTESIANS in particular, having established it
as a principle, that we are perfectly acquainted with the essence of
matter, have very naturally inferred, that it is endowed with no
efficacy, and that it is impossible for it of itself to communicate
motion, or produce any of those effects, which we ascribe to it. As the
essence of matter consists in extension, and as extension implies not
actual motion, but only mobility; they conclude, that the energy, which
produces the motion, cannot lie 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 may produce, or continue, or
communicate motion: But since these effects are evident to our senses,
and since the power, that produces them, must be placed somewhere, it
must lie in the DEITY, or that divine being, who contains in his nature
all excellency and perfection. It is the deity, therefore, who is the
prime mover of the universe, and who not only first created matter, and
gave it it's original impulse, but likewise by a continued exertion of
omnipotence, supports its existence, and successively bestows on it all
those motions, and configurations, and qualities, with which it is
endowed.

This opinion is certainly very curious, and well worth our attention; but
it will appear superfluous to examine it in this place, if we reflect a
moment on our present purpose in taking notice of it. We have established
it as a principle, that as all ideas are derived from impressions, or
some precedent perceptions, it is impossible we can have any idea of power
and efficacy, unless some instances can be produced, wherein this power
is perceived to exert itself. Now, as these instances can never be
discovered in body, the Cartesians, proceeding upon their principle of
innate ideas, have had recourse to a supreme spirit or deity, whom they
consider as the only active being in the universe, and as the immediate
cause of every alteration in matter. But the principle of innate ideas
being allowed to be false, it follows, that the supposition of a deity
can serve us in no 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 we are internally conscious of in our own minds. For if every
idea be derived from an impression, the idea of a deity proceeds from the
same origin; and if no impression, either of sensation or reflection,
implies any force or efficacy, it is equally impossible to discover or
even imagine any such active principle in the deity. Since these
philosophers, therefore, have concluded, that matter cannot be endowed
with any efficacious principle, because it is impossible to discover in it
such a principle; the same course of reasoning should determine them to
exclude it from the supreme being. Or if they esteem that opinion absurd
and impious, as it really is, I shall tell them how they may avoid it;
and that is, by concluding from the very first, that they have no
adequate idea of power or efficacy in any object; since neither in body
nor spirit, neither in superior nor inferior natures, are they able to
discover one single instance of it.

The same conclusion is unavoidable upon the hypothesis of those, who
maintain the efficacy of second causes, and attribute a derivative, but a
real power and energy to matter. For as they confess, that this energy
lies not in any of the known qualities of matter, the difficulty still
remains concerning the origin of its idea. If we have really an idea of
power, we may attribute power to an unknown quality: But as it is
impossible, that that idea can be derived from such a quality, and as
there is nothing in known qualities, which can produce it; it follows
that we deceive ourselves, when we imagine we are possest of any idea of
this kind, after the manner we commonly understand it. All ideas are
derived from, and represent impressions. We never have any impression,
that contains any power or efficacy. We never therefore have any idea of
power.

Some have asserted, that we feel an energy, or power, in our own mind;
and that having in this manner acquired the idea of power, we transfer
that quality to matter, where we are not able immediately to discover it.
The motions of our body, and the thoughts and sentiments of our mind,
(say they) obey the will; nor do we seek any farther to acquire a just
notion of force or power. But to convince us how fallacious this
reasoning is, we need only consider, that the will being here considered
as a cause, has no more a discoverable connexion with its effects, than
any material cause has with its proper effect. So far from perceiving the
connexion betwixt an act of volition, and a motion of the body; it is
allowed that no effect is more inexplicable from the powers and essence
of thought and matter. Nor is the empire of the will over our mind more
intelligible. The effect is there distinguishable and separable from the
cause, and coued not be foreseen without the experience of their constant
conjunction. We have command over our mind to a certain degree, but
beyond that, lose all empire over it: And it is evidently impossible to
fix any precise bounds to our authority, where we consult not experience.
In short, the actions of the mind are, in this respect, the same with
those of matter. We perceive only their constant conjunction; nor can we
ever reason beyond it. No internal impression has an apparent energy,
more than external objects have. Since, therefore, matter is confessed by
philosophers to operate by an unknown force, we should in vain hope to
attain an idea of force by consulting our own minds. [Footnote 8.]

[Footnote 8. The same imperfection attends our ideas of the Deity; but
this can have no effect either on religion or morals. The order of the
universe proves an omnipotent mind; that is, a mind whose wili is
CONSTANTLY ATTENDED with the obedience of every creature and being.
Nothing more is requisite to give a foundation to all the articles of
religion. nor is It necessary we shoud form a distinct idea of the force
and energy of the supreme Being.]

It has been established as a certain principle, that general or abstract
ideas are nothing but individual ones taken in a certain light, and that,
in reflecting on any object, it is as impossible to exclude from our
thought all particular degrees of quantity and quality as from the real
nature of things. If we be possest, therefore, of any idea of power in
general, we must also be able to conceive some particular species of it;
and as power cannot subsist alone, but is always regarded as an attribute
of some being or existence, we must be able. to place this power in some
particular being, and conceive that being as endowed with a real force
and energy, by which such a particular effect necessarily results from
its operation. We must distinctly and particularly conceive the connexion
betwixt the cause and effect, and be able to pronounce, from a simple
view of the one, that it must be followed or preceded by the other. This
is the true manner of conceiving a particular power in a particular body:
and a general idea being impossible without an individual; where the
latter is impossible, it is certain the former can never exist. Now
nothing is more evident, than that the human mind cannot form such an
idea of two objects, as to conceive any connexion betwixt them, or
comprehend distinctly that power or efficacy, by which they are united.
Such a connexion would amount to a demonstration, and would imply the
absolute impossibility for the one object not to follow, or to be
conceived not to follow upon the other: Which kind of connexion has
already been rejected in all cases. If any one is of a contrary opinion,
and thinks he has attained a notion of power in any particular object, I
desire he may point out to me that object. But till I meet with
such-a-one, which I despair of, I cannot forbear concluding, that since
we can never distinctly conceive how any particular power can possibly
reside in any particular object, we deceive ourselves in imagining we can
form any such general idea.

Thus upon the whole we may infer, that when we talk of any being, whether
of a superior or inferior nature, as endowed with a power or force,
proportioned to any effect; when we speak of a necessary connexion
betwixt objects, and suppose, that this connexion depends upon an
efficacy or energy, with which any of these objects are endowed; in all
these expressions, so applied, we have really no distinct meaning, and
make use only of common words, without any clear and determinate ideas.
But as it is more probable, that these expressions do here lose their true
meaning by being wrong applied, than that they never have any meaning;
it will be proper to bestow another consideration on this subject, to see
if possibly we can discover the nature and origin of those ideas, we
annex to them.

Suppose two objects to be presented to us, of which the one is the cause
and the other the effect; it is plain, that from the simple consideration
of one, or both these objects we never shall perceive the tie by which
they are united, or be able certainly to pronounce, that there is a
connexion betwixt them. It is not, therefore, from any one instance, that
we arrive at the idea of cause and effect, of a necessary connexion of
power, of force, of energy, and of efficacy. Did we never see any but
particular conjunctions of objects, entirely different from each other,
we should never be able to form any such ideas.

But again; suppose we observe several instances, in which the same
objects are always conjoined together, we immediately conceive a
connexion betwixt them, and begin to draw an inference from one to
another. This multiplicity of resembling instances, therefore,
constitutes the very essence of power or connexion, and is 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 ask more to give a
solution of that difficulty, which has so long perplexed us. For thus I
reason. The repetition of perfectly similar instances can never alone
give rise to an original idea, different from what is to be found in any
particular instance, as has been observed, and as evidently follows from
our fundamental principle, that all ideas are copyed from impressions.
Since therefore the idea of power is a new original idea, not to be found
in any one instance, and which yet arises from the repetition of several
instances, it follows, that the repetition alone has not that effect, but
must either discover or produce something new, which is the source of
that idea. Did the repetition neither discover nor produce anything new,
our ideas might be multiplyed by it, but would not be enlarged above what
they are upon the observation of one single instance. Every enlargement,
therefore, (such as the idea of power or connexion) which arises from the
multiplicity of similar instances, is copyed from some effects of the
multiplicity, and will be perfectly understood by understanding these
effects. Wherever we find anything new to be discovered or produced by
the repetition, there we must place the power, and must never look for it
in any other object.

But it is evident, in the first place, that the repetition of like objects
in like relations of succession and contiguity discovers nothing new in
any one of them: since we can draw no inference from it, nor make it a
subject either of our demonstrative or probable reasonings;[Sect. 6.] as
has been already proved. Nay suppose we coued draw an inference, it would
be of no consequence in the present case; since no kind of reasoning can
give rise to a new idea, such as this of power is; but wherever we
reason, we must antecedently be possest of clear ideas, which may be the
objects of our reasoning. The conception always precedes the
understanding; and where the one is obscure, the other is uncertain;
where the one fails, the other must fail also.

Secondly, It is certain that this repetition of similar objects in similar
situations produces nothing new either in these objects, or in any
external body. For it will readily be allowed, that the several instances
we have of the conjunction of resembling causes and effects are in
themselves entirely independent, and that the communication of motion,
which I see result at present from the shock of two billiard-balls, is
totally distinct from that which I saw result from such an impulse a
twelve-month ago. These impulses have no influence on each other. They
are entirely divided by time and place; and the one might have existed
and communicated motion, though the other never had been in being.

There is, then, nothing new either discovered or produced in any objects
by their constant conjunction, and by the uninterrupted resemblance of
their relations of succession and contiguity. But it is from this
resemblance, that the ideas of necessity, of power, and of efficacy, are
derived. These ideas, therefore, represent not anything, that does or
can belong to the objects, which are constantly conjoined. This is an
argument, which, in every view we can examine it, will be found perfectly
unanswerable. Similar instances are still the first source of our idea of
power or necessity; at the same time that they have no influence by their
similarity either on each other, or on any external object. We must,
therefore, turn ourselves to some other quarter to seek the origin of
that idea.

Though the several resembling instances, which give rise to the idea of
power, have no influence on each other, and can never produce any new
quality in the object, which can be the model of that idea, yet the
observation of this resemblance produces a new impression in the mind,
which is its real model. For after we have observed the resemblance in a
sufficient number of instances, we immediately feel a determination of
the mind to pass from one object to its usual attendant, and to conceive
it in a stronger light upon account of that relation. This determination
is the only effect of the resemblance; and therefore must be the same
with power or efficacy, whose idea is derived from the resemblance. The
several instances of resembling conjunctions lead us into the notion of
power and necessity. These instances are in themselves totally distinct
from each other, and have no union but in the mind, which observes them,
and collects their ideas. Necessity, then, is the effect of this
observation, and is nothing but an internal impression of. the mind, or a
determination to carry our thoughts from one object to another. Without
considering it in this view, we can never arrive at the most distant
notion of it, or be able to attribute it either to external or internal
objects, to spirit or body, to causes or effects.

The necessary connexion betwixt causes and effects is the foundation of
our inference from one to the other. The foundation of our inference is
the transition arising from the accustomed union. These are, therefore,
the same.

The idea of necessity arises from some impression. There is no impression
conveyed by our senses, which can give rise to that idea. It must,
therefore, be derived from some internal impression, or impression of
reflection. There is no internal impression, which has any relation to
the present business, but that propensity, which custom produces, to pass
from an object to the idea of its usual attendant. This therefore is the
essence of necessity. Upon the whole, necessity is something, that exists
in the mind, not in objects; nor is it possible for us ever to form the
most distant idea of it, considered as a quality in bodies. Either we
have no idea of necessity, or necessity is nothing but that determination
of the thought to pass from causes to effects, and from effects to
causes, according to their experienced union.

Thus as the necessity, which makes two times two equal to four, or three
angles of a triangle equal to two right ones, lies only in the act of the
understanding, by which we consider and compare these ideas; in like
manner the necessity or power, which unites causes and effects, lies in
the determination of the mind to pass from the one to the other. The
efficacy or energy of causes is neither placed in the causes themselves,
nor in the deity, nor in the concurrence of these two principles; but
belongs entirely to the soul, which considers the union of two or more
objects in all past instances. It is here that the real power of causes is
placed along with their connexion and necessity.

I am sensible, that of all the paradoxes, which I, have had, or shall
hereafter have occasion to advance in the course of this treatise, the
present one is the most violent, and that it is merely by dint of solid
proof and reasoning I can ever hope it will have admission, and overcome
the inveterate prejudices of mankind. Before we are reconciled to this
doctrine, how often must we repeat to ourselves, that the simple view of
any two objects or actions, however related, can never give us any idea,
of power, or of a connexion betwixt them: that this idea arises from the
repetition of their union: that the repetition neither discovers nor
causes any thing in the objects, but has an influence only on the mind,
by that customary transition it produces: that this customary transition
is, therefore, the same with the power and necessity; which are
consequently qualities of perceptions, not of objects, and are internally
felt by the soul, and not perceivd externally in bodies? There is
commonly an astonishment attending every thing extraordinary; and this
astonishment changes immediately into the highest degree of esteem or
contempt, according as we approve or disapprove of the subject. I am much
afraid, that though the foregoing reasoning appears to me the shortest and
most decisive imaginable; yet with the generality of readers the biass of
the mind will prevail, and give them a prejudice against the present
doctrine.

This contrary biass is easily accounted for. It is a common observation,
that the mind has a great propensity to spread itself on external
objects, and to conjoin with them any internal impressions, which they
occasion, and which always make their appearance at the same time that
these objects discover themselves to the senses. Thus as certain sounds
and smells are always found to attend certain visible objects, we
naturally imagine a conjunction, even in place, betwixt the objects and
qualities, though the qualities be of such a nature as to admit of no such
conjunction, and really exist no where. But of this more fully hereafter
[Part IV, Sect. 5.]. Mean while it is sufficient to observe, that the same
propensity is the reason, why we suppose necessity and power to lie in
the objects we consider, not in our mind that considers them;
notwithstanding it is not possible for us to form the most distant idea
of that quality, when it is not taken for the determination of the mind,
to pass from the idea of an object to that of its usual attendant.

But though this be the only reasonable account we can give of necessity,
the contrary notion if; so riveted in the mind from the principles
above-mentioned, that I doubt not but my sentiments will be treated by
many as extravagant and ridiculous. What! the efficacy of causes lie in
the determination of the mind! As if causes did not operate entirely
independent of the mind, and would not continue their operation, even
though there was no mind existent to contemplate them, or reason
concerning them. Thought may well depend on causes for its operation, but
not causes on thought. This is to reverse the order of nature, and make
that secondary, which is really primary, To every operation there is a
power proportioned; and this power must be placed on the body, that
operates. If we remove the power from one cause, we must ascribe it to
another: But to remove it from all causes, and bestow it on a being, that
is no ways related to the cause or effect, but by perceiving them, is a
gross absurdity, and contrary to the most certain principles of human
reason.

I can only reply to all these arguments, that the case is here much the
same, as if a blind man should pretend to find a great many absurdities
in the supposition, that the colour of scarlet is not the same with the
sound of a trumpet, nor light the same with solidity. If we have really
no idea of a power or efficacy in any object, or of any real connexion
betwixt causes and effects, it will be to little purpose to prove, that an
efficacy is necessary in all operations. We do not understand our own
meaning in talking so, but ignorantly confound ideas, which are entirely
distinct from each other. I am, indeed, ready to allow, that there may be
several qualities both in material and immaterial objects, with which we
are utterly unacquainted; and if we please to call these POWER or
EFFICACY, it will be of little consequence to the world. But when, instead
of meaning these unknown qualities, we make the terms of power and
efficacy signify something, of which we have a clear idea, and which is
incompatible with those objects, to which we apply it, obscurity and
error begin then to take place, and we are led astray by a false
philosophy. This is the case, when we transfer the determination of the
thought to external objects, and suppose any real intelligible connexion
betwixt them; that being a quality, which can only belong to the mind
that considers them.

As to what may be said, that the operations of nature are independent of
our thought and reasoning, I allow it; and accordingly have observed,
that objects bear to each other the relations of contiguity and
succession: that like objects may be observed in several instances to
have like relations; and that all this is independent of, and antecedent
to the operations of the understanding. But if we go any farther, and
ascribe a power or necessary connexion to these objects; this is what we
can never observe in them, but must draw the idea of it from what we feel
internally in contemplating them. And this I carry so far, that I am
ready to convert my present reasoning into an instance of it, by a
subtility, which it will not be difficult to comprehend.

When any object is presented to us, it immediately conveys to the mind a
lively idea of that object, which is usually found to attend it; and this
determination of the mind forms the necessary connexion of these objects.
But when we change the point of view, from the objects to the
perceptions; in that case the impression is to be considered as the
cause, and the lively idea as the effect; and their necessary connexion
is that new determination, which we feel to pass from the idea of the one
to that of the other. The uniting principle among our internal
perceptions is as unintelligible as that among external objects, and is
not known to us any other way than by experience. Now the nature and
effects of experience have been already sufficiently examined and
explained. It never gives us any insight into the internal structure or
operating principle of objects, but only accustoms the mind to pass from
one to another.

It is now time to collect all the different parts of this reasoning, and
by joining them together form an exact definition of the relation of
cause and effect, which makes the subject of the present enquiry. This
order would not have been excusable, of first examining our inference
from the relation before we had explained the relation itself, had it
been possible to proceed in a different method. But as the nature of the
relation depends so much on that of the inference, we have been obliged
to advance in this seemingly preposterous manner, and make use of terms
before we were able exactly to define them, or fix their meaning. We
shall now correct this fault by giving a precise definition of cause and
effect.

There may two definitions be given of this relation, which are only
different, by their presenting a different view of the same object, and
making us consider it either as a philosophical or as a natural relation;
either as a comparison of two ideas, or as an association betwixt them.
We may define a CAUSE to be An object precedent and contiguous to
another, and where all the objects resembling the former are placed in
like relations of precedency and contiguity to those objects that
resemble the latter. I If this definition be esteemed defective, because
drawn from objects foreign to the cause, we may substitute this other
definition in its place, viz. A CAUSE is an object precedent and
contiguous to another, and so united with it, that the idea, of the one
determines the mind to form the idea of the other, and the impression of
the one to form a more lively idea of the other. 2 should this
definition also be rejected for the same reason, I know no other remedy,
than that the persons, who express this delicacy, should substitute a
juster definition in its place. But for my part I must own my incapacity
for such an undertaking. When I examine with the utmost accuracy those
objects, which are commonly denominated causes and effects, I find, in
considering a single instance, that the one object is precedent and
contiguous to the other; and in inlarging my view to consider several
instances, I find only, that like objects are constantly placed in like
relations of succession and contiguity. Again, when I consider the
influence of this constant conjunction, I perceive, that such a relation
can never be an object of reasoning, and can never operate upon the mind,
but by means of custom, which determines the imagination to make a
transition from the idea of one object to that of its usual attendant,
and from the impression of one to a more lively idea of the other.
However extraordinary these sentiments may appear, I think it fruitless
to trouble myself with any farther enquiry or reasoning upon the subject,
but shall repose myself on them as on established maxims.

It will only be proper, before we leave this subject, to draw some
corrollaries from it, by which we may remove several prejudices and
popular errors, that have very much prevailed in philosophy. First, We
may learn from the foregoing, doctrine, that all causes are of the same
kind, and that in particular there is no foundation for that distinction,
which we sometimes make betwixt efficient causes and causes sine qua non;
or betwixt efficient causes, and formal, and material, and exemplary, and
final causes. For as our idea of efficiency is derived from the constant
conjunction of two objects, wherever this is observed, the cause is
efficient; and where it is not, there can never be a cause of any kind.
For the same reason we must reject the distinction betwixt cause and
occasion, when supposed to signify any thing essentially different from
each other. If constant conjunction be implyed in what we call occasion,
it is a real cause. If not, it is no relation at all, and cannot give rise
to any argument or reasoning.

Secondly, The same course of reasoning will make us conclude, that there
is but one kind of necessity, as there is but one kind of cause, and that
the common distinction betwixt moral and physical necessity is without
any foundation in nature. This clearly appears from the precedent
explication of necessity. It is the constant conjunction of objects, along
with the determination of the mind, which constitutes a physical
necessity: And the removal of these is the same thing with chance. As
objects must either be conjoined or not, and as the mind must either be
determined or not to pass from one object to another, it is impossible to
admit of any medium betwixt chance and an absolute necessity. In
weakening this conjunction and determination you do not change the nature
of the necessity; since even in the operation of bodies, these have
different degrees of constancy and force, without producing a different
species of that relation.

The distinction, which we often make betwixt POWER and the EXERCISE
of it, is equally without foundation.

Thirdly, We may now be able fully to overcome all that repugnance, which
it is so natural for us to entertain against the foregoing reasoning, by
which we endeavoured to prove, that the necessity of a cause to every
beginning of existence is not founded on any arguments either
demonstrative or intuitive. Such an opinion will not appear strange after
the foregoing definitions. If we define a cause to be an object precedent
and contiguous to another, and where all the objects resembling the
farmer are placed in a like relation of .priority and contiguity to those
objects, that resemble the latter; we may easily conceive, that there is
no absolute nor metaphysical necessity, that every beginning of existence
should be attended with such an object. If we define a cause to be, AN
OBJECT PRECEDENT AND CONTIGUOUS TO ANOTHER, AND SO UNITED WITH IT IN THE
IMAGINATION, THAT THE IDEA OF THE ONE DETERMINES THE MIND TO FORM THE
IDEA OF THE OTHER, AND THE IMPRESSION OF THE ONE TO FORM A MORE LIVELY
IDEA OF THE OTHER; we shall make still less difficulty of assenting to
this opinion. Such an influence on the mind is in itself perfectly
extraordinary and incomprehensible; nor can we be certain of its reality,
but from experience and observation.

I shall add as a fourth corrollary that we can never have reason to
believe that any object exists, of which we cannot form an idea. For as
all our reasonings concerning existence are derived from causation, and
as all our reasonings concerning causation are derived from the
experienced conjunction of objects, not from any reasoning or reflection,
the same experience must give us a notion of these objects, and must
remove all mystery from our conclusions. This is so evident, that it would
scarce have merited our attention, were it not to obviate certain
objections of this kind, which might arise against the following
reasonings concerning matter and substance. I need not observe, that a
full knowledge of the object is not requisite, but only of those
qualities of it, which we believe to exist.



SECT. XV.  RULES BY WHICH TO JUDGE OF CAUSES AND EFFECTS.


According to the precedent doctrine, there are no objects which by the
mere survey, without consulting experience, we can determine to be the
causes of any other; and no objects, which we can certainly determine in
the same manner not to be the causes. Any thing may produce any thing.
Creation, annihilation, motion, reason, volition; all these may arise
from one another, or from any other object we can imagine. Nor will this
appear strange, if we compare two principles explained above, THAT THE
CONSTANT CONJUNCTION OF OBJECTS DETERMINES THEIR CAUSATION, AND
[Part I. Sect. 5.] THAT, PROPERTY SPEAKING, NO OBJECTS ARE CONTRARY TO
EACH OTHER BUT EXISTENCE AND NON-EXISTENCE. Where objects are not
contrary, nothing hinders them from having that constant conjunction, on
which the relation of cause and effect totally depends.

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

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

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

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

(4) The same cause always produces the same effect, and the same effect
never arises but from the same cause. This principle we derive from
experience, and is the source of most of our philosophical reasonings.
For when by any clear experiment we have discovered the causes or effects
of any phaenomenon, we immediately extend our observation to every
phenomenon of the same kind, without waiting for that constant
repetition, from which the first idea of this relation is derived.

(5) There is another principle, which hangs upon this, viz. that where
several different objects produce the same effect, it must be by means of
some quality, which we discover to be common amongst them. For as like
effects imply like causes, we must always ascribe the causation to the
circumstance, wherein we discover the resemblance.

(6) The following principle is founded on the same reason. The difference
in the effects of two resembling objects must proceed from that
particular, in which they differ. For as like causes always produce like
effects, when in any instance we find our expectation to be disappointed,
we must conclude that this irregularity proceeds from some difference in
the causes.

(7) When any object encreases or diminishes with the encrease or
diminution of its cause, it is to be regarded as a compounded effect,
derived from the union of the several different effects, which arise from
the several different parts of the cause. The absence or presence of one
part of the cause is here supposed to be always attended with the absence
or presence of a proportionable part of the effect. This constant
conjunction sufficiently proves, that the one part is the cause of the
other. We must, however, beware not to draw such a conclusion from a few
experiments. A certain degree of 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 find that it degenerates into pain.

(8) The eighth and last rule I shall take notice of is, that an object,
which exists for any time in its full perfection without any effect, is
not the sole cause of that effect, but requires to be assisted by some
other principle, which may forward its influence and operation. For as
like effects necessarily follow from like causes, and in a contiguous
time and place, their separation for a moment shews, that these causes
are not compleat ones.

Here is all the LOGIC I think proper to employ in my reasoning; and
perhaps even this was not very necessary, but might have been supplyd by
the natural principles of our understanding. Our scholastic head-pieces
and logicians shew no such superiority above the mere vulgar in their
reason and ability, as to give us any inclination to imitate them in
delivering a long system of rules and precepts to direct our judgment, in
philosophy. All the rules of this nature are very easy in their
invention, but extremely difficult in their application; and even
experimental philosophy, which seems the most natural and simple of any,
requires the utmost stretch of human judgment. There is no phaenomenon in
nature, but what is compounded and modifyd by so many different
circumstances, that in order to arrive at the decisive point, we must
carefully separate whatever is superfluous, and enquire by new
experiments, if every particular circumstance of the first experiment was
essential to it. These new experiments are liable to a discussion of the
same kind; so that the utmost constancy is requird to make us persevere
in our enquiry, and the utmost sagacity to choose the right way among so
many that present themselves. If this be the case even in natural
philosophy, how much more in moral, where there is a much greater
complication of circumstances, and where those views and sentiments,
which are essential to any action of the mind, are so implicit and
obscure, that they often escape our strictest attention, and are not only
unaccountable in their causes, but even unknown in their existence? I am
much afraid lest the small success I meet with in my enquiries will make
this observation bear the air of an apology rather than of boasting.

If any thing can give me security in this particular, it will be the
enlarging of the sphere of my experiments as much as possible; for which
reason it may be proper in this place to examine the reasoning faculty of
brutes, as well as that of human creatures.



SECT. XVI  OF THE REASON OF ANIMALS


Next to the ridicule of denying an evident truth, is that of taking much
pains to defend it; and no truth appears to me more evident, than that
beasts are endowd with thought and reason as well as men. The arguments
are in this case so obvious, that they never escape the most stupid and
ignorant.

We are conscious, that we ourselves, in adapting means to ends, are
guided by reason and design, and that it is not ignorantly nor casually we
perform those actions, which tend to self-preservation, to the obtaining
pleasure, and avoiding pain. When therefore we see other creatures, in
millions of instances, perform like actions, and direct them to the ends,
all our principles of reason and probability carry us with an invincible
force to believe the existence of a like cause. It is needless in my
opinion to illustrate this argument by the enumeration of particulars.
The smallest attention will supply us with more than are requisite. The
resemblance betwixt the actions of animals and those of men is so entire
in this respect, that the very first action of the first animal we shall
please to pitch on, will afford us an incontestable argument for the
present doctrine.

This doctrine is as useful as it is obvious, and furnishes us with a kind
of touchstone, by which we may try every system in this species of
philosophy. It is from the resemblance of the external actions of animals
to those we ourselves perform, that we judge their internal likewise to
resemble ours; and the same principle of reasoning, carryd one step
farther, will make us conclude that since our internal actions resemble
each other, the causes, from which they are derivd, must also be
resembling. When any hypothesis, therefore, is advancd to explain a
mental operation, which is common to men and beasts, we must apply the
same hypothesis to both; and as every true hypothesis will abide this
trial, so I may venture to affirm, that no false one will ever be able to
endure it. The common defect of those systems, which philosophers have
employd to account for the actions of the mind, is, that they suppose
such a subtility and refinement of thought, as not only exceeds the
capacity of mere animals, but even of children and the common people in
our own species; who are notwithstanding susceptible of the same emotions
and affections as persons of the most accomplishd genius and
understanding. Such a subtility is a dear proof of the falshood, as the
contrary simplicity of the truth, of any system.

Let us therefore put our present system concerning the nature of the
understanding to this decisive trial, and see whether it will equally
account for the reasonings of beasts as for these of the human species.

Here we must make a distinction betwixt those actions of animals, which
are of a vulgar nature, and seem to be on a level with their common
capacities, and those more extraordinary instances of sagacity, which
they sometimes discover for their own preservation, and the propagation
of their species. A dog, that avoids fire and precipices, that shuns
strangers, and caresses his master, affords us an instance of the first
kind. A bird, that chooses with such care and nicety the place and
materials of her nest, and sits upon her eggs for a due time, and in
suitable season, with all the precaution that a chymist is capable of in
the most delicate projection, furnishes us with a lively instance of the
second.

As to the former actions, I assert they proceed from a reasoning, that is
not in itself different, nor founded on different principles, from that
which appears in human nature. It is necessary in the first place, that
there be some impression immediately present to their memory or senses,
in order to be the foundation of their judgment. From the tone of voice
the dog infers his masters anger, and foresees his own punishment. From a
certain sensation affecting his smell, he judges his game not to be far
distant from him.

Secondly, The inference he draws from the present impression is built on
experience, and on his observation of the conjunction of objects in past
instances. As you vary this experience, he varies his reasoning. Make a
beating follow upon one sign or motion for some time, and afterwards upon
another; and he will successively draw different conclusions, according
to his most recent experience.

Now let any philosopher make a trial, and endeavour to explain that act
of the mind, which we call BELIEF, and give an account of the principles,
from which it is derivd, independent of the influence of custom on the
imagination. and let his hypothesis be equally applicable to beasts as to
the human species; and after he has done this, I promise to embrace his
opinion. But at the same time I demand as an equitable condition, that if
my system be the only one, which can answer to all these terms, it may be
receivd as entirely satisfactory and convincing. And that it is the only
one, is evident almost without any reasoning. Beasts certainly never
perceive any real connexion among objects. It is therefore by experience
they infer one from another. They can never by any arguments form a
general conclusion, that those objects, of which they have had no
experience, resemble those of which they have. It is therefore by means of
custom alone, that experience operates upon them. All this was
sufficiently evident with respect to man. But with respect to beasts
there cannot be the least suspicion of mistake; which must be ownd to be
a strong confirmation, or rather an invincible proof of my system.

Nothing shews more the force of habit in reconciling us to any
phaenomenoun, than this, that men are not astonished at the operations of
their own reason, at the same time, that they admire the instinct of
animals, and find a difficulty in explaining it, merely because it cannot
be reducd tothe very same principles. To consider the matter aright,
reason is nothing but a wonderful and unintelligible instinct in our
souls, which carries us along a certain train of ideas, and endows them
with particular qualities, according to their particular situations and
relations. This instinct, it is true, arises from past observation and
experience; but can any one give the ultimate reason, why past experience
and observation produces such an effect, any more than why nature alone
shoud produce it? Nature may certainly produce whatever can arise from
habit: Nay, habit is nothing but one of the principles of nature, and
derives all its force from that origin.




PART IV.  OF THE SCEPTICAL AND OTHER SYSTEMS OF PHILOSOPHY.



SECT. I.  OF SCEPTICISM WITH REGARD TO REASON.


In all demonstrative sciences the rules are certain and infallible; but
when we apply them, our fallible said uncertain faculties are very apt to
depart from them, and fall into error. We must, therefore, in every
reasoning form a new judgment, as a check or controul on our first
judgment or belief; and must enlarge our view to comprehend a kind of
history of all the instances, wherein our understanding has deceived us,
compared with those, wherein its testimony was just and true. Our reason
must be considered as a kind of cause, of which truth is the natural
effect; but such-a-one as by the irruption of other causes, and by the
inconstancy of our mental powers, may frequently be prevented. By this
means all knowledge degenerates into probability; and this probability is
greater or less, according to our experience of the veracity or
deceitfulness of our understanding, and according to the simplicity or
intricacy of the question.

There is no Algebraist nor Mathematician so expert in his science, as to
place entire confidence in any truth immediately upon his discovery of
it, or regard it as any thing, but a were probability. Every time he runs
over his proofs, his confidence encreases; but still more by the
approbation of his friends; and is raised to its utmost perfection by the
universal assent and applauses of the, learned world. Now it is evident,
that this gradual encrease of assurance is nothing but the addition of
new probabilities, and is derived from the constant union of causes and
effects, according to past experience and observation.

In accompts of any length or importance, Merchants seldom trust to the,
infallible certainty of numbers for their security; but by the artificial
structure of the accompts, produce a probability beyond what is derived
from the skill and experience of the accomptant. For that is plainly of
itself some degree of probability; though uncertain and variable,
according to the degrees of his experience and length of the accompt. Now
as none will maintain, that our assurance in a long numeration exceeds
probability, I may safely affirm, that there scarce is any proposition
concerning numbers, of which we can have a fuller security. For it is
easily possible, by gradually diminishing the numbers, to reduce the
longest series of addition to the most simple question, which can be
formed, to an addition of two single numbers; and upon this supposition
we shall find it impracticable to shew the precise limits of knowledge
and of probability, or discover that particular number, at which the one
ends and the other begins. But knowledge and probability are of such
contrary and disagreeing natures, that they cannot well run insensibly
into each other, and that because they will not divide, but must be
either entirely present, or entirely absent. Besides, if any single
addition were certain, every one would be so, and consequently the whole
or total sum; unless the whole can be different from all its parts. I had
almost said, that this was certain; but I reflect that it must reduce
itself, as well as every other reasoning, and from knowledge degenerate
into probability.

Since therefore all knowledge resolves itself into probability, and
becomes at last of the same nature with that evidence, which we employ in
common life, we must now examine this latter species of reasoning, and
see on what foundation it stands.

In every judgment, which we can form concerning probability, as well as
concerning knowledge, we ought always to correct the first judgment,
derived from the nature of the object, by another judgment, derived from
the nature of the understanding. It is certain a man of solid sense and
long experience ought to have, and usually has, a greater assurance in
his opinions, than one that is foolish and ignorant, and that our
sentiments have different degrees of authority, even with ourselves, in
proportion to the degrees of our reason and experience. In the man of the
best sense and longest experience, this authority is never entire; since
even such-a-one must be conscious of many errors in the past, and must
still dread the like for the future. Here then arises a new species of
probability to correct and regulate the first, and fix its just standard
and proportion. As demonstration is subject to the controul of
probability, so is probability liable to a new correction by a reflex act
of the mind, wherein the nature of our understanding, and our reasoning
from the first probability become our objects.

Having thus found in every probability, beside the original uncertainty
inherent in the subject, a new uncertainty derived from the weakness of
that faculty, which judges, and having adjusted these two together, we
are obliged by our reason to add a new doubt derived from the possibility
of error in the estimation we make of the truth and fidelity of our
faculties. This is a doubt, which immediately occurs to us, and of which,
if we would closely pursue our reason, we cannot avoid giving a decision.
But this decision, though it should be favourable to our preceding
judgment, being founded only on probability, must weaken still further
our first evidence, and must itself be weakened by a fourth doubt of the
same kind, and so on in infinitum: till at last there remain nothing of
the original probability, however great we may suppose it to have been,
and however small the diminution by every new uncertainty. No finite
object can subsist under a decrease repeated IN INFINITUM; and even the
vastest quantity, which can enter into human imagination, must in this
manner be reduced to nothing. Let our first belief be never so strong, it
must infallibly perish by passing through so many new examinations, of
which each diminishes somewhat of its force and vigour. When I reflect on
the natural fallibility of my judgment, I have less confidence in my
opinions, than when I only consider the objects concerning which I
reason; and when I proceed still farther, to turn the scrutiny against
every successive estimation I make of my faculties, all the rules of
logic require a continual diminution, and at last a total extinction of
belief and evidence.

Should it here be asked me, whether I sincerely assent to this argument,
which I seem to take such pains to inculcate, and whether I be really one
of those sceptics, who hold that all is uncertain, and that our judgment
is not in any thing possest of any measures of truth and falshood; I
should reply, that this question is entirely superfluous, and that
neither I, nor any other person was ever sincerely and constantly of that
opinion. Nature, by an absolute and uncontroulable necessity has
determined us to judge as well as to breathe and feel; nor can we any
more forbear viewing certain objects in a stronger and fuller light, upon
account of their customary connexion with a present impression, than we
can hinder ourselves from thinking as long, as we are awake, or seeing
the surrounding bodies, when we turn our eyes towards them in broad
sunshine. Whoever has taken the pains to refute the cavils of this total
scepticism, has really disputed without an antagonist, and endeavoured by
arguments to establish a faculty, which nature has antecedently implanted
in the mind, and rendered unavoidable.

My intention then in displaying so carefully the arguments of that
fantastic sect, is only to make the reader sensible of the truth of my
hypothesis, that all our reasonings concerning causes and effects are
derived from nothing but custom; and that belief is more properly an act
of the, sensitive, than of the cogitative part of our natures. I have
here proved, that the very same principles, which make us form a decision
upon any subject, and correct that decision by the consideration of our
genius and capacity, and of the situation of our mind, when we examined
that subject; I say, I have proved, that these same principles, when
carryed farther, and applied to every new reflex judgment, must, by
continually diminishing the original evidence, at last reduce it to
nothing, and utterly subvert all belief and opinion. If belief,
therefore, were a simple act of the thought, without any peculiar manner
of conception, or the addition of a force and vivacity, it must
infallibly destroy itself, and in every case terminate in a total
suspense of judgment. But as experience will sufficiently convince any
one, who thinks it worth while to try, that though he can find no error in
the foregoing arguments, yet he still continues to believe, and think,
and reason as usual, he may safely conclude, that his reasoning and
belief is some sensation or peculiar manner of conception, which it is
impossible for mere ideas and reflections to destroy.

But here, perhaps, it may be demanded, how it happens, even upon my
hypothesis, that these arguments above-explained produce not a total
suspense of judgment, and after what manner the mind ever retains a
degree of assurance in any subject? For as these new probabilities, which
by their repetition perpetually diminish the original evidence, are
founded on the very same principles, whether of thought or sensation, as
the primary judgment, it may seem unavoidable, that in either case they
must equally subvert it, and by the opposition, either of contrary
thoughts or sensations, reduce the mind to a total uncertainty. I
suppose, there is some question proposed to me, and that after revolving
over the impressions of my memory and senses, and carrying my thoughts
from them to such objects, as are commonly conjoined with them, I feel a
stronger and more forcible conception on the one side, than on the other.
This strong conception forms my first decision. I suppose, that
afterwards I examine my judgment itself, and observing from experience,
that it is sometimes just and sometimes erroneous, I consider it as
regulated by contrary principles or causes, of which some lead to truth,
and some to error; and in ballancing these contrary causes, I diminish by
a new probability the assurance of my first decision. This new
probability is liable to the same diminution as the foregoing, and so on,
IN INFINITUM. It is therefore demanded, how it happens, that even after
all we retain a degree of belief, which is sufficient for our purpose,
either in philosophy or common life.

I answer, that after the first and second decision; as the action of the
mind becomes forced and unnatural, and the ideas faint and obscure; though
the principles of judgment, and the ballancing of opposite causes be the
same as at the very beginning; yet their influence on the imagination,
and the vigour they add to, or diminish from the thought, is by no means
equal. Where the mind reaches not its objects with easiness and facility,
the same principles have not the same effect as in a more natural
conception of the ideas; nor does the imagination feel a sensation, which
holds any proportion with that which arises from its common judgments and
opinions. The attention is on the stretch: The posture of the mind is
uneasy; and the spirits being diverted from their natural course, are not
governed in their movements by the same laws, at least not to the same
degree, as when they flow in their usual channel.

If we desire similar instances, it will not be very difficult to find
them. The present subject of metaphysics will supply us abundantly. The
same argument, which would have been esteemed convincing in a reasoning
concerning history or politics, has little or no influence in these
abstruser subjects, even though it be perfectly comprehended; and that
because there is required a study and an effort of thought, in order to
its being comprehended: And this effort of thought disturbs the operation
of our sentiments, on which the belief depends. The case is the same in
other subjects. The straining of the imagination always hinders the
regular flowing of the passions and sentiments. A tragic poet, that would
represent his heroes as very ingenious and witty in their misfortunes,
would never touch the passions. As the emotions of the soul prevent any
subtile reasoning and reflection, so these latter actions of the mind are
equally prejudicial to the former. The mind, as well as the body, seems
to be endowed with a certain precise degree of force and activity, which
it never employs in one action, but at the expense of all the rest. This
is more evidently true, where the actions are of quite different natures;
since in that case the force of the mind is not only diverted, but even
the disposition changed, so as to render us incapable of a sudden
transition from one action to the other, and still more of performing
both at once. No wonder, then, the conviction, which arises from a
subtile reasoning, diminishes in proportion to the efforts, which the
imagination makes to enter into the reasoning, and to conceive it in all
its parts. Belief, being a lively conception, can never be entire, where
it is not founded on something natural and easy.

This I take to be the true state of the question, and cannot approve of
that expeditious way, which some take with the sceptics, to reject at
once all their arguments without enquiry or examination. If the sceptical
reasonings be strong, say they, it is a proof, that reason may have some
force and authority: if weak, they can never be sufficient to invalidate
all the conclusions of our understanding. This argument is not just;
because the sceptical reasonings, were it possible for them to exist, and
were they not destroyed by their subtility, would be successively both
strong and weak, according to the successive dispositions of the mind.
Reason first appears in possession of the throne, prescribing laws, and
imposing maxims, with an absolute sway and authority. Her enemy,
therefore, is obliged to take shelter under her protection, and by making
use of rational arguments to prove the fallaciousness and imbecility of
reason, produces, in a manner, a patent under her band and seal. This
patent has at first an authority, proportioned to the present and
immediate authority of reason, from which it is derived. But as it is
supposed to be contradictory to reason, it gradually diminishes the force
of that governing power and its own at the same time; till at last they
both vanish away into nothing, by a regulax and just diminution. The
sceptical and dogmatical reasons are of the same kind, though contrary in
their operation and tendency; so that where the latter is strong, it has
an enemy of equal force in the former to encounter; and as their forces
were at first equal, they still continue so, as long as either of them
subsists; nor does one of them lose any force in the contest, without
taking as much from its antagonist. It is happy, therefore, that nature
breaks the force of all sceptical arguments in time, and keeps them from
having any considerable influence on the understanding. Were we to trust
entirely to their self-destruction, that can never take place, until they
have first subverted all conviction, and have totally destroyed human
reason.



SECT. II.  OF SCEPTICISM WITH REGARD TO THE SENSES.


Thus the sceptic still continues to reason and believe, even though be
asserts, that he cannot defend his reason by reason; and by the same rule
he must assent to the principle concerning the existence of body, though
he cannot pretend by any arguments of philosophy to maintain its veracity.
Nature has not left this to his choice, and has doubtless, esteemed it an
affair of too great importance to be trusted to our uncertain reasonings
and speculations. We may well ask, What causes induce us to believe in
the 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
reasonings.

The subject, then, of our present enquiry is concerning the causes which
induce us to believe in the existence of body: And my reasonings on this
head I shall begin with a distinction, which at first sight may seem
superfluous, but which will contribute very much to the perfect
understanding of what follows. We ought to examine apart those two
questions, which are commonly confounded together, viz. Why we attribute
a continued existence to objects, even when they are not present to the
senses; and why we suppose them to have an existence DISTINCT from the
mind and perception. Under this last head I comprehend their situation as
well as relations, their external position as well as the independence of
their existence and operation. These two questions concerning the
continued and distinct existence of body are intimately connected
together. For if the objects of our senses continue to exist, even when
they are not perceived, their existence is of course independent of and
distinct from the perception: and vice versa, if their existence be
independent of the perception and distinct from it, they must continue to
exist, even though they be not perceived. But though the decision of the
one question decides the other; yet that we may the more easily discover
the principles of human nature, from whence the decision arises, we shall
carry along with us this distinction, and shall consider, whether it be
the senses, reason, or the imagination, that produces the opinion of a
continued or of a distinct existence. These are the only questions, that
are intelligible on the present subject. For as to the notion of external
existence, when taken for something specially different from our
perceptions [Part. II. Sect. 6.], we have already shewn its absurdity.

To begin with the SENSES, it is evident these faculties are incapable of
giving rise to the notion of the continued existence of their objects,
after they no longer appear to the senses. For that is a contradiction in
terms, and suppose that the senses continue to operate, even after they
have ceased all manner of operation. These faculties, therefore, if they
have any influence in the present case, must produce the opinion of a
distinct, not of a continued existence; and in order to that, must
present their impressions either as images and representations, or as
these very distinct and external existences.

That our senses offer not their impressions as the images of something
distinct, or independent, and external, is evident; because they convey
to us nothing but a single perception, and never give us the least
intimation of any thing beyond. A single perception can never produce the
idea of a double existence, but by some inference either of the reason or
imagination. When the mind looks farther than what immediately appears to
it, its conclusions can never be put to the account of the senses; and it
certainly looks farther, when from a single perception it infers a double
existence, and supposes the relations of resemblance and causation
betwixt them.

If our senses, therefore, suggest any idea of distinct existences, they
must convey the impressions as those very existences, by a kind of
fallacy and illusion. Upon this bead we may observe, that all sensations
are felt by the mind, such as they really are, and that when we doubt,
whether they present themselves as distinct objects, or as mere
impressions, the difficulty is not concerning their nature, but
concerning their relations and situation. Now if the senses presented
our impressions as external to, and independent of ourselves, both the
objects and ourselves must be obvious to our senses, otherwise they coued
not be compared by these faculties. The difficulty, then, is how fax we
are ourselves the objects of our senses.

It is certain there is no question in philosophy more abstruse than that
concerning identity, and the nature of the uniting principle, which
constitutes a person. So far from being able by our senses merely to
determine this question, we must have recourse to the most profound
metaphysics to give a satisfactory answer to it; and in common life it is
evident these ideas of self and person are never very fixed nor
determinate. It is absurd, therefore, to imagine the senses can ever
distinguish betwixt ourselves and external objects.

Add to this, that every impression, external and internal, passions,
affections, sensations, pains and pleasures, are originally on the same
footing; and that whatever other differences we may observe among them,
they appear, all of them, in their true colours, as impressions or
perceptions. And indeed, if we consider the matter aright, it is scarce
possible it should be otherwise, nor is it conceivable that our senses
should be more capable of deceiving us in the situation and relations,
than in the nature of our impressions. For since all actions and
sensations of the mind are known to us by consciousness, they must
necessarily appear in every particular what they are, and be what they
appear. Every thing that enters the mind, being in reality a perception,
it is impossible any thing should to feeling appear different. This were
to suppose, that even where we are most intimately conscious, we might be
mistaken.

But not to lose time in examining, whether it is possible for our senses
to deceive us, and represent our perceptions as distinct from ourselves,
that is as external to and independent of us; let us consider whether
they really do so, and whether this error proceeds from an immediate
sensation, or from some other causes.

To begin with the question concerning EXTERNAL existence, it may perhaps
be said, that setting aside the metaphysical question of the identity of
a thinking substance, our own body evidently belongs to us; and as
several impressions appear exterior to the body, we suppose them also
exterior to ourselves. The paper, on which I write at present, is beyond
my hand. The table is beyond the paper. The walls of the chamber beyond
the table. And in casting my eye towards the window, I perceive a great
extent of fields and buildings beyond my chamber. From all this it may be
infered, that no other faculty is required, beside the senses, to
convince us of the external existence of body. But to prevent this
inference, we need only weigh the three following considerations. First,
That, properly speaking, it is not our body we perceive, when we regard
our limbs and members, but certain impressions, which enter by the
senses; so that the ascribing a real and corporeal existence to these
impressions, or to their objects, is an act of the mind as difficult to
explain, as that which we examine at present. Secondly, Sounds, and
tastes, and smelts, though commonly regarded by the mind as continued
independent qualities, appear not to have any existence in extension, and
consequently cannot appear to the senses as situated externally to the
body. The reason, why we ascribe a, place to them, shall be: considered
afterwards. Thirdly, Even our sight informs us not of distance or outness
(so to speak) immediately and without a certain reasoning and experience,
as is acknowledged by the most rational philosophers.

As to the independency of our perceptions on ourselves, this can never be
an object of the senses; but any opinion we form concerning it, must be
derived from experience and observation: And we shall see afterwards,
that our conclusions from experience are far from being favourable to the
doctrine of the independency of our perceptions. Mean while we may
observe that when we talk of real distinct existences, we have commonly
more in our eye their independency than external situation in place, and
think an object has a sufficient reality, when its Being is
uninterrupted, and independent of the incessant revolutions, which we are
conscious of in ourselves.

Thus to resume what I have said concerning the senses; they give us no
notion of continued existence, because they cannot operate beyond the
extent, in which they really operate. They as little produce the opinion
of a distinct existence, because they neither can offer it to the mind as
represented, nor as original. To offer it as represented, they must
present both an object and an image. To make it appear as original, they
must convey a falshood; and this falshood must lie in the relations and
situation: In order to which they must be able to compare the object with
ourselves; and even in that case they do not, nor is it possible they
should, deceive us. We may, therefore, conclude with certainty, that the
opinion of a continued and of a distinct existence never arises from the
senses.

To confirm this we may observe, that there are three different kinds of
impressions conveyed by the senses. The first are those of the figure,
bulk, motion and solidity of bodies. The second those of colours, tastes,
smells, sounds, heat and cold. The third are the pains and pleasures,
that arise from the application of objects to our bodies, as by the
cutting of our flesh with steel, and such like. Both philosophers and the
vulgar suppose the first of these to have a distinct continued existence.
The vulgar only regard the second as on the same footing. Both
philosophers and the vulgar, again, esteem the third to be merely
perceptions and consequently interrupted and dependent beings.

Now it is evident, that, whatever may be our philosophical opinion,
colours, Sounds, heat and cold, as far as appears to the senses, exist
after the same manner with motion and solidity, and that the difference
we make betwixt them in this respect, arises not from the mere
perception. So strong the prejudice for the distinct continued existence
Of the former qualities, that when the contrary opinion is advanced by
modern philosophers, people imagine they can almost refute it from their
feeling and experience, and that their very senses contradict this
philosophy. It is also evident, that colours, sounds, &c. are originally
on the same footing with the pain that arises from steel, and pleasure
that proceeds from a fire; and that the difference betwixt them is
founded neither on perception nor reason, but on the imagination. For as
they are confest to be, both of them, nothing but perceptions arising
from the particular configurations and motions of the parts of body,
wherein possibly can their difference consist? Upon the whole, then, we
may conclude, that as far as the senses are judges, all perceptions are
the same in the manner of their existence.

We may also observe in this instance of sounds and colours, that we can
attribute a distinct continued existence to objects without ever
consulting REASON, or weighing our opinions by any philosophical
principles. And indeed, whatever convincing arguments philosophers may
fancy they can produce to establish the belief of objects independent of
the mind, it is obvious these arguments are known but to very few, and
that it is not by them, that children, peasants, and the greatest part of
mankind are induced to attribute objects to some impressions, and deny
them to others. Accordingly we find, that all the conclusions, which the
vulgar form on this head, are directly contrary to those, which are
confirmed by philosophy. For philosophy informs us, that every thing,
which appears to the mind, is nothing but a perception, and is
interrupted, and dependent on the mind: whereas the vulgar confound
perceptions and objects, and attribute a distinct continued existence to
the very things they feel or see. This sentiment, then, as it is entirely
unreasonable, must proceed from some other faculty than the
understanding. To which we may add, that as long as we take our
perceptions and objects to be the same, we can never infer the existence
of the one from that of the other, nor form any argument from the
relation of cause and effect; which is the only one that earl assure us
of matter of fact. Even after we distinguish our perceptions from our
objects, it will appear presently, that we are still incapable of
reasoning from the existence of one to that of the other: So that upon
the whole our reason neither does, nor is it possible it ever should,
upon any supposition, give us an assurance of the continued and distinct
existence of body. That opinion must be entirely owing to the
IMAGINATION: which must now be the subject of our enquiry.

Since all impressions are internal and perishing existences, and appear
as such, the notion of their distinct and continued existence must arise
from a concurrence of some of their qualities with the qualities of the
imagination, and since this notion does not extend to all of them, it
must arise from certain qualities peculiar to some impressions. It will
therefore be easy for us to discover these qualities by a comparison of
the impressions, to which we attribute a distinct and continued
existence, with those, which we regard as internal and perishing.

We may observe, then, that it is neither upon account of the
involuntariness of certain impressions, as is commonly supposed, nor of
their superior force and violence, that we attribute to them a reality,
and continued existence, which we refuse to others, that are voluntary or
feeble. For it is evident our pains and pleasures, our passions and
affections, which we never suppose to have any existence beyond our
perception, operate with greater violence, and are equally involuntary,
as the impressions of figure and extension, colour and sound, which we
suppose to be permanent beings. The heat of a fire, when moderate, is
supposed to exist in the fire; but the pain, which it causes upon a near
approach, is not taken to have any being, except in the perception.

These vulgar opinions, then, being rejected, we must search for some
other hypothesis, by which we may discover those peculiar qualities in
our impressions, which makes us attribute to them a distinct and
continued existence.

After a little examination, we shall find, that all those objects, to
which we attribute a continued existence, have a peculiar constancy,
which distinguishes them from the impressions, whose existence depends
upon our perception. Those mountains, and houses, and trees, which lie at
present under my eye, have always appeared to me in the same order; and
when I lose sight of them by shutting my eyes or turning my head, I soon
after find them return upon me without the least alteration. My bed and
table, my books and papers, present themselves in the same uniform
manner, and change not upon account of any interruption in my seeing or
perceivilng them. This is the case with all the impressions, whose
objects are supposed to have an external existence; and is the case with
no other impressions, whether gentle or violent, voluntary or
involuntary.

This constancy, however, is not so perfect as not to admit of very
considerable exceptions. Bodies often change their position and
qualities, and after a little absence or interruption may become hardly
knowable. But here it is observable, that even in these changes they
preserve a coherence, and have a regular dependence on each other; which
is the foundation of a kind of reasoning from causation, and produces the
opinion of their continued existence. When I return to my chamber after
an hour's absence, I find not my fire in the same situation, in which I
left it: But then I am accustomed in other instances to see a like
alteration produced in a like time, whether I am present or absent, near
or remote. This coherence, therefore, in their changes is one of the
characteristics of external objects, as well as their constancy.

Having found that the opinion of the continued existence of body depends
on the COHERENCE, and CONSTANCY of certain impressions, I now proceed to
examine after what manner these qualities give rise to so extraordinary
an opinion. To begin with the coherence; we may observe, that though those
internal impressions, which we regard as fleeting and perishing, have
also a certain coherence or regularity in their appearances, yet it is of
somewhat a different nature, from that which we discover in bodies. Our
passions are found by experience to have a mutual connexion with and
dependence on each other; but on no occasion is it necessary to suppose,
that they have existed and operated, when they were not perceived, in
order to preserve the same dependence and connexion, of which we have had
experience. The case is not the same with relation to external objects.
Those require a continued existence, or otherwise lose, in a great
measure, the regularity of their operation. I am here seated in my
chamber with my face to the fire; and all the objects, that strike my
senses, are contained in a few yards around me. My memory, indeed,
informs me of the existence of many objects; but then this information
extends not beyond their past existence, nor do either my senses or
memory give any testimony to the continuance of their being. When
therefore I am thus seated, and revolve over these thoughts, I hear on a
sudden a noise as of a door turning upon its hinges; and a little after
see a porter, who advances towards me. This gives occasion to many new
reflections and reasonings. First, I never have observed, that this noise
coued proceed from any thing but the motion of a door; and therefore
conclude, that the present phaenomenon is a contradiction to all past
experience, unless the door, which I remember on the other side the
chamber, be still in being. Again, I have always found, that a human body
was possest of a quality, which I call gravity, and which hinders it from
mounting in the air, as this porter must have done to arrive at my
chamber, unless the stairs I remember be not annihilated by my absence.
But this is not all. I receive a letter, which upon, opening it I
perceive by the hand-writing and subscription to have come from a friend,
who says he is two hundred leagues distant. It is evident I can never
account for this phenomenon, conformable to my experience in other
instances, without spreading out in my mind the whole sea and continent
between us, and supposing the effects and continued existence of posts
and ferries, according to my Memory and observation. To consider these
phaenomena of the porter and letter in a certain light, they are
contradictions to common experience, and may be regarded as objections to
those maxims, which we form concerning the connexions of causes and
effects. I am accustomed to hear such a sound, and see such an object in
motion at the same time. I have not received in this particular instance
both these perceptions. These observations are contrary, unless I suppose
that the door still remains, and that it was opened without my perceiving
it: And this supposition, which was at first entirely arbitrary and
hypothetical, acquires a force and evidence by its being the only one,
upon which I can reconcile these contradictions. There is scarce a moment
of my life, wherein there is not a similar instance presented to me, and
I have not occasion to suppose the continued existence of objects, in
order to connect their past and present appearances, and give them such
an union with each other, as I have found by experience to be suitable to
their particular natures and circumstances. Here then I am naturally led
to regard the world, as something real and durable, and as preserving its
existence, even when it is no longer present to my perception.

But though this conclusion from the coherence of appearances may seem to
be of the same nature with our reasonings concerning causes and effects;
as being derived from custom, and regulated by past experience; we shall
find upon examination, that they are at the bottom considerably different
from each other, and that this inference arises from the understanding,
and from custom in an indirect and oblique manner. For it will readily be
allowed, that since nothing is ever really present to the mind, besides
its own perceptions, it is not only impossible, that any habit should ever
be acquired otherwise than by the regular succession of these
perceptions, but also that any habit should ever exceed that degree of
regularity. Any degree, therefore, of regularity in our perceptions, can
never be a foundation for us to infer a, greater degree of regularity in
some objects, which are not perceived; since this supposes a
contradiction, viz. a habit acquired by what was never present to the
mind. But it is evident, that whenever we infer the continued existence
of the objects of sense from their coherence, and the frequency of their
union, it is in order to bestow on the objects a greater regularity than
what is observed in our mere perceptions. We remark a connexion betwixt
two kinds of objects in their past appearance to the senses, but are not
able to observe this connexion to be perfectly constant, since the
turning about of our head or the shutting of our eyes is able to break
it. What then do we suppose in this case, but that these objects still
continue their usual connexion, notwithstanding their apparent
interruption, and that the irregular appearances are joined by something,
of which we are insensible? But as all reasoning concerning matters of
fact arises only from custom, and custom can only be the effect of
repeated perceptions, the extending of custom and reasoning beyond the
perceptions can never be the direct and natural effect of the constant
repetition and connexion, but must arise from 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 of thinking,
is apt to continue, even when its object fails it, and like a galley put
in motion by the oars, carries on its course without any new impulse. This
I have assigned for the reason, why, after considering several loose
standards of equality, and correcting them by each other, we proceed to
imagine so correct and exact a standard of that relation, as is not liable
to the least error or variation. The same principle makes us easily
entertain this opinion of the continued existence of body. Objects have a
certain coherence even as they appear to our senses; but this coherence is
much greater and more uniform, if we suppose the object.% to have a
continued existence; and as the mind is once in the train of observing an
uniformity among objects, it naturally continues, till it renders the
uniformity as compleat as possible. The simple supposition of their
continued existence suffices for this purpose, and gives us a notion of a
much greater regularity among objects, than what they have when we look
no farther than our senses.

But whatever force we may ascribe to this principle, I am afraid it is too
weak to support alone so vast an edifice, as is that of the continued
existence of all external bodies; and that we must join the constancy of
their appearance to the coherence, in order to give a satisfactory
account of that opinion. As the explication of this will lead me into a
considerable compass of very profound reasoning; I think it proper, in
order to avoid confusion, to give a short sketch or abridgment of my
system, and afterwards draw out all its parts in their full compass. This
inference from the constancy of our perceptions, like the precedent from
their coherence, gives rise to the opinion of the continued existence of
body, which is prior to that of its distinct existence, and produces that
latter principle.

When we have been accustomed to observe a constancy in certain
impressions, and have found, that the perception of the sun or ocean, for
instance, returns upon us after an absence or annihilation with like
parts and in a like order, as at its first appearance, we are not apt to
regard these interrupted perceptions as different, (which they really
are) but on the contrary consider them as individually the same, upon
account of their resemblance. But as this interruption of their existence
is contrary to their perfect identity, and makes us regard the first
impression as annihilated, and the second as newly created, we find
ourselves somewhat at a loss, and are involved in a kind of
contradiction. In order to free ourselves from this difficulty, we
disguise, as much as possible, the interruption, or rather remove it
entirely, by supposing that these interrupted perceptions are connected
by a real existence, of which we are insensible. This supposition, or
idea of continued existence, acquires a force and vivacity from the
memory of these broken impressions, and from that propensity, which they
give us, to suppose them the same; and according to the precedent
reasoning, the very essence of belief consists in the force and vivacity
of the conception.

In order to justify this system, there are four things requisite. First,
To explain the PRINCIPIUM INDIVIDUATIONIS, or principle of identity.
Secondly, Give a reason, why the resemblance of our broken and
interrupted perceptions induces us to attribute an identity to them.
Thirdly, Account for that propensity, which this illusion gives, to
unite these broken appearances by a continued existence. Fourthly and
lastly, Explain that force and vivacity of conception, which arises from
the propensity.

First, As to the principle of individuation; we may observe, that the
view of any one object is not sufficient to convey the idea of identity.
For in that proposition, an object is the same with itself, if the idea
expressed by the word, object, were no ways distinguished from that meant
by itself; we really should mean nothing, nor would the proposition
contain a predicate and a subject, which however are implyed in this
affirmation. One single object conveys the idea of unity, not that of
identity.

On the other hand, a multiplicity of objects can never convey this idea,
however resembling they may be supposed. The mind always pronounces the
one not to be the other, and considers them as forming two, three, or any
determinate number of objects, whose existences are entirely distinct and
independent.

Since then both number and unity are incompatible with the relation of
identity, it must lie in something that is neither of them. But to tell
the truth, at first sight this seems utterly impossible. Betwixt unity
and number there can be no medium; no more than betwixt existence and
nonexistence. After one object is supposed to exist, we must either
suppose another also to exist; in which case we have the idea of number:
Or we must suppose it not to exist; in which case the first object
remains at unity.

To remove this difficulty, let us have recourse to the idea of time or
duration. I have already observd [Part II, Sect. 5.], that time, in a
strict sense, implies succession, and that when we apply its idea to any
unchangeable object, it is only by a fiction of the imagination, by which
the unchangeable object is supposd to participate of the changes of the
co-existent objects, and in particular of that of our perceptions. This
fiction of the imagination almost universally takes place; and it is by
means of it, that a single object, placd before us, and surveyd for any
time without our discovering in it any interruption or variation, is able
to give us a notion of identity. For when we consider any two points of
this time, we may place them in different lights: We may either survey
them at the very same instant; in which case they give us the idea of
number, both by themselves and by the object; which must be multiplyd, in
order to be conceivd at once, as existent in these two different points
of time: Or on the other hand, we may trace the succession of time by a
like succession of ideas, and conceiving first one moment, along with the
object then existent, imagine afterwards a change in the time without any
VARIATION or INTERRUPTION in the object; in which case it gives us the
idea of unity. Here then is an idea, which is a medium betwixt unity and.
number; or more properly speaking, is either of them, according to the
view, in which we take it: And this idea we call that of identity. We
cannot, in any propriety of speech, say, that an object is the same with
itself, unless we mean, that the object existent at one time is the same
with itself existent at another. By this means we make a difference,
betwixt the idea meant by the word, OBJECT, and that meant by ITSELF,
without going the length of number, and at the same time without
restraining ourselves to a strict and absolute unity.

Thus the principle of individuation is nothing but the INVARIABLENESS and
UNINTERRUPTEDNESS of any object, thro a supposd variation of time, by
which the mind can trace it in the different periods of its existence,
without any break of the view, and without being obligd to form the idea
of multiplicity or number.

I now proceed to explain the SECOND part of my system, and shew why the
constancy of our perceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfect numerical
identity, tho there be very long intervals betwixt their appearance, and
they have only one of the essential qualities of identity, VIZ,
INVARIABLENESS. That I may avoid all ambiguity and confusion on this
head, I shall observe, that I here account for the opinions and belief of
the vulgar with regard to the existence of body; and therefore must
entirely conform myself to their manner of thinking and of expressing
themselves. Now we have already observd, that however philosophers may
distinguish betwixt the objects and perceptions of the senses; which they
suppose co-existent and resembling; yet this is a distinction, which is
not comprehended by the generality of mankind, who as they perceive only
one being, can never assent to the opinion of a double existence and
representation. Those very sensations, which enter by the eye or ear, are
with them the true objects, nor can they readily conceive that this pen
or paper, which is immediately perceivd, represents another, which is
different from, but resembling it. In order, therefore, to accommodate
myself to their notions, I shall at first suppose; that there is only a
single existence, which I shall call indifferently OBJECT or PERCEPTION,
according as it shall seem best to suit my purpose, understanding by both
of them what any common man means by a hat, or shoe, or stone, or any
other impression, conveyd to him by his senses. I shall be sure to give
warning, when I return to a more philosophical way of speaking and
thinking.

To enter, therefore, upon the question concerning the source of the error
and deception with regard to identity, when we attribute it to our
resembling perceptions, notwithstanding their interruption; I must here
recal an observation, which I have already provd and explaind
[Part II. Sect. 5.]. Nothing is more apt to make us mistake one idea for
another, than any relation betwixt them, which associates them together in
the imagination, and makes it pass with facility from one to the other. Of
all relations, that of resemblance is in this respect the most
efficacious; and that because it not only causes an association of ideas,
but also of dispositions, and makes us conceive the one idea by an act or
operation of the mind, similar to that by which we conceive the other.
This circumstance I have observd to be of great moment; and we may
establish it for a general rule, that whatever ideas place the mind in the
same disposition or in similar ones, are very apt to be confounded. The
mind readily passes from one to the other, and perceives not the change
without a strict attention, of which, generally speaking, it is wholly
incapable.

In order to apply this general maxim, we must first examine the
disposition of the mind in viewing any object which preserves a perfect
identity, and then find some other object, that is confounded with it, by
causing a similar disposition. When we fix our thought on any object, and
suppose it to continue the same for some time; it is evident we suppose
the change to lie only in the time, and never exert ourselves to produce
any new image or idea of the object. The faculties of the mind repose
themselves in a manner, and take no more exercise, than what is necessary
to continue that idea, of which we were formerly possest, and which
subsists without variation or interruption. The passage from one moment
to another is scarce felt, and distinguishes not itself by a different
perception or idea, which may require a different direction of the
spirits, in order to its conception.

Now what other objects, beside identical ones, are capable of placing the
mind in the same disposition, when it considers them, and of causing the
same uninterrupted passage of the imagination from one idea to another?
This question is of the last importance. For if we can find any such
objects, we may certainly conclude, from the foregoing principle, that
they are very naturally confounded with identical ones, and are taken for
them in most of our reasonings. But though this question be very
important, it is not very difficult nor doubtful. For I immediately reply,
that a succession of related objects places the mind in this disposition,
and is considered with the same smooth and uninterrupted progress of the
imagination, as attends the view of the same invariable object. The very
nature and essence of relation is to connect our ideas with each other,
and upon the appearance of one, to facilitate the transition to its
correlative. The passage betwixt related ideas is, therefore, so smooth
and easy, that it produces little alteration on the mind, and seems like
the continuation of the same action; and as the continuation of the same
action is an effect of the continued view of the same object, it is for
this reason we attribute sameness to every succession of related objects.
The thought slides along the succession with equal facility, as if it
considered only one object; and therefore confounds the succession with
the identity.

We shall afterwards see many instances of this tendency of relation to
make us ascribe an identity to different objects; but shall here confine
ourselves to the present subject. We find by experience, that there is
such a constancy in almost all the impressions of the senses, that their
interruption produces no alteration on them, and hinders them not from
returning the same in appearance and in situation as at their first
existence. I survey the furniture of my chamber; I shut my eyes, and
afterwards open them; and find the new perceptions to resemble perfectly
those, which formerly struck my senses. This resemblance is observed in a
thousand instances, and naturally connects together our ideas of these
interrupted perceptions by the strongest relation. and conveys the mind
with an easy transition from one to another. An easy transition or
passage of the imagination, along the ideas of these different and
interrupted perceptions, is almost the same disposition of mind with that
in which we consider one constant and uninterrupted perception. It is
therefore very natural for us to mistake the one for the other.

[Footnote 9  This reasoning, it must be confest, is somewhat abstruse, and
difficult to be comprehended; but it is remarkable, that this very
difficulty may be converted into a proof of the reasoning. We may
observe, that there are two relations, and both of them resemblances,
which contribute to our mistaking the succession of our interrupted
perceptions for an identical object. The first is, the resemblance of the
perceptions: The second is the resemblance, which the act of the mind in
surveying a succession of resembling objects bears to that in surveying
an identical object. Now these resemblances we are apt to confound with
each other; and it is natural we shoud, according to this very reasoning.
But let us keep them distinct, and we shall find no difficulty in
conceiving the precedent argument.]

The persons, who entertain this opinion concerning the identity of our
resembling perceptions, are in general an the unthinking and
unphilosophical part of mankind, (that is, all of us, at one time or
other) and consequently such as suppose their perceptions to be their
only objects, and never think of a double existence internal and
external, representing and represented. The very image, which is present
to the senses, is with us the real body; and it is to these interrupted
images we ascribe a perfect identity. But as the interruption of the
appearance seems contrary to the identity, and naturally leads us to
regard these resembling perceptions as different from each other, we here
find ourselves at a loss how to reconcile such opposite opinions. The
smooth passage of the imagination along the ideas of the resembling
perceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfect identity. The interrupted
manner of their appearance makes us consider them as so many resembling,
but still distinct beings, which appear after certain intervals. The
perplexity arising from this contradiction produces a propension to unite
these broken appearances by the fiction of a continued existence, which
is the third part of that hypothesis I proposed to explain.

Nothing is more certain from experience, than that any contradiction
either to the sentiments or passions gives a sensible uneasiness, whether
it proceeds from without or from within; from the opposition of external
objects, or from the combat of internal principles. On the contrary,
whatever strikes in with the natural propensities, and either externally
forwards their satisfaction, or internally concurs with their movements,
is sure to give a sensible pleasure. Now there being here an opposition
betwixt the notion of the identity of resembling perceptions, and the
interruption of their appearance, the mind must be uneasy in that
situation, and will naturally seek relief from the uneasiness. Since the
uneasiness arises from the opposition of two contrary principles, it must
look for relief by sacrificing the one to the other. But as the smooth
passage of our thought along our resembling perceptions makes us ascribe
to them an identity, we can never without reluctance yield up that
opinion. We must, therefore, turn to the other side, and suppose that our
perceptions are no longer interrupted, but preserve a continued as well
as an invariable existence, and are by that means entirely the same. But
here the interruptions in the appearance of these perceptions are so long
and frequent, that it is impossible to overlook them; and as the
appearance of a perception in the mind and its existence seem at first
sight entirely the same, it may be doubted, whether we can ever assent to
so palpable a contradiction, and suppose a perception to exist without
being present to the mind. In order to clear up this matter, and learn
how the interruption in the appearance of a perception implies not
necessarily an interruption in its existence, it will be proper to touch
upon some principles, which we shall have occasion to explain more fully
afterwards. [Sect. 6.]

We may begin with observing, that the difficulty in the present case is
not concerning the matter of fact, or whether the mind forms such a
conclusion concerning the continued existence of its perceptions, but
only concerning the manner in which the conclusion is formed, and
principles from which it is derived. It is certain, that almost all
mankind, and even philosophers themselves, for the greatest part of their
lives, take their perceptions to be their only objects, and suppose, that
the very being, which is intimately present to the mind, is the real body
or material existence. It is also certain, that this very perception or
object is supposed to have a continued uninterrupted being, and neither
to be annihilated by our absence, nor to be brought into existence by our
presence. When we are absent from it, we say it still exists, but that we
do not feel, we do not see it. When we are present, we say we feel, or
see it. Here then may arise two questions; First, How we can satisfy
ourselves in supposing a perception to be absent from the mind without
being annihilated. Secondly, After what manner we conceive an object to
become present to the mind, without some new creation of a perception or
image; and what we mean by this seeing, and feeling, and perceiving.

As to the first question; we may observe, that what we. call a mind, is
nothing but a heap or collection of different perceptions, united
together by certain relations, and supposed, though falsely, to be endowed
with a perfect simplicity and identity. Now as every perception is
distinguishable from another, and may be considered as separately
existent; it evidently follows, that there is no absurdity in separating
any particular perception from the mind; that is, in breaking off all its
relations, with that connected mass of perceptions, which constitute a
thinking being.

The same reasoning affords us an answer to the second question. If the
name of perception renders not this separation from a mind absurd and
contradictory, the name of object, standing for the very same thing, can
never render their conjunction impossible. External objects are seen, and
felt, and become present to the mind; that is, they acquire such a
relation to a connected heap of perceptions, as to influence them very
considerably in augmenting their number by present reflections and
passions, and in storing the memory with ideas. The same continued and
uninterrupted Being may, therefore, be sometimes present to the mind, and
sometimes absent from it, without any real or essential change in the
Being itself. An interrupted appearance to the senses implies not
necessarily an interruption in the existence. The supposition of the
continued existence of sensible objects or perceptions involves no
contradiction. We may easily indulge our inclination to that supposition.
When the exact resemblance of our perceptions makes us ascribe to them an
identity, we may remove the seeming interruption by feigning a continued
being, which may fill those intervals, and preserve a perfect and entire
identity to our perceptions.

But as we here not only feign but believe this continued existence, the
question is, from whence arises such a belief; and this question leads us
to the fourth member of this system. It has been proved already, that
belief in general consists in nothing, but the vivacity of an idea; and
that an idea may acquire this vivacity by its relation to some present
impression. Impressions are naturally the most vivid perceptions of the
mind; and this quality is in part conveyed by the relation to every
connected idea. The relation causes a smooth passage from the impression
to the idea, and even gives a propensity to that passage. The mind falls
so easily from the one perception to the other, that it scarce perceives
the change, but retains in the second a considerable share of the
vivacity of the first. It is excited by the lively impression; and this
vivacity is conveyed to the related idea, without any great diminution in
the passage, by reason of the smooth transition and the propensity of the
imagination.

But suppose, that this propensity arises from some other principle,
besides that of relation; it is evident it must still have the same
effect, and convey the vivacity from the impression to the idea. Now this
is exactly the present case. Our memory presents us with a vast number of
instances of perceptions perfectly resembling each other, that return at
different distances of time, and after considerable interruptions. This
resemblance gives us a propension to consider these interrupted
perceptions as the same; and also a propension to connect them by a
continued existence, in order to justify this identity, and avoid the
contradiction, in which the interrupted appearance of these perceptions
seems necessarily to involve us. Here then we have a propensity to feign
the continued existence of all sensible objects; and as this propensity
arises from some lively impressions of the memory, it bestows a vivacity
on that fiction: or in other words, makes us believe the continued
existence of body. If sometimes we ascribe a continued existence to
objects, which are perfectly new to us, and of whose constancy and
coherence we have 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 reasoning and analogy, and
leads us to attribute the same qualities to similar objects.

I believe an intelligent reader will find less difficulty to assent to
this system, than to comprehend it fully and distinctly, and will allow,
after a little reflection, that every part carries its own proof along
with it. It is indeed evident, that as the vulgar suppose their
perceptions to be their only objects, and at the same time believe the
continued existence of matter, we must account for the origin of the
belief upon that supposition. Now upon that supposition, it is a false
opinion that any of our objects, or perceptions, are identically the same
after an interruption; and consequently the opinion of their identity can
never arise from reason, but must arise from the imagination. The
imagination is seduced into such an opinion only by means of the
resemblance of certain perceptions; since we find they are only our
resembling perceptions, which we have a propension to suppose the same.
This propension to bestow an identity on our resembling perceptions,
produces the fiction of a continued existence; since that fiction, as
well as the identity, is really false, as is acknowledged by all
philosophers, and has no other effect than to remedy the interruption of
our perceptions, which is the only circumstance that is contrary to their
identity. In the last place this propension causes belief by means of the
present impressions of the memory; since without the remembrance of
former sensations, it is plain we never should have any belief of the
continued existence of body. Thus in examining all these parts, we find
that each of them is supported by the strongest proofs: and that all of
them together form a consistent system, which is perfectly convincing. A
strong propensity or inclination alone, without any present impression,
will sometimes cause a belief or opinion. How much more when aided by
that circumstance?

But though we are led after this manner, by the natural propensity of the
imagination, to ascribe a continued existence to those sensible objects
or perceptions, which we find to resemble each other in their interrupted
appearance; yet a very little reflection and philosophy is sufficient to
make us perceive the fallacy of that opinion. I have already observed,
that there is an intimate connexion betwixt those two principles, of a
continued and of a distinct or independent existence, and that we no
sooner establish the one than the other follows, as a necessary
consequence. It is the opinion of a continued existence, which first takes
place, and without much study or reflection draws the other along with
it, wherever the mind follows its first and most natural tendency. But
when we compare experiments, and reason a little upon them, we quickly
perceive, that the doctrine of the independent existence of our sensible
perceptions is contrary to the plainest experience. This leads us
backward upon our footsteps to perceive our error in attributing a
continued existence to our perceptions, and is the origin of many very
curious opinions, which we shall here endeavour to account for.

It will first be proper to observe a few of those experiments, which
convince us, that our perceptions are not possest of any independent
existence. When we press one eye with a finger, we immediately perceive
all the objects to become double, and one half of them to be removed from
their common and natural position. But as we do not attribute to
continued existence to both these perceptions, and as they are both of
the same nature, we clearly perceive, that all our perceptions are
dependent on our organs, and the disposition of our nerves and animal
spirits. This opinion is confirmed by the seeming encrease and diminution
of objects, according to their distance; by the apparent alterations in
their figure; by the changes in their colour and other qualities from our
sickness and distempers: and by an infinite number of other experiments
of the same kind; from all which we learn, that our sensible perceptions
are not possest of any distinct or independent existence.

The natural consequence of this reasoning should be, that our perceptions
have no more a continued than an independent existence; and indeed
philosophers have so far run into this opinion, that they change their
system, and distinguish, (as we shall do for the future) betwixt
perceptions and objects, of which the former are supposed to be
interrupted, and perishing, and different at every different return; the
latter to be uninterrupted, and to preserve a continued existence and
identity. But however philosophical this new system may be esteemed, I
assert that it is only a palliative remedy, and that it contains all the
difficulties of the vulgar system, with some others, that are peculiar to
itself. There are no principles either of the understanding or fancy,
which lead us directly to embrace this opinion of the double existence of
perceptions and objects, nor can we arrive at it but by passing through
the common hypothesis of the identity and continuance of our interrupted
perceptions. Were we not first perswaded, that our perceptions are our
only objects, and continue to exist even when they no longer make their
appearance to the senses, we should never be led to think, that our
perceptions and objects are different, and that our objects alone
preserve a continued existence. The latter hypothesis has no primary
recommendation either to reason or the imagination, but acquires all its
influence on the imagination from the former. This proposition contains
two parts, which we shall endeavour to prove as distinctly and clearly,
as such abstruse subjects will permit.

As to the first part of the proposition, that this philosophical
hypothesis has no primary recommendation, either to reason, or the
imagination, we may soon satisfy ourselves with regard to reason by the
following reflections. The only existences, of which we are certain, are
perceptions, which being immediately present to us by consciousness,
command our strongest assent, and are the first foundation of all our
conclusions. The only conclusion we can draw from the existence of one
thing to that of another, is by means of the relation of cause and
effect, which shews, that there is a connexion betwixt them, and that the
existence of one is dependent on that of the other. The idea of this
relation is derived from past experience, by which we find, that two
beings are constantly conjoined together, and are always present at once
to the mind. But as no beings are ever present to the mind but
perceptions; it follows that we may observe a conjunction or a relation
of cause and effect between different perceptions, but can never observe
it between perceptions and objects. It is impossible, therefore, that from
the existence or any of the qualities of the former, we can ever form any
conclusion concerning the existence of the latter, or ever satisfy our
reason in this particular.

It is no less certain, that this philosophical system has no primary
recommendation to the imagination, and that that faculty would never, of
itself, and by its original tendency, have fallen upon such a principle.
I confess it will be somewhat difficult to prove this to the fall
satisfaction of the reader; because it implies a negative, which in many
cases will not admit of any positive proof. If any one would take the
pains to examine this question, and would invent a system, to account for
the direct origin of this opinion from the imagination, we should be
able, by the examination of that system, to pronounce a certain judgment
in the present subject. Let it be taken for granted, that our perceptions
are broken, and interrupted, and however like, are still different from
each other; and let any one upon this supposition shew why the fancy,
directly and immediately, proceeds to the belief of another existence,
resembling these perceptions in their nature, but yet continued, and
uninterrupted, and identical; and after he has done this to my
satisfaction, I promise to renounce my present opinion. Mean while I
cannot forbear concluding, from the very abstractedness and difficulty of
the first supposition, that it is an improper subject for the fancy to
work upon. Whoever would explain the origin of the common opinion
concerning the continued and distinct existence of body, must take the
mind in its common situation, and must proceed upon the supposition, that
our perceptions are our only objects, and continue to exist even when
they are not perceived. Though this opinion be false, it is the most
natural of any, and has alone any primary recommendation to the fancy.

As to the second part of the proposition, that the philosophical system
acquires all its influence on the imagination from the vulgar one; we may
observe, that this is a natural and unavoidable consequence of the
foregoing conclusion, that it has no primary recommendation to reason or
the imagination. For as the philosophical system is found by experience
to take hold of many minds, and in particular of all those, who reflect
ever so little on this subject, it must derive all its authority from the
vulgar system; since it has no original authority of its own. The manner,
in which these two systems, though directly contrary, are connected
together, may be explains, as follows.

The imagination naturally runs on in this train of thinking. Our
perceptions are our only objects: Resembling perceptions are the same,
however broken or uninterrupted in their appearance: This appealing
interruption is contrary to the identity: The interruption consequently
extends not beyond the appearance, and the perception or object really
continues to exist, even when absent from us: Our sensible perception s
have, therefore, a continued and uninterrupted existence. But as a little
reflection destroys this conclusion, that our perceptions have a
continued existence, by shewing that they have a dependent one, it would
naturally be expected, that we must altogether reject the opinion, that
there is such a thing in nature as a continued existence, which is
preserved even when it no longer appears to the senses. The case,
however, is otherwise. Philosophers are so far from rejecting the opinion
of a continued existence upon rejecting that of the independence and
continuance of our sensible perceptions, that though all sects agree in
the latter sentiment, the former, which is, in a manner, its necessary
consequence, has been peculiar to a few extravagant sceptics; who after
all maintained that opinion in words only, and were never able to bring
themselves sincerely to believe it.

There is a great difference betwixt such opinions as we form after a calm
and profound reflection, and such as we embrace by a kind of instinct or
natural impulse, on account of their suitableness and conformity to the
mind. If these opinions become contrary, it is not difficult to foresee
which of them will have the advantage. As long as our attention is bent
upon the subject, the philosophical and studyed principle may prevail;
but the moment we relax our thoughts, nature will display herself, and
draw us back to our former opinion. Nay she has sometimes such an
influence, that she can stop our progress, even in the midst of our most
profound reflections, and keep us from running on with all the
consequences of any philosophical opinion. Thus though we clearly perceive
the dependence and interruption of our perceptions, we stop short in our
career, and never upon that account reject the notion of an independent
and continued existence. That opinion has taken such deep root in the
imagination, that it is impossible ever to eradicate it, nor will any
strained metaphysical conviction of the dependence of our perceptions be
sufficient for that purpose.

But though our natural and obvious principles here prevail above our
studied reflections, it is certain there must be sonic struggle and
opposition in the case: at least so long as these rejections retain any
force or vivacity. In order to set ourselves at ease in this particular,
we contrive a new hypothesis, which seems to comprehend both these
principles of reason and imagination. This hypothesis is the
philosophical, one of the double existence of perceptions and objects;
which pleases our reason, in allowing, that our dependent perceptions are
interrupted and different; and at the same time is agreeable to the
imagination, in attributing a continued existence to something else,
which we call objects. This philosophical system, therefore, is the
monstrous offspring of two principles, which are contrary to each other,
which are both at once embraced by the mind, and which are unable
mutually to destroy each other. The imagination tells us, that our
resembling perceptions have a continued and uninterrupted existence, and
are not annihilated by their absence. Reflection tells us, that even our
resembling perceptions are interrupted in their existence, and different
from each other. The contradiction betwixt these opinions we elude by a
new fiction, which is conformable to the hypotheses both of reflection
and fancy, by ascribing these contrary qualities to different existences;
the interruption to perceptions, and the continuance to objects. Nature
is obstinate, and will not quit the field, however strongly attacked by
reason; and at 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 much as possible,
by successively granting to each whatever it demands, and by feigning a
double existence, where each may find something, that has all the
conditions it desires. Were we fully convinced, that our resembling
perceptions are continued, and identical, and independent, we should
never run into this opinion of a double existence. since we should find
satisfaction in our first supposition, and would not look beyond. Again,
were we fully convinced, that our perceptions are dependent, and
interrupted, and different, we should be as little inclined to embrace
the opinion of a double existence; since in that case we should clearly
perceive the error of our first supposition of a continued existence, and
would never regard it any farther. It is therefore from the intermediate
situation of the mind, that this opinion arises, and from such an
adherence to these two contrary principles, as makes us seek some pretext
to justify our receiving both; which happily at last is found in the
system of a double existence.

Another advantage of this philosophical system is its similarity to the
vulgar one; by which means we can humour our reason for a moment, when it
becomes troublesome and sollicitous; and yet upon its least negligence or
inattention, can easily return to our vulgar and natural notions.
Accordingly we find, that philosophers neglect not this advantage; but
immediately upon leaving their closets, mingle with the rest of mankind
in those exploded opinions, that our perceptions are our only objects,
and continue identically and uninterruptedly the same in all their
interrupted appearances.

There are other particulars of this system, wherein we may remark its
dependence on the fancy, in a very conspicuous manner. Of these, I shall
observe the two following. First, We suppose external objects to resemble
internal perceptions. I have already shewn, that the relation of cause
and effect can never afford us any just conclusion from the existence or
qualities of our perceptions to the existence of external continued
objects: And I shall farther add, that even though they coued afford such
a conclusion, we should never have any reason to infer, that our objects
resemble our perceptions. That opinion, therefore, is derived from
nothing but the quality of the fancy above-explained, <that it borrows
all its ideas from some precedent perception>. We never can conceive any
thing but perceptions, and therefore must make every thing resemble them.

Secondly, As we suppose our objects in general to resemble our
perceptions, so we take it for granted, that every particular object
resembles that perception, which it causes. The relation of cause and
effect determines us to join the other of resemblance; and the ideas of
these existences being already united together in the fancy by the former
relation, we naturally add the latter to compleat the union. We have a
strong propensity to compleat every union by joining new relations to
those which we have before observed betwixt any ideas, as we shall have
occasion to observe presently. [Sect. 5.]

Having thus given an account of all the systems both popular and
philosophical, with regard to external existences, I cannot forbear
giving vent to a certain sentiment, which arises upon reviewing those
systems. I begun this subject with premising, that we ought to have an
implicit faith in our senses, and that this would be the conclusion, I
should draw from the whole of my reasoning. But to be ingenuous, I feel
myself at present of a quite contrary sentiment, and am more inclined to
repose no faith at all in my senses, or rather imagination, than to place
in it such an implicit confidence. I cannot conceive bow such trivial
qualities of the fancy, conducted by such false suppositions, can ever
lead to any solid and rational system. They are the coherence and
constancy of our perceptions, which produce the opinion of their
continued existence; though these qualities of perceptions have no
perceivable connexion with such an existence. The constancy of our
perceptions has the most considerable effect, and yet is attended with
the greatest difficulties. It is a gross illusion to suppose, that our
resembling perceptions are numerically the same; and it is this illusion,
which leads us into the opinion, that these perceptions are
uninterrupted, and are still existent, even when they are not present to
the senses. This is the case with our popular system. And as to our
philosophical one, it is liable to the same difficulties; and is
over-and-above loaded with this absurdity, that it at once denies and
establishes the vulgar supposition. Philosophers deny our resembling
perceptions to be identically the same, and uninterrupted; and yet have
so great a propensity to believe them such, that they arbitrarily invent
a new set of perceptions, to which they attribute these qualities. I say,
a new set of perceptions: For we may well suppose in general, but it is
impossible for us distinctly to conceive, objects to be in their nature
any thing but exactly the same with perceptions. What then can we look
for from this confusion of groundless and extraordinary opinions but
error and falshood? And how can we justify to ourselves any belief we
repose in them?

This sceptical doubt, both with respect to reason and the senses, is a
malady, which can never be radically cured, but must return upon us every
moment, however we may chace it away, and sometimes may seem entirely
free from it. It is impossible upon any system to defend either our
understanding or senses; and we but expose them farther when we endeavour
to justify them in that manner. As the sceptical doubt arises naturally
from a profound and intense reflection on those subjects, it always
encreases, the farther we carry our reflections, whether in opposition or
conformity to it. Carelessness and in-attention alone can afford us any
remedy. For this reason I rely entirely upon them; and take it for
granted, whatever may be the reader's opinion at this present moment,
that an hour hence he will be persuaded there is both an external and
internal world; and going upon that supposition, I intend to examine some
general systems both ancient and modern, which have been proposed of
both, before I proceed to a more particular enquiry concerning our
impressions. This will not, perhaps, in the end be found foreign to our
present purpose.



SECT. III.  OF THE ANTIENT PHILOSOPHY.


Several moralists have recommended it as an excellent method of becoming
acquainted with our own hearts, and knowing our progress in virtue, to
recollect our dreams in a morning, and examine them with the same rigour,
that we would our most serious and most deliberate actions. Our character
is the same throughout, say they, and appears best where artifice, fear,
and policy have no place, and men can neither be hypocrites with
themselves nor others. The generosity, or baseness of our temper, our
meekness or cruelty, our courage or pusilanimity, influence the fictions
of the imagination with the most unbounded liberty, and discover
themselves in the most glaring colours. In like manner, I am persuaded,
there might be several useful discoveries made from a criticism of the
fictions of the antient philosophy, concerning substances, and
substantial form, and accidents, and occult qualities; which, however
unreasonable and capricious, have a very intimate connexion with the
principles of human nature.

It is confest by the most judicious philosophers, that our ideas of bodies
are nothing but collections formed by the mind of the ideas of the
several distinct sensible qualities, of which objects are composed, and
which we find to have a constant union with each other. But however these
qualities may in themselves be entirely distinct, it is certain we
commonly regard the compound, which they form, as ONE thing, and as
continuing the SAME under very considerable alterations. The acknowledged
composition is evidently contrary to this supposed simplicity, and the
variation to the identity. It may, therefore, be worth while to consider
the causes, which make us almost universally fall into such evident
contradictions, as well as the means by which we endeavour to conceal
them.

It is evident, that as the ideas of the several distinct, successive
qualities of objects are united together by a very close relation, the
mind, in looking along the succession, must be carryed from one part of
it to another by an easy transition, and will no more perceive the
change, than if it contemplated the same unchangeable object. This easy
transition is the effect, or rather essence of relation; I and as the
imagination readily takes one idea for another, where their influence on
the mind is similar; hence it proceeds, that any such succession of
related qualities is readily considered as one continued object, existing
without any variation. The smooth and uninterrupted progress of the
thought, being alike in both cases, readily deceives the mind, and makes
us ascribe an identity to the changeable succession of connected
qualities.

But when we alter our method of considering the succession, and instead
of traceing it gradually through the successive points of time, survey at
once Any two distinct periods of its duration, and compare the different
conditions of the successive qualities; in that case the variations,
which were insensible when they arose gradually, do now appear of
consequence, and seem entirely to destroy the identity. By this means
there arises a kind of contrariety in our method of thinking, from the
different points of view, in which we survey the object, and from the
nearness or remoteness of those instants of time, which we compare
together. When we gradually follow an object in its successive changes,
the smooth progress of the thought makes us ascribe an identity to the
succession; because it is by a similar act of the mind we consider an
unchangeable object. When we compare its situation after a considerable
change the progress of the thought is. broke; and consequently we are
presented with the idea of diversity: In order to reconcile which
contradictions the imagination is apt to feign something unknown and
invisible, which it supposes to continue the same under all these
variations; and this unintelligible something it calls a substance, or
original and first matter.

We entertain a like notion with regard to the simplicity of substances,
and from like causes. Suppose an object perfectly simple and indivisible
to be presented, along with another object, whose co-existent parts are
connected together by a strong relation, it is evident the actions of the
mind, in considering these two objects, are not very different. The
imagination conceives the simple object at once, with facility, by a
single effort of thought, without change or variation. The connexion of
parts in the compound object has almost the same effect, and so unites
the object within itself, that the fancy feels not the transition in
passing from one part to another. Hence the colour, taste, figure,
solidity, and other qualities, combined in a peach or melon, are
conceived to form one thing; and that on account of their close relation,
which makes them affect the thought in the same manner, as if perfectly
uncompounded. But the mind rests not here. Whenever it views the object
in another light, it finds that all these qualities are different, and
distinguishable, and separable from each other; which view of things
being destructive of its primary and more natural notions, obliges the
imagination to feign an unknown something, or original substance and
matter, as a principle of union or cohesion among these qualities, and as
what may give the compound object a title to be called one thing,
notwithstanding its diversity and composition.

The peripatetic philosophy asserts the original matter to be perfectly
homogeneous in all bodies, and considers fire, water, earth, and air, as
of the very same substance; on account of their gradual revolutions and
changes into each other. At the same time it assigns to each of these
species of objects a distinct substantial form, which it supposes to be
the source of all those different qualities they possess, and to be a new
foundation of simplicity and identity to each particular species. All
depends on our manner of viewing the objects. When we look along the
insensible changes of bodies, we suppose all of them to be of the same
substance or essence. When we consider their sensible differences, we
attribute to each of them a substantial and essential difference. And in
order to indulge ourselves in both these ways of considering our objects,
we suppose all bodies to have at once a substance and a substantial form.

The notion of accidents is an unavoidable consequence of this method of
thinking with regard to substances and substantial forms; nor can we
forbear looking upon colours, sounds, tastes, figures, and other
properties of bodies, as existences, which cannot subsist apart, but
require a subject of inhesion to sustain and support them. For having
never discovered any of these sensible qualities, where, for the reasons
above-mentioned, we did not likewise fancy a substance to exist; the same
habit, which makes us infer a connexion betwixt cause and effect, makes
us here infer a dependence of every quality on the unknown substance. The
custom of imagining a dependence has the same effect as the custom of
observing it would have. This conceit, however, is no more reasonable
than any of the foregoing. Every quality being a distinct thing from
another, may be conceived to exist apart, and may exist apart, not only
from every other quality, but from that unintelligible chimera of a
substance.

But these philosophers carry their fictions still farther in their
sentiments concerning occult qualities, and both suppose a substance
supporting, which they do not understand, and an accident supported, of
which they have as imperfect an idea. The whole system, therefore, is
entirely incomprehensible, and yet is derived from principles as natural
as any of these above-explained.

In considering this subject we may observe a gradation of three opinions,
that rise above each other, according as the persons, who form them,
acquire new degrees of reason and knowledge. These opinions are that of
the vulgar, that of a false philosophy, and that of the true; where we
shall find upon enquiry, that the true philosophy approaches nearer to
the sentiments of the vulgar, than to those of a mistaken knowledge. It is
natural. for men, in their common and care, less way of thinking, to
imagine they perceive a connexion betwixt such objects as they have
constantly found united together; and because custom has rendered it
difficult to separate the ideas, they are apt to fancy such a separation
to be in itself impossible and absurd. But philosophers, who abstract
from the effects of custom, and compare the ideas of objects, immediately
perceive the falshood of these vulgar sentiments, and discover that there
is no known connexion among objects. Every different object appears to
them entirely distinct and separate; and they perceive, that it is not
from a view of the nature and qualities of objects we infer one from
another, but only when in several instances we observe them to have been
constantly conjoined. But these philosophers, instead of drawing a just
inference from this observation, and concluding, that we have no idea of
power or agency, separate from the mind, and belonging to causes; I say,
instead of drawing this conclusion, they frequently search for the
qualities, in which this agency consists, and are displeased with every
system, which their reason suggests to them, in order to explain it. They
have sufficient force of genius to free them from the vulgar error, that
there is a natural and perceivable connexion betwixt the several sensible
qualities and. actions of matter; but not sufficient to keep them from
ever seeking for this connexion in matter, or causes. Had they fallen
upon the just conclusion, they would have returned back to the situation
of the vulgar, and would have regarded all these disquisitions with
indolence and indifference. At present they seem to be in a very
lamentable condition, and such as the poets have given us but a faint
notion of in their descriptions of the punishment of Sisyphus and
Tantalus. For what can be imagined more tormenting, than to seek with
eagerness, what for ever flies us; and seek for it in a place, where it is
impossible it can ever exist?

But as nature seems to have observed a kind of justice and compensation
in every thing, she has not neglected philosophers more than the rest of
the creation; but has reserved them a consolation amid all their
disappointments and afflictions. This consolation principally consists in
their invention of the words: faculty and occult quality. For it being
usual, after the frequent use of terms, which are really significant and
intelligible, to omit the idea, which we would express by them, and to
preserve only the custom, by which we recal the idea at pleasure; so it
naturally happens, that after the frequent use of terms, which are wholly
insignificant and unintelligible, we fancy them to be on the same footing
with the precedent, and to have a secret meaning, which we might discover
by reflection. The resemblance of their appearance deceives the mind, as
is usual, and makes us imagine a thorough resemblance and conformity. By
this means these philosophers set themselves at ease, and arrive at last,
by an illusion, at the same indifference, which the people attain by
their stupidity, and true philosophers by their moderate scepticism. They
need only say, that any phenomenon, which puzzles them, arises from a
faculty or an occult quality, and there is an end of all dispute and
enquiry upon the matter.

But among all the instances, wherein the Peripatetics have shewn they
were guided by every trivial propensity of the imagination, no one is
more-remarkable than their sympathies, antipathies, and horrors of a
vacuum. There is a very remarkable inclination in human nature, to bestow
on external objects the same emotions, which it observes in itself; and
to find every where those ideas, which are most present to it. This
inclination, it is true, is suppressed by a little reflection, and only
takes place in children, poets, and the antient philosophers. It appears
in children, by their desire of beating the stones, which hurt them: In
poets, by their readiness to personify every thing: And in the antient
philosophers, by these fictions of sympathy and antipathy. We must pardon
children, because of their age; poets, because they profess to follow
implicitly the suggestions of their fancy: But what excuse shall we find
to justify our philosophers in so signal a weakness?



SECT. IV.  OF THE MODERN PHILOSOPHY.


But here it may be objected, that the imagination, according to my own
confession, being the ultimate judge of all systems of philosophy, I am
unjust in blaming the antient philosophers for making use of that
faculty, and allowing themselves to be entirely guided by it in their
reasonings. In order to justify myself, I must distinguish in the
imagination betwixt the principles which are permanent, irresistible, and
universal; such as the customary transition from causes to effects, and
from effects to causes: And the principles, which are changeable, weak,
and irregular; such as those I have just now taken notice of. The former
are the foundation of all our thoughts and actions, so that upon their
removal human nature must immediately perish and go to ruin. The latter
are neither unavoidable to mankind, nor necessary, or so much as useful
in the conduct of life; but on the contrary are observed only to take
place in weak minds, and being opposite to the other principles of custom
and reasoning, may easily be subverted by a due contrast and opposition.
For this reason the former are received 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
conclusion be derived from nothing but custom, which infixes and inlivens
the idea of a human creature, on account of his usual conjunction with
the present impression. But one, who is tormented he knows not why, with
the apprehension 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 malady is said to be natural; as arising from natural
causes, though it be contrary to health, the most agreeable and most
natural situation of man.

The opinions of the antient philosophers, their fictions of substance and
accident, and their reasonings concerning substantial forms and occult
qualities, are like the spectres in the dark, and are derived from
principles, which, however common, are neither universal nor unavoidable
in human nature. The modern philosophy pretends to be entirely free from
this defect, and to arise only from the solid, permanent, and consistent
principles of the imagination. Upon what grounds this pretension is
founded must now be the subject of our enquiry.

The fundamental principle of that philosophy is the opinion concerning
colours, sounds, tastes, smells, heat and cold; which it asserts to be
nothing but impressions in the mind, derived from the operation of
external objects, and without any resemblance to the qualities of the
objects. Upon examination, I find only one of the reasons commonly
produced for this opinion to be satisfactory, viz. that derived from the
variations of those impressions, even while the external object, to all
appearance, continues the same. These variations depend upon several
circumstances. Upon the different situations of our health: A man in a
malady feels a disagreeable taste in meats, which before pleased him the
most. Upon the different complexions and constitutions of men That seems
bitter to one, which is sweet to another. Upon the difference of their
external situation and position: Colours reflected from the clouds change
according to the distance of the clouds, and according to the angle they
make with the eye and luminous body. Fire. also communicates the
sensation of pleasure at one distance, and that of pain at another.
Instances of this kind are very numerous and frequent.

The conclusion drawn from them, is likewise as satisfactory as can
possibly be imagined. It is certain, that when different impressions of
the same sense arise from any object, every one of these impressions has
not a resembling quality existent in the object. For as the same object
cannot, at the same time, be endowed with different qualities of the same
sense, and as the same quality cannot resemble impressions entirely
different; it evidently follows, that many of our impressions have no
external model or archetype. Now from like effects we presume like
causes. Many of the impressions of colour, sound, &c. are confest to be
nothing but internal existences, and to arise from causes, which no ways
resemble them. These impressions are in appearance nothing different from
the other impressions of colour, sound, &c. We conclude, therefore, that
they are, all of them, derived from a like origin.

This principle being once admitted, all the other doctrines of that
philosophy seem to follow by an easy consequence. For upon the removal of
sounds, colours, beat, cold, and other sensible qualities, from the rank
of continued independent existences, we are reduced merely to what are
called primary qualities, as the only real ones, of which we have any
adequate notion. These primary qualities are extension and solidity, with
their different mixtures and modifications; figure, motion, gravity, and
cohesion. The generation, encrease, decay, and corruption of animals and
vegetables, are nothing but changes of figure and motion; as also the
operations of all bodies on each other; of fire, of light, water, air,
earth, and of all the elements and powers of nature. One figure and
motion produces another figure and motion; nor does there remain in. the
material universe any other principle, either active or passive, of which
we can form the most distant idea.

I believe many objections might be made to this system But at present I
shall confine myself to one, which is in my opinion very decisive. I
assert, that instead of explaining the operations of external objects by
its means, we utterly annihilate all these objects, and reduce ourselves
to the opinions of the most extravagant scepticism concerning them. If
colours, sounds, tastes, and smells be merely perceptions, nothing we can
conceive is possest of a real, continued, and independent existence; not
even motion, extension and solidity, which are the primary qualities
chiefly insisted on.

To begin with the examination of motion; it is evident this is a quality
altogether inconceivable alone, and without a reference to some other
object. The idea of motion necessarily supposes that of a body moving.
Now what is our idea of the moving body, without which motion is
incomprehensible? It must resolve itself into the idea of extension or of
solidity; and consequently the reality of motion depends upon that of
these other qualities.

This opinion, which is universally acknowledged concerning motion, I have
proved to be true with regard to extension; and have shewn that it is
impossible to conceive extension, but as composed of parts, endowed with
colour or solidity. The idea of extension is a compound idea; but as it
is not compounded of an infinite number of parts or inferior ideas, it
must at last resolve itself into such as are perfectly simple and
indivisible. These simple and indivisible parts, not being ideas of
extension, must be non entities, unless conceived as coloured or solid.
Colour is excluded from any real existence. The reality, therefore, of
our idea of extension depends upon the reality of that of solidity, nor
can the former be just while the latter is chimerical. Let us, then, lend
our attention to the examination of the idea of solidity.

The idea of solidity is that of two objects, which being impelled by the
utmost force, cannot penetrate each other; but still maintain a separate
and distinct existence. Solidity, therefore, is perfectly
incomprehensible alone, and without the conception of some bodies, which
are solid, and maintain this separate and distinct existence. Now what
idea have we of these bodies? The ideas of colours, sounds, and other
secondary qualities are excluded. The idea of motion depends on that of
extension, and the idea of extension on that of solidity. It is
impossible, therefore, that the idea of solidity can depend on either of
them. For that would be to run in a circle, and make one idea depend on
another, while at the same time the latter depends on the former. Our
modern philosophy, therefore, leaves us no just nor satisfactory idea of
solidity; nor consequently of matter.

This argument will appear entirely conclusive to every one that
comprehends it; but because it may seem abstruse and intricate to the
generality of readers, I hope to be excused, if I endeavour to render it
more obvious by some variation of the expression. In order to form an
idea of solidity, we must conceive two bodies pressing on each other
without any penetration; and it is impossible to arrive at this idea, when
we confine ourselves to one object, much more without conceiving any. Two
non-entities cannot exclude each other from their places; because they
-never possess any place, nor can be endowed with any quality. Now I ask,
what idea do we form of these bodies or objects, to which we suppose
solidity to belong? To say, that we conceive them merely as solid, is to
run on in infinitum. To affirm, that we paint them out to ourselves as
extended, either resolves all into a false idea, or returns in a circle.
Extension must necessarily be considered either as coloured, which is a
false idea; I or as solid, which brings us back to the first question. We
may make the same observation concerning mobility and figure; and upon
the whole must conclude, that after the exclusion of colours, sounds,
heat and cold from the rank of external existences, there remains
nothing, which can afford us a just and constituent idea of body.

Add to this, that, properly speaking, solidity or impenetrability is
nothing, but an impossibility of annihilation, as [Part II. Sect. 4.]
has been already observed: For which reason it is the more necessary for
us to form some distinct idea of that object, whose annihilation we
suppose impossible. An impossibility of being annihilated cannot exist,
and can never be conceived to exist, by itself: but necessarily requires
some object or real existence, to which it may belong. Now the difficulty
still remains, how to form an idea of this object or existence, without
having recourse to the secondary and sensible qualities.

Nor must we omit on this occasion our accustomed method of examining
ideas by considering those impressions, from which they are derived. The
impressions, which enter by the sight and hearing, the smell and taste,
are affirmed by modern philosophy to be without any resembling objects;
and consequently the idea of solidity, which is supposed to be real, can
never be derived from any of these senses. There remains, therefore, the
feeling as the only sense, that can convey the impression, which is
original to the idea of solidity; and indeed we naturally imagine, that
we feel the solidity of bodies, and need but touch any object in order to
perceive this quality. But this method of thinking is more popular than
philosophical; as will appear from the following reflections.

First, It is easy to observe, that though bodies are felt by means of
their solidity, yet the feeling is a quite different thing from the
solidity; and that they have not the least resemblance to each other. A
man, who has the palsey in one hand, has as perfect an idea of
impenetrability, when he observes that hand to be supported by the table,
as when he feels the same table with the other hand. An object, that
presses upon any of our members, meets with resistance; and that
resistance, by the motion it gives to the nerves and animal spirits,
conveys a certain sensation to the mind; but it does not follow, that the
sensation, motion, and resistance are any ways resembling.

Secondly, The impressions of touch are simple impressions, except when
considered with regard to their extension; which makes nothing to the
present purpose: And from this simplicity 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, or any solid body, with his hand, and
that of two stones, which press each other; it will readily be allowed,
that these two cases are not in every respect alike, but that in the
former there is conjoined with the solidity, a feeling or sensation, of
which there is no appearance in the latter. In order, therefore, to make
these two cases alike, it is necessary to remove some part of the
impression, which the man feels by his hand, or organ of sensation; and
that being impossible in a simple impression, obliges us to remove the
whole, and proves that this whole impression has no archetype or model in
external objects. To which we may add, that solidity necessarily supposes
two bodies, along with contiguity and impulse; which being a compound
object, can never be represented by a simple impression. Not to mention,
that though solidity continues always invariably the same, the impressions
of touch change every moment upon us; which is a clear proof that the
latter are not representations of the former.

Thus there is a direct and total opposition betwixt our reason and our
senses; or more properly speaking, betwixt those conclusions we form from
cause and effect, and those that persuade us of the continued and
independent existence of body. When we reason from cause and effect, we
conclude, that neither colour, sound, taste, nor smell have a continued
and independent existence. When we exclude these sensible qualities there
remains nothing in the universe, which has such an existence.



SECT. V.  OF THE IMMATERIALITY OF THE SOUL.


Having found such contradictions and difficulties in every system
concerning external objects, and in the idea of matter, which we fancy so
clear and determinate, We shall naturally expect still greater
difficulties and contradictions in every hypothesis concerning our
internal perceptions, and the nature of the mind, which we are apt to
imagine so much more obscure, and uncertain. But in this we should
deceive ourselves. The intellectual world, though involved in infinite
obscurities, is not perplexed with any such contradictions, as those we
have discovered in the natural. What is known concerning it, agrees with
itself; and what is unknown, we must be contented to leave so.

It is true, would we hearken to certain philosophers, they promise to
diminish our ignorance; but I am afraid it is at the hazard of running us
into contradictions, from which the subject is of itself exempted. These
philosophers are the curious reasoners concerning the material or
immaterial substances, in which they suppose our perceptions to inhere.
In order to put a stop to these endless cavils on both sides, I know no
better method, than to ask these philosophers in a few words, What they
mean by substance and inhesion? And after they have answered this
question, it will then be reasonable, and not till then, to enter
seriously into the dispute.

This question we have found impossible to be answered with regard to
matter and body: But besides that in the case of the mind, it labours
under all the same difficulties, it is burthened with some additional
ones, which are peculiar to that subject. As every idea is derived from a
precedent impression, had we any idea of the substance of our minds, we
must also have an impression of it; which is very difficult, if not
impossible, to be conceived. For how can an impression represent a
substance, otherwise than by resembling it? And how can an impression
resemble a substance, since, according to this philosophy, it is not a
substance, and has none of the peculiar qualities or characteristics of a
substance?

But leaving the question of what may or may not be, for that other what
actually is, I desire those philosophers, who pretend that we have an
idea of the substance of our minds, to point out the impression that
produces it, and tell distinctly after what manner that impression
operates, and from what object it is derived. Is it an impression of
sensation or of reflection? Is it pleasant, or painful, or indifferent? I
Does it attend us at all times, or does it only return at intervals? If
at intervals, at what times principally does it return, and by what
causes is it produced?

If instead of answering these questions, any one should evade the
difficulty, by saying, that the definition of a substance is something
which may exist by itself; and that this definition ought to satisfy us:
should this be said, I should observe, that this definition agrees to
every thing, that can possibly be conceived; and never will serve to
distinguish substance from accident, or the soul from its perceptions.
For thus I reason. Whatever is clearly conceived may exist; and whatever
is clearly conceived, after any manner, may exist after the same manner.
This is one principle, which has been already acknowledged. Again, every
thing, which is different, is distinguishable, and every thing which is
distinguishable, is separable by the imagination. This is another
principle. My conclusion from both is, that since all our perceptions are
different from each other, and from every thing else in the universe,
they are also distinct and separable, and may be considered as separately
existent, and may exist separately, and have no need of any thing else to
support their existence. They are, therefore, substances, as far as this
definition explains a substance.

Thus neither by considering the first origin of ideas, nor by means of a
definition are we able to arrive at any satisfactory notion of substance;
which seems to me a sufficient reason for abandoning utterly that dispute
concerning the materiality and immateriality of the soul, and makes me
absolutely condemn even the question itself. We have no perfect idea of
any thing but of a perception. A substance is entirely different from a
perception. We have, therefore, no idea of a substance. Inhesion in
something is supposed to be requisite to support the existence of our
perceptions. Nothing appears requisite to support the existence of a
perception. We have, therefore, no idea of inhesion. What possibility
then of answering that question, Whether perceptions inhere in a material
or immaterial substance, when we do not so much as understand the meaning
of the question?

There is one argument commonly employed for the immateriality of the
soul, which seems to me remarkable. Whatever is extended consists of
parts; and whatever consists of parts is divisible, if not in reality, at
least in the imagination. But it is impossible anything divisible can be
conjoined to a thought or perception, which is a being altogether
inseparable and indivisible. For supposing such a conjunction, would the
indivisible thought exist on the left or on the right hand of this
extended divisible body? On the surface or in the middle? On the back or
fore side of it? If it be conjoined with the extension, it must exist
somewhere within its dimensions. If it exist within its dimensions, it
must either exist in one particular part; and then that particular part
is indivisible, and the perception is conjoined only with it, not with
the extension: Or if the thought exists in every part, it must also be
extended, and separable, and divisible, as well as the body; which is
utterly absurd and contradictory. For can any one conceive a passion of a
yard in length, a foot in breadth, and an inch in thickness? Thought,
therefore, and extension are qualities wholly incompatible, and never can
incorporate together into one subject.

This argument affects not the question concerning the substance of the
soul, but only that concerning its local conjunction with matter; and
therefore it may not be improper to consider in general what objects are,
or are not susceptible of a local conjunction. This is a curious
question, and may lead us to some discoveries of considerable moment.

The first notion of space and extension is derived solely from the senses
of sight and feeling; nor is there any thing, but what is coloured or
tangible, that has parts disposed after such a manner, as to convey that
idea. When we diminish or encrease a relish, it is not after the same
manner that we diminish or encrease any visible object; and when several
sounds strike our hearing at once, custom and reflection alone make us
form an idea of the degrees of the distance and contiguity of those
bodies, from which they are derived. Whatever marks the place of its
existence either must be extended, or must be a mathematical point,
without parts or composition. What is extended must have a particular
figure, as square, round, triangular; none of which will agree to a
desire, or indeed to any impression or idea, except to these two senses
above-mentioned. Neither ought a desire, though indivisible, to be
considered as a mathematical point. For in that case it would be possible,
by the addition of others, to make two, three, four desires, and these
disposed and situated in such a manner, as to have a determinate length,
breadth and thickness; which is evidently absurd.

It will not be surprising after this, if I deliver a maxim, which is
condemned by several metaphysicians, and is esteemed contrary to the most
certain principles of hum reason. This maxim is that an object may exist,
and yet be no where: and I assert, that this is not only possible, but
that the greatest part of beings do and must exist after this manner. An
object may be said to be no where, when its parts are not so situated
with respect to each other, as to form any figure or quantity; nor the
whole with respect to other bodies so as to answer to our notions of
contiguity or distance. Now this is evidently the case with all our
perceptions and objects, except those of the sight and feeling. A moral
reflection cannot be placed on the right or on the left hand of a
passion, nor can a smell or sound be either of a circular or a square
figure. These objects and perceptions, so far from requiring any
particular place, are absolutely incompatible with it, and even the
imagination cannot attribute it to them. And as to the absurdity of
supposing them to be no where, we may consider, that if the passions and
sentiments appear to the perception to have any particular place, the
idea of extension might be derived from them, as well as from the sight
and touch; contrary to what we have already established. If they APPEAR
not to have any particular place, they may possibly exist in the same
manner; since whatever we conceive is possible.

It will not now be necessary to prove, that those perceptions, which are
simple, and exist no where, are incapable of any conjunction in place
with matter or body, which is extended and divisible; since it is
impossible to found a relation but on some common quality. It may be
better worth our while to remark, that this question of the local
conjunction of objects does not only occur in metaphysical disputes
concerning the nature of the soul, but that even in common life we have
every moment occasion to examine it. Thus supposing we consider a fig at
one end of the table, and an olive at the other, it is evident, that in
forming the complex ideas of these substances, one of the most obvious is
that of their different relishes; and it is as evident, that we
incorporate and conjoin these qualities with such as are coloured and
tangible. The bitter taste of the one, and sweet of the other are
supposed to lie in the very visible body, and to be separated from each
other by the whole length of the table. This is so notable and so natural
an illusion, that it may be proper to consider the principles, from which
it is derived.

Though an extended object be incapable of a conjunction in place with
another, that exists without any place or extension, yet are they
susceptible of many other relations. Thus the taste and smell of any
fruit are inseparable from its other qualities of colour and tangibility;
and whichever of them be the cause or effect, it is certain they are
always co-existent. Nor are they only co-existent in general, but also
co-temporary in their appearance in the mind; and it is upon the
application of the extended body to our senses we perceive its particular
taste and smell. These relations, then, of causation, and contiguity in
the time of their appearance, betwixt the extended object and the
quality, which exists without any particular place, must have such an
effect on the mind, that upon the appearance of one it will immediately
turn its thought to the conception of the other. Nor is this all. We not
only turn our thought from one to the other upon account of their
relation, but likewise endeavour to give them a new relation, viz. that
of a CONJUNCTION IN PLACE, that we may render the transition more easy
and natural. For it is a quality, which I shall often have occasion to
remark in human nature, and shall explain more fully in its proper place,
that when objects are united by any relation, we have a strong propensity
to add some new relation to them, in order to compleat the union. In our
arrangement of bodies we never fail to place such as are resembling, in
contiguity to each other, or at least in correspondent points of view:
Why? but because we feel a satisfaction in joining the relation of
contiguity to that of resemblance, or the resemblance of situation to
that of qualities. The effects this propensity have been [Sect. 2, towards
the end.] already observed in that resemblance, which we so readily
suppose betwixt particular impressions and their external causes. But we
shall not find a more evident effect of it, than in the present instance,
where from the relations of causation and contiguity in time betwixt two
objects, we feign likewise that of a conjunction in place, in order to
strengthen the connexion.

But whatever confused notions we may form of an union in place betwixt an
extended body, as a fig, and its particular taste, it is certain that upon
reflection we must observe this union something altogether unintelligible
and contradictory. For should we ask ourselves one obvious question, viz.
if the taste, which we conceive to be contained in the circumference of
the body, is in every part of it or in one only, we must quickly find
ourselves at a loss, and perceive the impossibility of ever giving a
satisfactory answer. We cannot rely, that it is only in one part: For
experience convinces us, that every part has the same relish. We can as
little reply, that it exists in every part: For then we must suppose it
figured and extended; which is absurd and incomprehensible. Here then we
are influenced by two principles directly contrary to each other, viz.
that inclination of our fancy by which we are determined to incorporate
the taste with the extended object, and our reason, which shows us the
impossibility of such an union. Being divided betwixt these opposite
principles, we renounce neither one nor the other, but involve the
subject in such confusion and obscurity, that we no longer perceive the
opposition. We suppose, that the taste exists within the circumference of
the body, but in such a manner, that it fills the whole without
extension, and exists entire in every part without separation. In short,
we use in our most familiar way of thinking, that scholastic principle,
which, when crudely proposed, appears so shocking, of TOTUM IN TOTO &
TOLUM IN QUALIBET PARTE: Which is much the same, as if we should say,
that a thing is in a certain place, and yet is not there.

All this absurdity proceeds from our endeavouring to bestow a place on
what is utterly incapable of it; and that endeavour again arises from our
inclination to compleat an union, which is founded on causation, and a
contiguity of time, by attributing to the objects a conjunction in place.
But if ever reason be of sufficient force to overcome prejudice, it is
certain, that in the present case it must prevail. For we have only this
choice left, either to suppose that some beings exist without any place;
or that they are figured and extended; or that when they are incorporated
with extended objects, the whole is in the whole, and the whole in every
part. The absurdity of the two last suppositions proves sufficiently the
veracity of the first. Nor is there any fourth opinion. For as to the
supposition of their existence in the manner of mathematical points, it
resolves itself into the second opinion, and supposes, that several
passions may be placed in a circular figure, and that a certain number of
smells, conjoined with a certain number of sounds, may make a body of
twelve cubic inches; which appears ridiculous upon the bare mentioning of
it.

But though in this view of things we cannot refuse to condemn the
materialists, who conjoin all thought with extension; yet a little
reflection will show us equal reason for blaming their antagonists, who
conjoin all thought with a simple and indivisible substance. The most
vulgar philosophy informs us, that no external object can make itself
known to the mind immediately, and without the interposition of an image
or perception. That table, which just now appears to me, is only a
perception, and all its qualities are qualities of a perception. Now the
most obvious of all its qualities is extension. The perception consists
of parts. These parts are so situated, as to afford us the notion of
distance and contiguity; of length, breadth, and thickness. The
termination of these three dimensions is what we call figure. This figure
is moveable, separable, and divisible. Mobility, and separability are the
distinguishing properties of extended objects. And to cut short all
disputes, the very idea of extension is copyed from nothing but an
impression, and consequently must perfectly agree to it. To say the idea
of extension agrees to any thing, is to say it is extended.

The free-thinker may now triumph in his turn; and having found there are
impressions and ideas really extended, may ask his antagonists, how they
can incorporate a simple and indivisible subject with an extended
perception? All the arguments of Theologians may here be retorted upon
them. Is the indivisible subject, or immaterial substance, if you will,
on the left or on the right hand of the perception? Is it in this
particular part, or in that other? Is it in every part without being
extended? Or is it entire in any one part without deserting the rest?
It is impossible to give any answer to these questions, but what will both
be absurd in itself, and will account for the union of our indivisible
perceptions with an extended substance.

This gives me an occasion to take a-new into consideration the question
concerning the substance of the soul; and though I have condemned that
question as utterly unintelligible, yet I cannot forbear proposing some
farther reflections concerning it. I assert, that the doctrine of the
immateriality, simplicity, and indivisibility of a thinking substance is
a true atheism, and will serve to justify all those sentiments, for which
Spinoza is so universally infamous. From this topic, I hope at least to
reap one advantage, that my adversaries will not have any pretext to
render the present doctrine odious by their declamations, when they see
that they can be so easily retorted on them.

The fundamental principle of the atheism of Spinoza is the doctrine of
the simplicity of the universe, and the unity of that substance, in which
he supposes both thought and matter to inhere. There is only one
substance, says he, in the world; and that substance is perfectly simple
and indivisible, and exists every where, without any local presence.
Whatever we discover externally by sensation; whatever we feel internally
by reflection; all these are nothing but modifications of that one,
simple, and necessarily existent being, and are not possest of any
separate or distinct existence. Every passion of the soul; every
configuration of matter, however different and various, inhere in the
same substance, and preserve in themselves their characters of
distinction, without communicating them to that subject, in which they
inhere. The same substratum, if I may so speak, supports the most
different modifications, without any difference in itself; and varies
them, without any variation. Neither time, nor place, nor all the
diversity of nature are able to produce any composition or change in its
perfect simplicity and identity.

I believe this brief exposition of the principles of that famous atheist
will be sufficient for the present purpose, and that without entering
farther into these gloomy and obscure regions, I shall be able to shew,
that this hideous hypothesis is almost the same with that of the
immateriality of the soul, which has become so popular. To make this
evident, let us [Part II, Sect. 6.] remember, that as every idea is
derived from a preceding perception, it is impossible our idea of a
perception, and that of an object or external existence can ever represent
what are specifically different from each other. Whatever difference we
may suppose betwixt them, it is still incomprehensible to us; and we are
obliged either to conceive an external object merely as a relation
without a relative, or to make it the very same with a perception or
impression.

The consequence I shall draw from this may, at first sight, appear a mere
sophism; but upon the least examination will be found solid and
satisfactory. I say then, that since we may suppose, but never can
conceive a specific deference betwixt an object and impression; any
conclusion we form concerning the connexion and repugnance of
impressions, will not be known certainly to be applicable to objects; but
that on the other hand, whatever conclusions of this kind we form
concerning objects, will most certainly be applicable to impressions. The
reason is not difficult. As an object is supposed to be different from an
impression, we cannot be sure, that the circumstance, upon which we found
our reasoning, is common to both, supposing we form the reasoning upon
the impression. It is still possible, that the object may differ from it
in that particular. But when we first form our reasoning concerning the
object, it is beyond doubt, that the same reasoning must extend to the
impression: And that because the quality of the object, upon which the
argument is founded, must at least be conceived by the mind; and coued
not be conceived, unless it were common to an impression; since we have
no 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 an irregular
kind [Such as that of Sect. 2, form the coherence of our perceptions.]
of reasoning from experience, discover a connexion or repugnance
betwixt objects, which extends not to impressions; though the inverse
proposition may not be equally true, that all the discoverable relations
of impressions are common to objects.

To apply this to the present case; there are two different systems of
being presented, to which I suppose myself under .t necessity of
assigning 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 productions either of art
or nature. Here Spinoza appears, and tells me, that these are only
modifications; and that the subject, in which they inhere, is simple,
incompounded, and indivisible. After this I consider the other system of
beings, viz. the universe of thought, or my impressions and ideas. There
I observe another sun, moon and stars; an earth, and seas, covered and
inhabited by plants and animals; towns, houses, mountains, rivers; and in
short every thing I can discover or conceive in the first system. Upon my
enquiring concerning these, Theologians present themselves, and tell me,
that these also are modifications, and modifications of one simple,
uncompounded, and indivisible substance. Immediately upon which I am
deafened with the noise of a hundred voices, that treat the first
hypothesis with detestation and scorn, and the second with applause and
veneration. I turn my attention to these hypotheses to see what may be
the reason of so great a partiality; and find that they have the same
fault of being unintelligible, and that as far as we can understand them,
they are so much alike, that it is impossible to discover any absurdity in
one, which is not common to both of them. We have no idea of any quality
in an object, which does not agree to, and may not represent a quality in
an impression; and that because all our ideas are derived from our
impressions. We can never, therefore, find any repugnance betwixt an
extended object as a modification, and a simple uncompounded essence, as
its substance, unless that repugnance takes place equally betwixt the
perception or impression of that extended object, and the same
uncompounded essence. Every idea of a quality in an object passes through
an impression; and therefore every perceivable relation, whether of
connexion or repugnance, must be common both to objects and impressions.

But though this argument, considered in general, seems evident beyond all
doubt and contradiction, yet to make it more clear and sensible, let us
survey it in detail; and see whether all the absurdities, which have been
found in the system of Spinoza, may not likewise be discovered in that of
Theologians. [See Bayle's dictionary, article of Spinoza.]

First, It has been said against Spinoza, according to the scholastic way
of talking, rather than thinking, that a mode, not being any distinct or
separate existence, must be the very same with its substance, and
consequently the extension of the universe, must be in a manner
identifyed with that, simple, uncompounded essence, in which the universe
is supposed to inhere. But this, it may be pretended, is utterly
impossible and inconceivable unless the indivisible substance expand
itself, so as to correspond to the extension, or the extension contract
itself, so as to answer to the indivisible substance. This argument seems
just, as far as we can understand it; and it is plain nothing is required,
but a change in the terms, to apply the same argument to our extended
perceptions, and the simple essence of the soul; the ideas of objects and
perceptions being in every respect the same, only attended with the
supposition of a difference, that is unknown and incomprehensible.

Secondly, It has been said, that we have no idea of substance, which is
not applicable to matter; nor any idea of a distinct substance, which is
not applicable to every distinct portion of matter. Matter, therefore, is
not a mode but a substance, and each part of matter is not a distinct
mode, but a distinct substance. I have already proved, that we have no
perfect idea of substance; but that taking it for something, that can
exist by itself, it is evident every perception is a substance, and every
distinct part of a perception a distinct substance: And consequently the
one hypothesis labours under the same difficulties in this respect with
the other.

Thirdly, It has been objected to the system of one simple substance in
the universe, that this substance being the support or substratum of
every thing, must at the very same instant be modifyed into forms, which
are contrary and incompatible. The round and square figures are
incompatible in the same substance at the same time. How then is it
possible, that the same substance can at once be modifyed into that
square table, and into this round one? I ask the same question concerning
the impressions of these tables; and find that the answer is no more
satisfactory in one case than in the other.

It appears, then, that to whatever side we turn, the same difficulties
follow us, and that we cannot advance one step towards the establishing
the simplicity and immateriality o the soul, without preparing the way
for a dangerous and irrecoverable atheism. It is the same case, if instead
o calling thought a modification of the soul, we should give it the more
antient, and yet more modish name of an action. By an action we mean much
the same thing, as what is commonly called an abstract mode; that is,
something, which, properly speaking, is neither distinguishable, nor
separable from its substance, and is only conceived by a distinction of
reason, or an abstraction. But nothing is gained by this change of the
term of modification, for that of action; nor do we free ourselves from
one single difficulty by its means; as will appear from the two following
reflexions.

First, I observe, that the word, action, according to this explication of
it, can never justly be applied to any perception, as derived from a mind
or thinking substance. Our perceptions are all really different, and
separable, and distinguishable from each other, and from everything else,
which we can imagine: and therefore it is impossible to conceive, how they
can be the action or abstract mode of any substance. The instance of
motion, which is commonly made use of to shew after what manner
perception depends, as an action, upon its substance, rather confounds
than instructs us. Motion to all appearance induces no real nor
essential change on the body, but only varies its relation to other
objects. But betwixt a person in the morning walking a garden with
company, agreeable to him; and a person in the afternoon inclosed in a
dungeon, and full of terror, despair, and resentment, there seems to be
a radical difference, and of quite another kind, than what is produced on
a body by the change of its situation. As we conclude from the
distinction and separability of their ideas, that external objects have a
separate existence from each other; so when we make these ideas
themselves our objects, we must draw the same conclusion concerning them,
according to the precedent reasoning. At least it must be confest, that
having idea of the substance of the soul, it is impossible for us to tell
how it can admit of such differences, and even contrarieties of
perception without any fundamental change; and consequently can never
tell in what sense perceptions are actions of that substance. The use,
therefore, of the word, action, unaccompanyed with any meaning, instead
of that of modification, makes no addition to our knowledge, nor is of
any advantage to the doctrine of the immateriality of the soul.

I add in the second place, that if it brings any advantage to that cause,
it must bring an equal to the cause of atheism. For do our Theologians
pretend to make a monopoly of the word, action, and may not the atheists
likewise take possession of it, and affirm that plants, animals, men, &c.
are nothing but particular actions of one simple universal substance,
which exerts itself from a blind and absolute necessity? This you'll say
is utterly absurd. I own it is unintelligible; but at the same time
assert, according to the principles above-explained, that it is impossible
to discover any absurdity in the supposition, that all the various
objects in nature are actions of one simple substance, which absurdity
will not be applicable to a like supposition concerning impressions and
ideas.

From these hypotheses concerning the substance and local conjunction of
our perceptions, we may pass to another, which is more intelligible than
the former, and more important than the latter, viz. concerning the cause
of our perceptions. Matter and motion, it is commonly said in the schools,
however varyed, are still matter and motion, and produce only a
difference in the position and situation of objects. Divide a body as
often as you please, it is still body. Place it in any figure, nothing
ever results but figure, or the relation of parts. Move it in any manner,
you still find motion or a change of relation. It is absurd to imagine,
that motion in a circle, for instance, should be nothing but merely
motion in a circle; while motion in another direction, as in an ellipse,
should also be a passion or moral reflection: That the shocking of two
globular particles should become a sensation of pain, and that the
meeting of two triangular ones should afford a pleasure. Now as these
different shocks, and variations, and mixtures are the only changes, of
which matter is susceptible, and as these never afford us any idea of
thought or perception, it is concluded to be impossible, that thought can
ever be caused by matter.

Few have been able to withstand the seeming evidence of this argument;
and yet nothing in the world is more easy than to refute it. We need only
reflect on what has been proved at large, that we are never sensible of
any connexion betwixt causes and effects, and that it is only by our
experience of their constant conjunction, we can arrive at any knowledge
of this relation. Now as all objects, which are not contrary, are
susceptible of a constant conjunction, and as no real objects are
contrary [Part III. Sect. 15.]; I have inferred from these principles,
that to consider the matter A PRIORI, any thing may produce any thing,
and that we shall never discover a reason, why any object may or may not
be the cause of any other, however great, or however little the
resemblance may be betwixt them. This evidently destroys the precedent
reasoning concerning the cause of thought or perception. For though there
appear no manner of connexion betwixt motion or thought, the case is the
same with all other causes and effects. Place one body of a pound weight
on one end of a lever, and another body of the same weight on another end;
you will never find in these bodies any principle of motion dependent on
their distances from the center, more than of thought and perception. If
you pretend, therefore, to prove a priori, that such a position of bodies
can never cause thought; because turn it which way you will, it is nothing
but a position of bodies; you must by the same course of reasoning
conclude, that it can never produce motion; since there is no more
apparent connexion in the one case than in the other. But as this latter
conclusion is contrary to evident experience, and as it is possible we may
have a like experience in the operations of the mind, and may perceive a
constant conjunction of thought and motion; you reason too hastily, when
from the mere consideration of the ideas, you conclude that it is
impossible motion can ever produce thought, or a different position of
parts give rise to a different passion or reflection. Nay it is not only
possible we may have such an experience, but it is certain we have it;
since every one may perceive, that the different dispositions of his body
change his thoughts and sentiments. And should it be said, that this
depends on the union of soul and body; I would answer, that we must
separate the question concerning the substance of the mind from that
concerning the cause of its thought; and that confining ourselves to the
latter question we find by the comparing their ideas, that thought and
motion are different from each other, and by experience, that they are
constantly united; which being all the circumstances, that enter into the
idea of cause and effect, when applied to the operations of matter, we
may certainly conclude, that motion may be, and actually is, the cause of
thought and perception.

There seems only this dilemma left us in the present case; either to
assert, that nothing can be the cause of another, but where the mind can
perceive the connexion in its idea of the objects: Or to maintain, that
all objects, which we find constantly conjoined, are upon that account to
be regarded as causes and effects. If we choose the first part of the
dilemma, these are the consequences. First, We in reality affirm, that
there is no such thing in the universe as a cause or productive
principle, not even the deity himself; since our idea of that supreme
Being is derived from particular impressions, none of which contain any
efficacy, nor seem to have any connexion with any other existence. As to
what may be said, that the connexion betwixt the idea of an infinitely
powerful being, and that of any effect, which he wills, is necessary and
unavoidable; I answer, that we have no idea of a being endowed with any
power, much less of one endowed with infinite power. But if we will
change expressions, we can only define power by connexion; and then in
saying, that the idea, of an infinitely powerful being is connected with
that of every effect, which he wills, we really do no more than assert,
that a being, whose volition is connected with every effect, is connected
with every effect: which is an identical proposition, and gives us no
insight into the nature of this power or connexion. But, secondly,
supposing, that the deity were the great and efficacious principle, which
supplies the deficiency of all causes, this leads us into the grossest
impieties and absurdities. For upon the same account, that we have
recourse to him in natural operations, and assert that matter cannot of
itself communicate motion, or produce thought, viz. because there is no
apparent connexion betwixt these objects; I say, upon the very same
account, we must acknowledge that the deity is the author of all our
volitions and perceptions; since they have no more apparent connexion
either with one another, or with the supposed but unknown substance of
the soul. This agency of the supreme Being we know to have been asserted
by [As father Malebranche and other Cartesians.] several philosophers with
relation to all the actions of the mind, except volition, or rather an
inconsiderable part of volition; though it is easy to perceive, that this
exception is a mere pretext, to avoid the dangerous consequences. of that
doctrine. If nothing be active but what has an apparent power, thought is
in no case any more active than matter; and if this inactivity must make
us have recourse to a deity, the supreme being is the real cause of all
our actions, bad as well as good, vicious as well as virtuous.

Thus we are necessarily reduced to the other side of the dilemma, viz..
that all objects, which are found to be constantly conjoined, are upon
that account only to be regarded as causes and effects. Now as all
objects, which are not contrary, are susceptible of a constant
conjunction, and as no real objects are contrary: it follows, that for
ought we can determine by the mere ideas, any thing may be the cause or
effect of any thing; which evidently gives the advantage to the
materialists above their antagonists.

To pronounce, then, the final decision upon the whole; the question
concerning the substance of the soul is absolutely unintelligible: All
our perceptions are not susceptible of a local union, either with what is
extended or unextended: there being some of them of the one kind, and
some of the other: And as the constant conjunction of objects constitutes
the very essence of cause and effect, matter and motion may 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 philosophy, whose sovereign
authority ought every where to be acknowledged, to oblige her on every
occasion to make apologies for her conclusions, and justify herself to
every particular art and science, which may be offended at her. This puts
one in mind of a king arrainged for high-treason against his subjects.
There is only one occasion, when philosophy will think it necessary and
even honourable to justify herself, and that is, when religion may seem
to be in the least offended; whose rights are as dear to her as her own,
and are indeed the same. If any one, therefore, should imagine that the
foregoing arguments are any ways dangerous to religion, I hope the
following apology will remove his apprehensions.

There is no foundation for any conclusion a priori, either concerning the
operations or duration of any object, of which it is possible for the
human mind to form a conception. Any object may be imagined to become
entirely inactive, or to be annihilated in a moment; and it is an evident
principle, that whatever we can imagine, is possible. Now this is no more
true of matter, than of spirit; of an extended compounded substance, than
of a simple and unextended. In both cases the metaphysical arguments for
the immortality of the soul are equally inconclusive: and in both cases
the moral arguments and those derived from the analogy of nature are
equally strong and convincing. If my philosophy, therefore, makes no
addition to the arguments for religion, I have at least the satisfaction
to think it takes nothing from them, but that every thing remains
precisely as before.



SECT. VI.  OF PERSONAL IDENTITY


There are some philosophers. who imagine we are every moment intimately
conscious of what we call our SELF; that we feel its existence and its
continuance in existence; and are certain, beyond the evidence of a
demonstration, both o its perfect identity and simplicity. The strongest
sensation, the most violent passion, say they, instead of distracting us
from this view, only fix it the more intensely, and make us consider
their influence on self either by their pain or pleasure. To attempt a
farther proof of this were to weaken its evidence; since no proof can be
derived from any fact, of which we are so intimately conscious; nor is
there any thing, of which we can be certain, if we doubt of this.

Unluckily all these positive assertions are contrary to that very
experience, which is pleaded for them, nor have we any idea of self,
after the manner it is here explained. For from what impression coued
this idea be derived? This question it is impossible to answer without a
manifest contradiction and absurdity; and yet it is a question, which must
necessarily be answered, if we would have the idea of self pass for clear
and intelligible, It must be some one impression, that gives rise to
every real idea. But self or person is not any one impression, but that
to which our several impressions and ideas are supposed to have a
reference. If any impression gives rise to the idea of self, that
impression must continue invariably the same, through the whole course of
our lives; since self is supposed to exist after that manner. But there
is no impression constant and invariable. Pain and pleasure, grief and
joy, passions and sensations succeed each other, and never all exist at
the same time. It cannot, therefore, be from any of these impressions,
or from any other, that the idea of self is derived; and consequently
there is no such idea.

But farther, what must become of all our particular perceptions upon this
hypothesis? All these are different, and distinguishable, and separable
from each other, and may be separately considered, and may exist
separately, and have no Deed of tiny thing to support their existence.
After what manner, therefore, do they belong to self; and how are they
connected with it? For my part, when I enter most intimately into what I
call myself, I always stumble on some particular perception or other, of
heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure. I never
can catch myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe
any thing but the perception. When my perceptions are removed for any
time, as by sound sleep; so long am I insensible of myself, and may truly
be said not to exist. And were all my perceptions removed by death, and
coued I neither think, nor feel, nor see, nor love, nor hate after the
dissolution of my body, I should be entirely annihilated, nor do I
conceive what is farther requisite to make me a perfect non-entity. If
any one, upon serious and unprejudiced reflection thinks he has a
different notion of himself, I must confess I call reason no longer with
him. All I can allow him is, that he may be in the right as well as I,
and that we are essentially different in this particular. He may,
perhaps, perceive something simple and continued, which he calls himself;
though I am certain there is no such principle in me.

But setting aside some metaphysicians of this kind, I may venture to
affirm of the rest of mankind, that they are nothing but a bundle or
collection of different perceptions, which succeed each other with an
inconceivable rapidity, and are in a perpetual flux and movement. Our
eyes cannot turn in their sockets without varying our perceptions. Our
thought is still more variable than our sight; and all our other senses
and faculties contribute to this change; nor is there any single power of
the soul, which remains unalterably the same, perhaps for one moment. The
mind is a .kind of theatre, where several perceptions successively make
their appearance; pass, re-pass, glide away, and mingle in an infinite
variety of postures and situations. There is properly no simplicity in it
at one time, nor identity in different; whatever natural propension we
may have to imagine that simplicity and identity. The comparison of the
theatre must not mislead us. They are the successive perceptions only,
that constitute the mind; nor have we the most distant notion of the
place, where these scenes are represented, or of the materials, of which
it is composed.

What then gives us so great a propension to ascribe an identity to these
successive perceptions, and to suppose ourselves possest of an invariable
and uninterrupted existence through the whole course of our lives? In
order to answer this question, we must distinguish betwixt personal
identity, as it regards our thought or imagination, and as it regards our
passions or the concern we take in ourselves. The first is our present
subject; and to explain it perfectly we must take the matter pretty deep,
and account for that identity, which we attribute to plants and animals;
there being a great analogy betwixt it, and the identity of a self or
person.

We have a distinct idea of an object, that remains invariable and
uninterrupted through a supposed variation of time; and this idea we call
that of identity or sameness. We have also a distinct idea of several
different objects existing in succession, and connected together by a
close relation; and this to an accurate view affords as perfect a notion
of diversity, as if there was no manner of relation among the objects.
But though these two ideas of identity, and a succession of related
objects be in themselves perfectly distinct, and even contrary, yet it is
certain, that in our common way of thinking they are generally confounded
with each other. That action of the imagination, by which we consider the
uninterrupted and invariable object, and that by which we reflect on the
succession of related objects, are almost the same to the feeling, nor is
there much more effort of thought required in the latter case than in the
former. The relation facilitates the transition of the mind from one
object to another, and renders its passage as smooth as if it
contemplated one continued object. This resemblance is the cause of the
confusion and mistake, and makes us substitute the notion of identity,
instead of that of related objects. However at one instant we may
consider the related succession as variable or interrupted, we are sure
the next to ascribe to it a perfect identity, and regard it as enviable
and uninterrupted. Our propensity to this mistake is so great from the
resemblance above-mentioned, that we fall into it before we are aware;
and though we incessantly correct ourselves by reflection, and return to a
more accurate method of thinking, yet we cannot long sustain our
philosophy, or take off this biass from the imagination. Our last
resource is to yield to it, and boldly assert that these different
related objects are in effect the same, however interrupted and variable.
In order to justify to ourselves this absurdity, we often feign some new
and unintelligible principle, that connects the objects together, and
prevents their interruption or variation. Thus we feign the continued
existence of the perceptions of our senses, to remove the interruption:
and run into the notion of a soul, and self, and substance, to disguise
the variation. But we may farther observe, that where we do not give rise
to such a fiction, our propension to confound identity with relation is
so great, that we are apt to imagine [Footnote 10] something unknown and
mysterious, connecting the parts, beside their relation; and this I take
to be the case with regard to the identity we ascribe to plants and
vegetables. And even when this does not take place, we still feel a
propensity to confound these ideas, though we a-re not able fully to
satisfy ourselves in that particular, nor find any thing invariable and
uninterrupted to justify our notion of identity.

[Footnote 10  If the reader is desirous to see how a great genius may be
influencd by these seemingly trivial principles of the imagination, as
well as the mere vulgar, let him read my Lord SHAFTSBURYS reasonings
concerning the uniting principle of the universe, and the identity of
plants and animals. See his MORALISTS: or, PHILOSOPHICAL RHAPSODY.]

Thus the controversy concerning identity is not merely a dispute of
words. For when we attribute identity, in an improper sense, to variable
or interrupted objects, our mistake is not confined to the expression,
but is commonly attended with a fiction, either of something invariable
and uninterrupted, or of something mysterious and inexplicable, or at
least with a propensity to such fictions. What will suffice to prove this
hypothesis to the satisfaction of every fair enquirer, is to shew from
daily experience and observation, that the objects, which are variable or
interrupted, and yet are supposed to continue the same, are such only as
consist of a succession of parts, connected together by resemblance,
contiguity, or causation. For as such a succession answers evidently to
our notion of diversity, it can only be by mistake we ascribe to it an
identity; and as the relation of parts, which leads us into this mistake,
is really nothing but a quality, which produces an association of ideas,
and an easy transition of the imagination from one to another, it can
only be from the resemblance, which this act of the mind bears to that,
by which we contemplate one continued object, that the error arises. Our
chief business, then, must be to prove, that all objects, to which we
ascribe identity, without observing their invariableness and
uninterruptedness, are such as consist of a succession of related
objects.

In order to this, suppose any mass of matter, of which the parts are
contiguous and connected, to be placed before us; it is plain we must
attribute a perfect identity to this mass, provided all the parts
continue uninterruptedly and invariably the same, whatever motion or
change of place we may observe either in the whole or in any of the
parts. But supposing some very small or inconsiderable part to be added
to the mass, or subtracted from it; though this absolutely destroys the
identity of the whole, strictly speaking; yet as we seldom think so
accurately, we scruple not to pronounce a mass of matter the same, where
we find so trivial an alteration. The passage of the thought from the
object before the change to the object after it, is so smooth and easy,
that we scarce perceive the transition, and are apt to imagine, that it is
nothing but a continued survey of the same object.

There is a very remarkable circumstance, that attends this experiment;
which is, that though the change of any considerable part in a mass of
matter destroys the identity of the whole, let we must measure the
greatness of the part, not absolutely, but by its proportion to the
whole. The addition or diminution of a mountain would not be sufficient
to produce a diversity in a planet: though the change of a very few inches
would be able to destroy the identity of some bodies. It will be
impossible to account for this, but by reflecting that objects operate
upon the mind, and break or interrupt the continuity of its actions not
according to their real greatness, but according to their proportion to
each other: And therefore, since this interruption makes an object cease
to appear the same, it must be the uninterrupted progress o the thought,
which constitutes the imperfect identity.

This may be confirmed by another phenomenon. A change in any considerable
part of a body destroys its identity; but it is remarkable, that where the
change is produced gradually and insensibly we are less apt to ascribe to
it the same effect. The reason can plainly be no other, than that the
mind, in following the successive changes of the body, feels an easy
passage from the surveying its condition in one moment to the viewing of
it in another, and at no particular time perceives any interruption in
its actions. From which continued perception, it ascribes a continued
existence and identity to the object.

But whatever precaution we may use in introducing the changes gradually,
and making them proportionable to the whole, it is certain, that where the
changes are at last observed to become considerable, we make a scruple of
ascribing identity to such different objects. There is, however, another
artifice, by which we may induce the imagination to advance a step
farther; and that is, by producing a reference of the parts to each
other, and a combination to some common end or purpose. A ship, of which
a considerable part has been changed by frequent reparations, is still
considered as the same; nor does the difference of the materials hinder
us from ascribing an identity to it. The common end, in which the parts
conspire, is the same under all their variations, and affords an easy
transition of the imagination from one situation of the body to another.

But this is still more remarkable, when we add a sympathy of parts to
their common end, and suppose that they bear to each other, the
reciprocal relation of cause and effect in all their actions and
operations. This is the case with all animals and vegetables; where not
only the several parts have a reference to some general purpose, but also
a mutual dependence on, and connexion with each other. The effect of so
strong a relation is, that though every one must allow, that in a very few
years both vegetables and animals endure a total change, yet we still
attribute identity to them, while their form, size, and substance are
entirely altered. An oak, that grows from a small plant to a large tree,
is still the same oak; though there be not one particle of matter, or
figure of its parts the same. An infant becomes a man-, and is sometimes
fat, sometimes lean, without any change in his identity.

We may also consider the two following phaenomena, which are remarkable
in their kind. The first is, that though we commonly be able to
distinguish pretty exactly betwixt numerical and specific identity, yet it
sometimes happens, that we confound them, and in our thinking and
reasoning employ the one for the other. Thus a man, who bears a noise,
that is frequently interrupted and renewed, says, it is still the same
noise; though it is evident the sounds have only a specific identity or
resemblance, and there is nothing numerically the same, but the cause,
which produced them. In like manner it may be said without breach of the
propriety of language, that such a church, which was formerly of brick,
fell to ruin, and that the parish rebuilt the same church of free-stone,
and according to modern architecture. Here neither the form nor materials
are the same, nor is there any thing common to the two objects, but their
relation to the inhabitants of the parish; and yet this alone is
sufficient to make us denominate them the same. But we must observe, that
in these cases the first object is in a manner annihilated before the
second comes into existence; by which means, we are never presented in any
one point of time with the idea of difference and multiplicity: and for
that reason are less scrupulous in calling them the same.

Secondly, We may remark, that though in a succession of related objects,
it be in a manner requisite, that the change of parts be not sudden nor
entire, in order to preserve the identity, yet where the objects are in
their nature changeable and inconstant, we admit of a more sudden
transition, than would otherwise be consistent with that relation. Thus as
the nature of a river consists in the motion and change of parts; though
in less than four and twenty hours these be totally altered; this hinders
not the river from continuing the same during several ages. What is
natural and essential to any thing is, in a manner, expected; and what is
expected makes less impression, and appears of less moment, than what is
unusual and extraordinary. A considerable change of the former kind seems
really less to the imagination, than the most trivial alteration of the
latter; and by breaking less the continuity of the thought, has less
influence in destroying the identity.

We now proceed to explain the nature of personal identity, which has
become so great a question ill philosophy, especially of late years in
England, where all the abstruser sciences are studyed with a peculiar
ardour and application. And here it is evident, the same method of
reasoning must be continued. which has so successfully explained the
identity of plants, and animals, and ships, and houses, and of all the
compounded and changeable productions either of art or nature. The
identity, which we ascribe to the mind of man, is only a fictitious one,
and of a like kind with that which we ascribe to vegetables and animal
bodies. It cannot, therefore, have a different origin, but must proceed
from a like operation of the imagination upon like objects.

But lest this argument should not convince the reader; though in my
opinion perfectly decisive; let him weigh the following reasoning, which
is still closer and more immediate. It is evident, that the identity,
which we attribute to the human mind, however perfect we may imagine it to
be, is not able to run the several different perceptions into one, and
make them lose their characters of distinction and difference, which are
essential to them. It is still true, that every distinct perception, which
enters into the composition of the mind, is a distinct existence, and is
different, and distinguishable, and separable from every other
perception, either contemporary or successive. But, as, notwithstanding
this distinction and separability, we suppose the whole train of
perceptions to be united by identity, a question naturally arises
concerning this relation of identity; whether it be something that really
binds our several perceptions together, or only associates their ideas in
the imagination. That is, in other words, whether in pronouncing
concerning the identity of a person, we observe some real bond among his
perceptions, or only feel one among the ideas we form of them. This
question we might easily decide, if we would recollect what has been
already proud at large, that the understanding never observes any real
connexion among objects, and that even the union of cause and effect,
when strictly examined, resolves itself into a customary association of
ideas. For from thence it evidently follows, that identity is nothing
really belonging to these different perceptions, and uniting them
together; but is merely a quality, which we attribute to them, because of
the union of their ideas in the imagination, when we reflect upon them.
Now the only qualities, which can give ideas an union in the imagination,
are these three relations above-mentioned. There are the uniting
principles in the ideal world, and without them every distinct object is
separable by the mind, and may be separately considered, and appears not
to have any more connexion with any other object, than if disjoined by
the greatest difference and remoteness. It is, therefore, on some of these
three relations of resemblance, contiguity and causation, that identity
depends; and as the very essence of these relations consists in their
producing an easy transition of ideas; it follows, that our notions of
personal identity, proceed entirely from the smooth and uninterrupted
progress of the thought along a train of connected ideas, according to
the principles above-explained.

The only question, therefore, which remains, is, by what relations this
uninterrupted progress of our thought is produced, when we consider the
successive existence of a mind or thinking person. And here it is evident
we must confine ourselves to resemblance and causation, and must drop
contiguity, which has little or no influence in the present case.

To begin with resemblance; suppose we coued see clearly into the breast
of another, and observe that succession of perceptions, which constitutes
his mind or thinking principle, and suppose that he always preserves the
memory of a considerable part of past perceptions; it is evident that
nothing coued more contribute to the bestowing a relation on this
succession amidst all its variations. For what is the memory but a
faculty, by which we raise up the images of past perceptions? And as an
image necessarily resembles its object, must not. the frequent placing of
these resembling perceptions in the chain of thought, convey the
imagination more easily from one link to another, and make the whole seem
like the continuance of one object? In this particular, then, the memory
not only discovers the identity, but also contributes to its production,
by producing the relation of resemblance among the perceptions. The case
is the same whether we consider ourselves or others.

As to causation; we may observe, that the true idea of the human mind, is
to consider it as a system of different perceptions or different
existences, which are linked together by the relation of cause and
effect, and mutually produce, destroy, influence, and modify each other.
Our impressions give rise to their correspondent ideas; said these ideas
in their turn produce other impressions. One thought chaces another, and
draws after it a third, by which it is expelled in its turn. In this
respect, I cannot compare the soul more properly to any thing than to a
republic or commonwealth, in which the several members are united by the
reciprocal ties of government and subordination, and give rise to other
persons, who propagate the same republic in the incessant changes of its
parts. And as the same individual republic may not only change its
members, but also its laws and constitutions; in like manner the same
person may vary his character and disposition, as well as his impressions
and ideas, without losing his identity. Whatever changes he endures, his
several parts are still connected by the relation of causation. And in
this view our identity with regard to the passions serves to corroborate
that with regard to the imagination, by the making our distant
perceptions influence each other, and by giving us a present concern for
our past or future pains or pleasures.

As a memory alone acquaints us with the continuance and extent of this
succession of perceptions, it is to be considered, upon that account
chiefly, as the source of personal identity. Had we no memory, we never
should have any notion of causation, nor consequently of that chain of
causes and effects, which constitute our self or person. But having once
acquired this notion of causation from the memory, we can extend the same
chain of causes, and consequently the identity of car persons beyond our
memory, and can comprehend times, and circumstances, and actions, which
we have entirely forgot, but suppose in general to have existed. For how
few of our past actions are there, of which we have any memory? Who can
tell me, for instance, what were his thoughts and actions on the 1st of
January 1715, the 11th of March 1719, and the 3rd of August 1733? Or will
he affirm, because he has entirely forgot the incidents of these days,
that the present self is not the same person with the self of that time;
and by that means overturn all the most established notions of personal
identity? In this view, therefore, memory does not so much produce as
discover personal identity, by shewing us the relation of cause and
effect among our different perceptions. It will be incumbent on those, who
affirm that memory produces entirely our personal identity, to give a
reason why we cm thus extend our identity beyond our memory.

The whole of this doctrine leads us to a conclusion, which is of great
importance in the present affair, viz. that all the nice and subtile
questions concerning personal identity can never possibly be decided, and
are to be regarded rather as gramatical than as philosophical
difficulties. Identity depends on the relations of ideas; and these
relations produce identity, by means of that easy transition they
occasion. But as the relations, and the easiness of the transition may
diminish by insensible degrees, we have no just standard, by. which we
can decide any dispute concerning the time, when they acquire or lose a
title to the name of identity. All the disputes concerning the identity
of connected objects are merely verbal, except so fax as the relation of
parts gives rise to some fiction or imaginary principle of union, as we
have already observed.

What I have said concerning the first origin and uncertainty of our
notion of identity, as applied to the human mind, may be extended with
little or no variation to that of simplicity. An object, whose different
co-existent parts are bound together by a close relation, operates upon
the imagination after much the same manner as one perfectly simple and
indivisible and requires not a much greater stretch of thought in order
to its conception. From this similarity of operation we attribute a
simplicity to it, and feign a principle of union as the support of this
simplicity, and the center of all the different parts and qualities of
the object.

Thus we have finished our examination of the several systems of
philosophy, both of the intellectual and natural world; and in our
miscellaneous way of reasoning have been led into several topics; which
will either illustrate and confirm some preceding part of this discourse,
or prepare the way for our following opinions. It is now time to return to
a more close examination of our subject, and to proceed in the accurate
anatomy of human nature, having fully explained the nature of our
judgment and understandings.



SECT. VII.  CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK.


But before I launch out into those immense depths of philosophy, which
lie before me, I find myself inclined to stop a moment in my present
station, and to ponder that voyage, which I have undertaken, and which
undoubtedly requires the utmost art and industry to be brought to a happy
conclusion. Methinks I am like a man, who having struck on many shoals,
and having narrowly escaped shipwreck in passing a small frith, has yet
the temerity to put out to sea in the same leaky weather-beaten vessel,
and even carries his ambition so far as to think of compassing the globe
under these disadvantageous circumstances. My memory of past errors and
perplexities, makes me diffident for the future. The wretched condition,
weakness, and disorder of the faculties, I must employ in my enquiries,
encrease my apprehensions. And the impossibility of amending or
correcting these faculties, reduces me almost to despair, and makes me
resolve to perish on the barren rock, on which I am at present, rather
than venture myself upon that boundless ocean, which runs out into
immensity. This sudden view of my danger strikes me with melancholy; and
as it is usual for that passion, above all others, to indulge itself; I
cannot forbear feeding my despair, with all those desponding reflections,
which the present subject furnishes me with in such abundance.

I am first affrighted and confounded with that forelorn solitude, in
which I am placed in my philosophy, and fancy myself some strange uncouth
monster, who not being able to mingle and unite in society, has been
expelled all human commerce, and left utterly abandoned and disconsolate.
Fain would I run into the crowd for shelter and warmth; but cannot
prevail with myself to mix with such deformity. I call upon others to
join me, in order to make a company apart; but no one will hearken to me.
Every one keeps at a distance, and dreads that storm, which beats upon me
from every side. I have exposed myself to the enmity of all
metaphysicians, logicians, mathematicians, and even theologians; and can
I wonder at the insults I must suffer? I have declared my disapprobation
of their systems; and can I be surprized, if they should express a hatred
of mine and of my person? When I look abroad, I foresee on every side,
dispute, contradiction, anger, calumny and detraction. When I turn my eye
inward, I find nothing but doubt and ignorance. All the world conspires
to oppose and contradict me; though such is my weakness, that I feel all
my opinions loosen and fall of themselves, when unsupported by the
approbation of others. Every step I take is with hesitation, and every
new reflection makes me dread an error and absurdity in my reasoning.

For with what confidence can I venture upon such bold enterprises, when
beside those numberless infirmities peculiar to myself, I find so many
which are common to human nature? Can I be sure, that in leaving all
established opinions I am following truth; and by what criterion shall I
distinguish her, even if fortune should at last guide me on her
foot-steps? After the most accurate and exact of my reasonings, I can
give no reason why I should assent to it; and feel nothing but a strong
propensity to consider objects strongly in that view, under which they
appear to me. Experience is a principle, which instructs me in the
several conjunctions of objects for the past. Habit is another principle,
which determines me to expect the same for the future; and both of them
conspiring to operate upon the imagination, make me form certain ideas in
a more intense and lively manner, than others, which are not attended
with the same advantages. Without this quality, by which the mind
enlivens some ideas beyond others (which seemingly is so trivial, and so
little founded on reason) we coued never assent to any argument, nor
carry our view beyond those few objects, which are present to our senses.
Nay, even to these objects we coued never attribute any existence, but
what was dependent on the senses; and must comprehend them entirely in
that succession of perceptions, which constitutes our self or person. Nay
farther, even with relation to that succession, we coued only admit of
those perceptions, which are immediately present to our consciousness,
nor coued those lively images, with which the memory presents us, be ever
received as true pictures of past perceptions. The memory, senses, and
understanding are, therefore, all of them founded on the imagination, or
the vivacity of our ideas.

No wonder a principle so inconstant and fallacious should lead us into
errors, when implicitly followed (as it must be) in all its variations.
It is this principle, which makes us reason from causes and effects; and
it is the same principle, which convinces us of the continued existence of
external objects, when absent from the senses. But though these two
operations be equally natural and necessary in the human mind, yet in
some circumstances they are [Sect. 4.] directly contrary, nor is it
possible for us to reason justly and regularly from causes and effects,
and at the same time believe the continued existence of matter. How then
shall we adjust those principles together? Which of them shall we prefer?
Or in case we prefer neither of them, but successively assent to both, as
is usual among philosophers, with what confidence can we afterwards usurp
that glorious title, when we thus knowingly embrace a manifest
contradiction?

This contradiction [Part III. Sect. 14.] would be more excusable, were it
compensated by any degree of solidity and satisfaction in the other parts
of our reasoning. But the case is quite contrary. When we trace up the
human understanding to its first principles, we find it to lead us into
such sentiments, as seem to turn into ridicule all our past pains and
industry, and to discourage us from future enquiries. Nothing is more
curiously enquired after by the mind of man, than the causes of every
phenomenon; nor are we content with knowing the immediate causes, but
push on our enquiries, till we arrive at the original and ultimate
principle. We would not willingly stop before we are acquainted with that
energy in the cause, by which it operates on its effect; that tie, which
connects them together; and that efficacious quality, on which the tie
depends. This is our aim in all our studies and reflections: And how must
we be disappointed, when we learn, that this connexion, tie, or energy
lies merely in ourselves, and is nothing but that determination of the
mind, which is acquired by custom, and causes us to make a transition
from an object to its usual attendant, and from the impression of one to
the lively idea of the other? Such a discovery not only cuts off all hope
of ever attaining satisfaction, but even prevents our very wishes; since
it appears, that when we say we desire to know the ultimate and operating
principle, as something, which resides in the external object, we either
contradict ourselves, or talk 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 cause and
effect we are as ignorant of the ultimate principle, which binds them
together, as in the most unusual and extraordinary. But this proceeds
merely from an illusion of the imagination; and the question is, how far
we ought to yield to these illusions. This question is very difficult,
and reduces us to a very dangerous dilemma, whichever way we answer it.
For if we assent to every trivial suggestion of the fancy; beside that
these suggestions are often contrary to each other; they lead us into
such errors, absurdities, and obscurities, that we must at last become
ashamed of our credulity. Nothing is more dangerous to reason than the
flights of the imagination, and nothing has been the occasion of more
mistakes among philosophers. Men of bright fancies may in this respect be
compared to those angels, whom the scripture represents as covering their
eyes with their wings. This has already appeared in so many instances,
that we may spare ourselves the trouble of enlarging upon it any farther.

But on the other hand, if the consideration of these instances makes us
take a resolution to reject all the trivial suggestions of the fancy, and
adhere to the understanding, that is, to the general and more established
properties of the imagination; even this resolution, if steadily
executed, would be dangerous, and attended with the most fatal
consequences. For I have already shewn [Sect. 1.], that the understanding,
when it acts alone, and according to its most general principles, entirely
subverts itself, and leaves not the lowest degree of evidence in any
proposition, either in philosophy or common life. We save ourselves from
this total scepticism only by means of that singular and seemingly
trivial property of the fancy, by which we enter with difficulty into
remote views of things, and are not able to accompany them with so
sensible an impression, as we do those, which are more easy and natural.
Shall we, then, establish it for a general maxim, that no refined or
elaborate reasoning is ever to be received? Consider well the
consequences of such a principle. By this means you cut off entirely all
science and philosophy: You proceed upon one singular quality of the
imagination, and by a parity of reason must embrace all of them: And you
expressly contradict yourself; since this maxim must be built on the
preceding reasoning, which will be allowed to be sufficiently refined and
metaphysical. What party, then, shall we choose among these difficulties?
If we embrace this principle, and condemn all refined reasoning, we run
into the most manifest absurdities. If we reject it in favour of these
reasonings, we subvert entirely the, human understanding. We have,
therefore, no choice left but betwixt a false reason and none at all. For
my part, know not what ought to be done in the present case. I can only
observe what is commonly done; which is, that this difficulty is seldom
or never thought of; and even where it has once been present to the mind,
is quickly forgot, and leaves but a small impression behind it. Very
refined reflections have little or no influence upon us; and yet we do
not, and cannot establish it for a rule, that they ought not to have any
influence; which implies a manifest contradiction.

But what have I here said, that reflections very refined and metaphysical
have little or no influence upon us? This opinion I can scarce forbear
retracting, and condemning from my present feeling and experience. The
intense view of these manifold contradictions and imperfections in human
reason has so wrought upon me, and heated my brain, that I am ready to
reject all belief and reasoning, and can look upon no opinion even as
more probable or likely than another. Where am I, or what? From what
causes do I derive my existence, and to what condition shall I return?
Whose favour shall I court, and whose anger must I dread? What beings
surround me? and on whom have, I any influence, or who have any influence
on me? I am confounded with all these questions, and begin to fancy
myself in the most deplorable condition imaginable, invironed with the
deepest darkness, and utterly deprived of the use of every member and
faculty.

Most fortunately it happens, that since reason is incapable of dispelling
these clouds, nature herself suffices to that purpose, and cures me of
this philosophical melancholy and delirium, either by relaxing this bent
of mind, or by some avocation, and lively impression of my senses, which
obliterate all these chimeras. I dine, I play a game of backgammon, I
converse, and am merry with my friends; and when after three or four
hours' amusement, I would return to these speculations, they appear so
cold, and strained, and ridiculous, that I cannot find in my heart to
enter into them any farther.

Here then I find myself absolutely and necessarily determined to live,
and talk, and act like other people in the common affairs of life. But
notwithstanding that my natural propensity, and the course of my animal
spirits and passions reduce me to this indolent belief in the general
maxims of the world, I still feel such remains of my former disposition,
that I am ready to throw all my books and papers into the fire, and
resolve never more to renounce the pleasures of life for the sake of
reasoning and philosophy. For those are my sentiments in that splenetic
humour, which governs me at present. I may, nay I must yield to the
current of nature, in submitting to my senses and understanding; and in
this blind submission I shew most perfectly my sceptical disposition and
principles. But does it follow, that I must strive against the current of
nature, which leads me to indolence and pleasure; that I must seclude
myself, in some measure, from the commerce and society of men, which is
so agreeable; and that I must torture my brains with subtilities and
sophistries, at the very time that I cannot satisfy myself concerning the
reasonableness of so painful an application, nor have any tolerable
prospect of arriving by its means at truth and certainty. Under what
obligation do I lie of making such an abuse of time? And to what end can
it serve either for the service of mankind, or for my own private
interest? No: If I must be a fool, as all those who reason or believe any
thing certainly are, my follies shall at least be natural and agreeable.
Where I strive against my inclination, I shall have a good reason for my
resistance; and will no more be led a wandering into such dreary
solitudes, and rough passages, as I have hitherto met with.

These are the sentiments of my spleen and indolence; and indeed I must
confess, that philosophy has nothing to oppose to them, and expects a
victory more from the returns of a serious good-humoured disposition,
than from the force of reason and conviction. In all the incidents of
life we ought still to preserve our scepticism. If we believe, that fire
warms, or water refreshes, it is only because it costs us too much pains
to think otherwise. Nay if we are philosophers, it ought only to be upon
sceptical principles, and from an inclination, which we feel to the
employing ourselves after that manner. Where reason is lively, and mixes
itself with some propensity, it ought to be assented to. Where it does
not, it never can have any title to operate upon us.

At the time, therefore, that I am tired with amusement and company, and
have indulged a reverie in my chamber, or in a solitary walk by a
river-side, I feel my mind all collected within itself, and am naturally
inclined to carry my view into all those subjects, about which I have met
with so many disputes in the course of my reading and conversation. I
cannot forbear having a curiosity to be acquainted with the principles of
moral good and evil, the nature and foundation of government, and the
cause of those several passions and inclinations, which actuate and
govern me. I am uneasy to think I approve of one object, and disapprove
of another; call one thing beautiful, and another deformed; decide
concerning truth and falshood, reason and folly, without knowing upon
what principles I proceed. I am concerned for the condition of the
learned world, which lies under such t deplorable ignorance in all these
particulars. I feel an ambition to arise in me of contributing to the
instruction of mankind, and of acquiring a name by my inventions and
discoveries. These sentiments spring up naturally in my present
disposition; and should I endeavour to banish them, by attaching myself
to any other business or diversion, I feel I should be a loser in point
of pleasure; and this is the origin of my philosophy.

But even suppose this curiosity and ambition should not transport me into
speculations without the sphere of common life, it would necessarily
happen, that from my very weakness I must be led into such enquiries.
It is certain, that superstition is much more bold in its systems and
hypotheses than philosophy; and while the latter contents itself with
assigning new causes and principles to the phaenomena, which appear in
the visible world, the former opens a world of its own, and presents us
with scenes, and beings, and objects, which are altogether new. Since
therefore it is almost impossible for the mind of man to rest, like those
of beasts, in that narrow circle of objects, which are the subject of
daily conversation and action, we ought only to deliberate concerning the
choice of our guide, and ought to prefer that which is safest and most
agreeable. And in this respect I make bold to recommend philosophy, and
shall not scruple to give it the preference to superstition of every kind
or denomination. For as superstition arises naturally and easily from the
popular opinions of mankind, it seizes more strongly on the mind, and is
often able to disturb us in the conduct of our lives and actions.
Philosophy on the contrary, if just, can present us only with mild and
moderate sentiments; and if false and extravagant, its opinions are
merely the objects of a cold and general speculation, and seldom go so
far as to interrupt the course of our natural propensities. The CYNICS
are an extraordinary instance of philosophers, who from reasonings purely
philosophical ran into as great extravagancies of conduct as any Monk or
Dervise that ever was in the world. Generally speaking, the errors in
religion are dangerous; those in philosophy only ridiculous.

I am sensible, that these two cases of the strength and weakness of the
mind will not comprehend all mankind, and that there are in England, in
particular, many honest gentlemen, who being always employed in their
domestic affairs, or amusing themselves in common recreations, have
carried their thoughts very little beyond those objects, which are every
day exposed to their senses. And indeed, of such as these I pretend not
to make philosophers, nor do I expect them either to be associates in
these researches or auditors of these discoveries. They do well to keep
themselves in their present situation; and instead of refining them into
philosophers, I wish we coued communicate to our founders of systems, a
share of this gross earthy mixture, as an ingredient, which they commonly
stand much in need of, and which would serve to temper those fiery
particles, of which they are composed. While a warm imagination is
allowed to enter into philosophy, and hypotheses embraced merely for
being specious and agreeable, we can never have any steady principles,
nor any sentiments, which will suit with common practice and experience.
But were these hypotheses once removed, we might hope to establish a
system or set of opinions, which if not true (for that, perhaps, is too
much to be hoped for) might at least be satisfactory to the human mind,
and might stand the test of the most critical examination. Nor should we
despair of attaining this end, because of the many chimerical systems,
which have successively arisen and decayed away among men, would we
consider the shortness of that period, wherein these questions have been
the subjects of enquiry and reasoning. Two thousand years with such long
interruptions, and under such mighty discouragements are a small space of
time to give any tolerable perfection to the sciences; and perhaps we are
still in too early an age of the world to discover any principles, which
will bear the examination of the latest posterity. For my part, my only
hope is, that I may contribute a little to the advancement of knowledge,
by giving in some particulars a different turn to the speculations of
philosophers, and pointing out to them more distinctly those subjects,
where alone they can expect assurance and conviction. Human Nature is the
only science of man; and yet has been hitherto the most neglected. It will
be sufficient for me, if I can bring it a little more into fashion; and
the hope of this serves to compose my temper from that spleen, and
invigorate it from that indolence, which sometimes prevail upon me. If
the reader finds himself in the same easy disposition, let him follow me
in my future speculations. If not, let him follow his inclination, and
wait the returns of application and good humour. The conduct of a man,
who studies philosophy in this careless manner, is more truly sceptical
than that of one, who feeling in himself an inclination to it, is yet so
overwhelmed with doubts and scruples, as totally to reject it. A true
sceptic will be diffident of his philosophical doubts, as well as of his
philosophical conviction; and will never refuse any innocent
satisfaction, which offers itself, upon account of either of them.

Nor is it only proper we should in general indulge our inclination in the
most elaborate philosophical researches, notwithstanding our sceptical
principles, but also that we should yield to that propensity, which
inclines us to be positive and certain in particular points, according to
the light, in which we survey them in any particular instant. It is easier
to forbear all examination and enquiry, than to check ourselves in so
natural a propensity, and guard against that assurance, which always
arises from an exact and full survey of an object. On such an occasion we
are apt not only to forget our scepticism, but even our modesty too; and
make use of such terms as these, it is evident, it is certain, it is
undeniable; which a due deference to the public ought, perhaps, to
prevent. I may have fallen into this fault after the example of others;
but I here enter a caveat against any Objections, which may be offered on
that head; and declare that such expressions were extorted from me by the
present view of the object, and imply no dogmatical spirit, nor conceited
idea of my own judgment, which are sentiments that I am sensible can
become no body, and a sceptic still less than any other.





BOOK II  OF THE PASSIONS




PART I  OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY



SECT. I  DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT


As all the perceptions of the mind may be divided into impressions and
ideas, so the impressions admit of another division into original and
secondary. This division of the impressions is the same with that
which I formerly made use of [Book I. Part I. Sect. 2.] when I
distinguished them into impressions of sensation and reflection. Original
impressions or impressions of sensation are such as without any antecedent
perception arise in the soul, from the constitution of the body, from the
animal spirits, or from the application of objects to the external organs.
Secondary, or reflective impressions are such as proceed from some of
these original ones, either immediately or by the interposition of its
idea. Of the first kind are all the impressions of the senses, and all
bodily pains and pleasures: Of the second are the passions, and other
emotions resembling them.

It is certain, that the mind, in its perceptions, must begin somewhere;
and that since the impressions precede their correspondent ideas, there
must be some impressions, which without any introduction make their
appearance in the soul. As these depend upon natural and physical causes,
the examination of them would lead me too far from my present subject,
into the sciences of anatomy and natural philosophy. For this reason I
shall here confine myself to those other impressions, which I have called
secondary and reflective, as arising either from the original
impressions, or from their ideas. Bodily pains and pleasures are the
source of many passions, both when felt and considered by the mind; but
arise originally in the soul, or in the body, whichever you please to
call it, without any preceding thought or perception. A fit of the gout
produces a long train of passions, as grief, hope, fear; but is not
derived immediately from any affection or idea. The reflective
impressions may be divided into two kinds, viz. the calm and the VIOLENT.
Of the first kind is the sense of beauty and deformity in action,
composition, and external objects. Of the second are the passions of love
and hatred, grief and joy, pride and humility. This division is far from
being exact. The raptures of poetry and music frequently rise to the
greatest height; while those other impressions, properly called PASSIONS,
may decay into so soft an emotion, as to become, in a manner,
imperceptible. But as in general the passions are more violent than the
emotions arising from beauty and deformity, these impressions have been
commonly distinguished from each other. The subject of the human mind
being so copious and various, I shall here take advantage of this vulgar
and spacious division, that I may proceed with the greater order; and
having said ali I thought necessary concerning our ideas, shall now
explain those violent emotions or passions, their nature, origin, causes,
and effects.

When we take a survey of the passions, there occurs a division of them
into DIRECT and INDIRECT. By direct passions I understand such as arise
immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. By indirect such as
proceed from the same principles, but by the conjunction of other
qualities. This distinction I cannot at present justify or explain any
farther. I can only observe in general, that under the indirect passions
I comprehend pride, humility, ambition, vanity, love, hatred, envy, pity,
malice, generosity, with their dependants. And under the direct passions,
desire, aversion, grief, joy, hope, fear, despair and security. I shall
begin with the former.



SECT. II  OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY, THEIR OBJECTS AND CAUSES


The passions of PRIDE and HUMILITY being simple and uniform impressions,
it is impossible we can ever, by a multitude of words, give a just
definition of them, or indeed of any of the passions. The utmost we can
pretend to is a description of them, by an enumeration of such
circumstances, as attend them: But as these words, PRIDE and humility,
are of general use, and the impressions they represent the most common of
any, every one, of himself, will be able to form a just idea of them,
without any danger of mistake. For which reason, not to lose time upon
preliminaries, I shall immediately enter upon the examination of these
passions.

It is evident, that pride and humility, though directly contrary, have yet
the same OBJECT. This object is self, or that succession of related ideas
and impressions, of which we have an intimate memory and consciousness.
Here the view always fixes when we are actuated by either of these
passions. According as our idea of ourself is more or less advantageous,
we feel either of those opposite affections, and are elated by pride, or
dejected with humility. Whatever other objects may be comprehended by the
mind, they are always considered with a view to ourselves; otherwise they
would never be able either to excite these passions, or produce the
smallest encrease or diminution of them. When self enters not into the
consideration, there is no room either for pride or humility.

But though that connected succession of perceptions, which we call SELF,
be always the object of these two passions, it is impossible it can be
their CAUSE, or be sufficient alone to excite them. For as these passions
are directly contrary, and have the same object in common; were their
object also their cause; it coued never produce any degree of the one
passion, but at the same time it must excite an equal degree of the other;
which opposition and contrariety must destroy both. It is impossible a man
can at the same time be both proud and humble; and where he has different
reasons for these passions, as frequently happens, the passions either
take place alternately; or if they encounter, the one annihilates the
other, as far as its strength goes, and the remainder only of that, which
is superior, continues to operate upon the mind. But in the present case
neither of the passions coued ever become superior; because supposing it
to be the view only of ourself, which excited them, that being perfectly
indifferent to either, must produce both in the very same proportion; or
in other words, can produce neither. To excite any passion, and at the
same time raise an equal share of its antagonist, is immediately to undo
what was done, and must leave the mind at last perfectly calm and
indifferent.

We must therefore, make a distinction betwixt the cause and the object of
these passions; betwixt that idea, which excites them, and that to which
they direct their view, when excited. Pride and humility, being once
raised, immediately turn our attention to ourself, and regard that as
their ultimate and final object; but there is something farther requisite
in order to raise them: Something, which is peculiar to one of the
passions, and produces not both in the very same degree. The first idea,
that is presented to the mind, is that of the cause or productive
principle. This excites the passion, connected with it; and that passion,
when excited. turns our view to another idea, which is that of self. Here
then is a passion placed betwixt two ideas, of which the one produces it,
and the other is produced by it. The first idea, therefore, represents
the cause, the second the object of the passion.

To begin with the causes of pride and humility; we may observe, that
their most obvious and remarkable property is the vast variety of
subjects, on which they may be placed. Every valuable quality of the
mind, whether of the imagination, judgment, memory or disposition; wit,
good-sense, learning, courage, justice, integrity; all these are the
cause of pride; and their opposites of humility. Nor are these passions
confined to the mind but extend their view to the body likewise. A man
may he proud of his beauty, strength, agility, good mein, address in
dancing, riding, and of his dexterity in any manual business or
manufacture. But this is not all. The passions looking farther,
comprehend whatever objects are in the least allyed or related to us. Our
country, family, children, relations, riches, houses, gardens, horses,
dogs, cloaths; any of these may become a cause either of pride or of
humility.

From the consideration of these causes, it appears necessary we shoud
make a new distinction in the causes of the passion, betwixt that
QUALITY, which operates, and the subject, on which it is placed. A man,
for instance, is vain of a beautiful house, which belongs to him, or
which he has himself built and contrived. Here the object of the passion
is himself, and the cause is the beautiful house: Which cause again is
sub-divided into two parts, viz. the quality, which operates upon the
passion, and the subject in which the quality inheres. The quality is the
beauty, and the subject is the house, considered as his property or
contrivance. Both these parts are essential, nor is the distinction vain
and chimerical. Beauty, considered merely as such, unless placed upon
something related to us, never produces any pride or vanity; and the
strongest. relation alone, without beauty, or something else in its
place, has as little influence on that passion. Since, therefore, these
two particulars are easily separated and there is a necessity for their
conjunction, in order to produce the passion, we ought to consider them
as component parts of the cause; and infix in our minds an exact idea of
this distinction.



SECT. III  WHENCE THESE OBJECTS AND CAUSES ARE DERIVED


Being so far advanced as to observe a difference betwixt the object of
the passions and their cause, and to distinguish in the cause the
quality, which operates on the passions, from the subject, in which it
inheres; we now proceed to examine what determines each of them to be
what it is, and assigns such a particular object, and quality, and
subject to these affections. By this means we shall fully understand the
origin of pride and humility.

It is evident in the first place, that these passions are derermined to
have self for their object, not only by a natural but also by an original
property. No one can doubt but this property is natural from the constancy
and steadiness of its operations. It is always self, which is the
object of pride and humility; and whenever the passions look beyond, it is
still with a view to ourselves, nor can any person or object otherwise
have any influence upon us.

That this proceeds from an original quality or primary impulse, will
likewise appear evident, if we consider that it is the distinguishing
characteristic of these passions Unless nature had given some original
qualities to the mind, it coued never have any secondary ones; because in
that case it would have no foundation for action, nor coued ever begin to
exert itself. Now these qualities, which we must consider as original,
are such as are most inseparable from the soul, and can be resolved into
no other: And such is the quality, which determines the object of pride
and humility. We may, perhaps, make it a greater question, whether the
causes, that produce the passion, be as natural as the object, to which
it is directed, and whether all that vast variety proceeds from caprice
or from the constitution of the mind. This doubt we shall soon remove, if
we cast our eye upon human nature, and consider that in all nations and
ages, the same objects still give rise to pride and humility; and that
upon the view even of a stranger, we can know pretty nearly, what will
either encrease or diminish his passions of this kind. If there be any
variation in this particular, it proceeds from nothing but a difference
in the tempers and complexions of men; and is besides very
inconsiderable. Can we imagine it possible, that while human nature
remains the same, men will ever become entirely indifferent to their
power, riches, beauty or personal merit, and that their pride and vanity
will not be affected by these advantages?

But though the causes of pride and humility be plainly natural, we shall
find upon examination, that they are not original, and that it is utterly
impossible they should each of them be adapted to these passions by a
particular provision, and primary constitution of nature, Beside their
prodigious number, many of them are the effects of art, and arise partly
from the industry, partly from the caprice, and partly from the good
fortune of men, Industry produces houses, furniture, cloaths. Caprice
determines their particular kinds and qualities. And good fortune
frequently contributes to all this, by discovering the effects that
result from the different mixtures and combinations of bodies. It is
absurd, therefore, to imagine, that each of these was foreseen and
provided for by nature, and that every new production of art, which
causes pride or humility; instead of adapting itself to the passion by
partaking of some general quality, that naturally operates on the mind;
is itself the object of an original principle, which till then lay
concealed in the soul, and is only by accident at last brought to light.
Thus the first mechanic, that invented a fine scritoire, produced pride
in him, who became possest of it, by principles different from those,
which made him proud of handsome chairs and tables. As this appears
evidently ridiculous, we must conclude, that each cause of pride and
humility is not adapted to the passions by a distinct original quality;
but that there are some one or more circumstances common to all of them,
on which their efficacy depends.

Besides, we find in the course of nature, that though the effects be many,
the principles, from which they arise, are commonly but few and simple,
and that it is the sign of an unskilful naturalist to have recourse to a
different quality, in order to explain every different operation. How
much more must this be true with regard to the human mind, which being so
confined a subject may justly be thought incapable of containing such a
monstrous heap of principles, as wou d be necessary to excite the
passions of pride and humility, were each distinct cause adapted to the
passion by a distinct set of principles?

Here, therefore, moral philosophy is in the same condition as natural,
with regard to astronomy before the time of COPERNICUS. The antients,
though sensible of that maxim, THAT NATURE DOES NOTHING IN VAIN, contrived
such intricate systems of the heavens, as seemed inconsistent with true
philosophy, and gave place at last to something more simple and natural.
To invent without scruple a new principle to every new phaenomenon,
instead of adapting it to the old; to overload our hypotheses with a
variety of this kind; are certain proofs, that none of these principles
is the just one, and that we only desire, by a number of falsehoods, to
cover our ignorance of the truth.



SECT. IV  OF THE RELATIONS OF IMPRESSIONS AND IDEAS


Thus we have established two truths without any obstacle or difficulty,
that IT IS FROM NATURAL PRINCIPLES THIS VARIETY OF CAUSES EXCITES PRIDE
AND HUMILITY, and that IT IS NOT BY A DIFFERENT PRINCIPLE EACH DIFFERENT
CAUSE IS ADAPTED TO ITS PASSION. We shall now proceed to enquire how we
may reduce these principles to a lesser number, and find among the causes
something common, on which their influence depends.

In order to this we must reflect on certain properties of human nature,
which though they have a mighty influence on every operation both of the
understanding and passions, are not commonly much insisted on by
philosophers. The first of these is the association of ideas, which I
have so often observed and explained. It is impossible for the mind to fix
itself steadily upon one idea for any considerable time; nor can it by
its utmost efforts ever arrive at such a constancy. But however
changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without rule and
method in their changes. The rule, by which they proceed, is to pass from
one object to what is resembling, contiguous to, or produced by it. When
one idea is present to the imagination, any other, united by these
relations, naturally follows it, and enters with more facility by means
of that introduction.

The second property I shall observe in the human mind is a like
association of impressions. All resembling impressions are connected
together, and no sooner one arises than the rest immediately follow.
Grief and disappointment give rise to anger, anger to envy, envy to
malice, and malice to grief again, till the whole circle be compleated.
In like manner our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws
itself into love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the other
resembling affections. It is difficult for the mind, when actuated by any
passion, to confine itself to that passion alone, without any change or
variation. Human nature is too inconstant to admit of any such
regularity. Changeableness is essential to it. And to what can it so
naturally change as to affections or emotions, which are suitable to the
temper, and agree with that set of passions, which then prevail? It is
evident, then, there is an attraction or association among impressions,
as well as among ideas; though with this remarkable difference, that ideas
are associated by resemblance, contiguity, and causation; and impressions
only by resemblance.

In the THIRD place, it is observable of these two kinds of association,
that they very much assist and forward each other, and that the
transition is more easily made where they both concur in the same object.
Thus a man, who, by any injury from another, is very much discomposed and
ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred subjects of discontent,
impatience, fear, and other uneasy passions; especially if he can
discover these subjects in or near the person, who was the cause of his
first passion. Those principles, which forward the transition of ideas,
here concur with those, which operate on the passions; and both uniting
in one action, bestow on the mind a double impulse. The new passion,
therefore, must arise with so much greater violence, and the transition
to it must be rendered so much more easy and natural.

Upon this occasion I may cite the authority of an elegant writer, who
expresses himself in the following manner.

"As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, or
beautiful, and is still more pleased the more it finds of these
perfections in the same object, so it is capable of receiving a new
satisfaction by the assistance of another sense. Thus any continued
sound, as the music of birds, or a fall of waters, awakens every moment
the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive to the several
beauties of the place, that lie before him. Thus if there arises a
fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasure of the
imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the landschape
appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both senses recommend each other,
and are pleasanter together than when they enter the mind separately: As
the different colours of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off
one another, and receive an additional beauty from the advantage of the
situation." [Addison, SPECTATOR 412, final paragraph.]

In this phaenomenon we may remark the association both of impressions and
ideas, as well as the mutual assistance they lend each other.



SECT. V  OF THE INFLUENCE OF THESE RELATIONS ON PRIDE AND HUMILITY


These principles being established on unquestionable experience, I begin
to consider how we shall apply them, by revolving over all the causes of
pride and humility, whether these causes be regarded, as the qualities,
that operate, or as the subjects, on which the qualities are placed. In
examining these qualities I immediately find many of them to concur in
producing the sensation of pain and pleasure, independent of those
affections, which I here endeavour to explain. Thus the beauty of our
person, of itself, and by its very appearance, gives pleasure, as well as
pride; and its deformity, pain as well as humility. A magnificent feast
delights us, and a sordid one displeases. What I discover to be true in
some instances, I suppose to be so in all; and take it for granted at
present, without any farther proof, that every cause of pride, by its
peculiar qualities, produces a separate pleasure, and of humility a
separate uneasiness.

Again, in considering the subjects, to which these qualities adhere, I
make a new supposition, which also appears probable from many obvious
instances, viz, that these subjects are either parts of ourselves, or
something nearly related to us. Thus the good and bad qualities of our
actions and manners constitute virtue and vice, and determine our
personal character, than which nothing operates more strongly on these
passions. In like manner, it is the beauty or deformity of our person,
houses, equipage, or furniture, by which we are rendered either vain or
humble. The same qualities, when transfered to subjects, which bear us no
relation, influence not in the smallest degree either of these
affections.

Having thus in a manner supposed two properties of the causes of these
affections, viz, that the qualities produce a separate pain or pleasure,
and that the subjects, on which the qualities are placed, are related to
self; I proceed to examine the passions themselves, in order to find
something in them, correspondent to the supposed properties of their
causes. First, I find, that the peculiar object of pride and humility is
determined by an original and natural instinct, and that it is absolutely
impossible, from the primary constitution of the mind, that these
passions should ever look beyond self, or that individual person. of
whose actions and sentiments each of us is intimately conscious. Here at
last the view always rests, when we are actuated by either of these
passions; nor can we, in that situation of mind, ever lose sight of this
object. For this I pretend not to give any reason; but consider such a
peculiar direction of the thought as an original quality.

The SECOND quality, which I discover in these passions, and which I
likewise consider an an original quality, is their sensations, or the
peculiar emotions they excite in the soul, and which constitute their
very being and essence. Thus pride is a pleasant sensation, and humility
a painful; and upon the removal of the pleasure and pain, there is in
reality no pride nor humility. Of this our very feeling convinces us; and
beyond our feeling, it is here in vain to reason or dispute.

If I compare, therefore, these two established properties of the
passions, viz, their object, which is self, and their sensation, which is
either pleasant or painful, to the two supposed properties of the causes,
viz, their relation to self, and their tendency to produce a pain or
pleasure, independent of the passion; I immediately find, that taking
these suppositions to be just, the true system breaks in upon me with an
irresistible evidence. That cause, which excites the passion, is related
to the object, which nature has attributed to the passion; the sensation,
which the cause separately produces, is related to the sensation of the
passion: From this double relation of ideas and impressions, the passion
is derived. The one idea is easily converted into its correlative; and
the one impression into that, which resembles and corresponds to it: With
how much greater facility must this transition be made, where these
movements mutually assist each other, and the mind receives a double
impulse from the relations both of its impressions and ideas?

That we may comprehend this the better, we must suppose, that nature has
given to the organs of the human mind, a certain disposition fitted to
produce a peculiar impression or emotion, which we call pride: To this
emotion she has assigned a certain idea, viz, that of self, which it
never fails to produce. This contrivance of nature is easily conceived.
We have many instances of such a situation of affairs. The nerves of the
nose and palate are so disposed, as in certain circumstances to convey
such peculiar sensations to the mind: The sensations of lust and hunger
always produce in us the idea of those peculiar objects, which are
suitable to each appetite. These two circumstances are united in pride.
The organs are so disposed as to produce the passion; and the passion,
after its production, naturally produces a certain idea. All this needs
no proof. It is evident we never should be possest of that passion, were
there not a disposition of mind proper for it; and it is as evident, that
the passion always turns our view to ourselves, and makes us think of our
own qualities and circumstances.

This being fully comprehended, it may now be asked, WHETHER NATURE
PRODUCES THE PASSION IMMEDIATELY, OF HERSELF; OR WHETHER SHE MUST BE
ASSISTED BY THE CO-OPERATION OF OTHER CAUSES? For it is observable, that
in this particular her conduct is different in the different passions and
sensations. The palate must be excited by an external object, in order to
produce any relish: But hunger arises internally, without the concurrence
of any external object. But however the case may stand with other
passions and impressions, it is certain, that pride requires the
assistance of some foreign object, and that the organs, which produce it,
exert not themselves like the heart and arteries, by an original internal
movement. For first, daily experience convinces us, that pride requires
certain causes to excite it, and languishes when unsupported by some
excellency in the character, in bodily accomplishments, in cloaths,
equipage or fortune. SECONDLY, it is evident pride would be perpetual, if
it arose immediately from nature; since the object is always the same,
and there is no disposition of body peculiar to pride, as there is to
thirst and hunger. Thirdly, Humility is in the very same situation with
pride; and therefore, either must, upon this supposition, be perpetual
likewise, or must destroy the contrary passion from, the very first
moment; so that none of them coued ever make its appearance. Upon the
whole, we may rest satisfyed with the foregoing conclusion, that pride
must have a cause, as well as an object, and that the one has no
influence without the other.

The difficulty, then, is only to discover this cause, and find what it is
that gives the first motion to pride, and sets those organs in action,
which are naturally fitted to produce that emotion. Upon my consulting
experience, in order to resolve this difficulty, I immediately find a
hundred different causes, that produce pride; and upon examining these
causes, I suppose, what at first I perceive to be probable, that all of
them concur in two circumstances; which are, that of themselves they
produce an impression, allyed to the passion, and are placed on a
subject, allyed to the object of the passion. When I consider after this
the nature of relation, and its effects both on the passions and ideas, I
can no longer doubt, upon these suppositions, that it is the very
principle, which gives rise to pride, and bestows motion on those organs,
which being naturally disposed to produce that affection, require only a
first impulse or beginning to their action. Any thing, that gives a
pleasant sensation, and is related to self, excites the passion of pride,
which is also agreeable, and has self for its object.

What I have said of pride is equally true of humility. The sensation of
humility is uneasy, as that of pride is agreeable; for which reason the
separate sensation, arising from the causes, must be reversed, while the
relation to self continues the same. Though pride and humility are
directly contrary in their effects, and in their sensations, they have
notwithstanding the same object; so that it is requisite only to change
the relation of impressions, without making any change upon that of
ideas. Accordingly we find, that a beautiful house, belonging to
ourselves, produces pride; and that the same house, still belonging to
ourselves, produces humility, when by any accident its beauty is changed
into deformity, and thereby the sensation of pleasure, which corresponded
to pride, is transformed into pain, which is related to humility. The
double relation between the ideas and impressions subsists in both cases,
and produces an easy transition from the one emotion to the other.

In a word, nature has bestowed a kind of attraction on certain
impressions and ideas, by which one of them, upon its appearance,
naturally introduces its correlative. If these two attractions or
associations of impressions and ideas concur on the same object, they
mutually assist each other, and the transition of the affections and of
the imagination is made with the greatest ease and facility. When an idea
produces an impression, related to an impression, which is connected with
an idea, related to the first idea, these two impressions must be in a
manner inseparable, nor will the one in any case be unattended with the
other. It is after this manner, that the particular causes of pride and
humility are determined. The quality, which operates on the passion,
produces separately an impression resembling it; the subject, to which
the quality adheres, is related to self, the object of the passion: No
wonder the whole cause, consisting of a quality and of a subject, does so
unavoidably give rise to the pass on.

To illustrate this hypothesis. we may compare it to that, by which I have
already explained the belief attending the judgments, which we form from
causation. I have observed, that in all judgments of this kind, there is
always a present impression. and a related idea; and that the present
impression gives a vivacity to the fancy, and the relation conveys this
vivacity, by an easy transition, to the related idea. Without the present
impression, the attention is not fixed, nor the spirits excited. Without
the relation, this attention rests on its first object, and has no
farther consequence. There is evidently a great analogy betwixt that
hypothesis. and our present one of an impression and idea, that transfuse
themselves into another impression and idea by means of their double
relation: Which analogy must be allowed to be no despicable proof of both
hypotheses.



SECT. VI  LIMITATIONS OF THIS SYSTEM


But before we proceed farther in this subject, and examine particularly
all the causes of pride and humility, it will be proper to make some
limitations to the general system, THAT ALL AGREEABLE OBJECTS, RELATED TO
OURSELVES, BY AN ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS AND OF IMPRESSIONS, PRODUCE PRIDE,
AND DISAGREEABLE ONES, HUMILITY: And these limitations are derived from
the very nature of the subject.

I. Suppose an agreeable object to acquire a relation to self, the first
passion, that appears on this occasion, is joy; and this passion
discovers itself upon a slighter relation than pride and vain-glory. We
may feel joy upon being present at a feast, where our senses are regard
with delicacies of every kind: But it is only the master of the feast,
who, beside the same joy, has the additional passion of self-applause and
vanity. It is true, men sometimes boast of a great entertainment, at which
they have only been present; and by so small a relation convert their
pleasure into pride: But however, this must in general be owned, that joy
arises from a more inconsiderable relation than vanity, and that many
things, which are too foreign to produce pride, are yet able to give us a
delight and pleasure, The reason of the difference may be explained thus.
A relation is requisite to joy, in order to approach the object to us,
and make it give us any satisfaction. But beside this, which is common to
both passions, it is requisite to pride, in order to produce a transition
from one passion to another, and convert the falsification into vanity.
As it has a double task to perform, it must be endowed with double force
and energy. To which we may add, that where agreeable objects bear not a
very close relation to ourselves, they commonly do to some other
person; and this latter relation not only excels, but even diminishes,
and sometimes destroys the former, as we shall see afterwards.
[Part II. Sec. 4.]

Here then is the first limitation, we must make to our general position,
that every thing related to us, which produces pleasure or pain, produces
likewise pride or humility. There is not only a relation required, but a
close one, and a closer than is required to joy.

II. The second limitation is, that the agreeable or disagreeable object
be not only closely related, but also peculiar to ourselves, or at least
common to us with a few persons. It is a quality observable in human
nature, and which we shall endeavour to explain afterwards, that every
thing, which is often presented. and to which we have been long
accustomed, loses its value in our eyes, and is in a little time despised
and neglected. We likewise judge of objects more from comparison than
from their real and intrinsic merit; and where we cannot by some contrast
enhance their value, we are apt to overlook even what is essentially good
in them. These qualities of the mind have an effect upon joy as well as
pride; and it is remarkable, that goods. which are common to all mankind,
and have become familiar to us by custom, give us little satisfaction;
though perhaps of a more excellent kind, than those on which, for their
singularity, we set a much higher value. But though this circumstance
operates on both these passions, it has a much greater influence on
vanity. We are rejoiced for many goods, which, on account of their
frequency, give us no pride. Health, when it returns after a long
absence, affords us a very sensible satisfaction; but is seldom regarded
as a subject of vanity, because it is shared with such vast numbers.

The reason, why pride is so much more delicate in this particular than
joy, I take to be, as follows. In order to excite pride, there are always
two objects we must contemplate. viz, the cause or that object which
produces pleasure; and self, which is the real object of the passion. But
joy has only one object necessary to its production. viz, that which
gives pleasure; and though it be requisite, that this bear some relation
to self, yet that is only requisite in order to render it agreeable; nor
is self, properly speaking, the object of this passion. Since, therefore,
pride has in a manner two objects, to which it directs our view; it
follows, that where neither of them have any singularity, the passion
must be more weakened upon that account, than a passion, which has only
one object. Upon comparing ourselves with others, as we are every moment
apt to do, we find we are not in the least distinguished; and upon
comparing the object we possess, we discover still the same unlucky
circumstance. By two comparisons so disadvantageous the passion must be
entirely destroyed.

III The third limitation is, that the pleasant or painful object be very
discernible and obvious, and that not only to ourselves, but to others
also. This circumstance, like the two foregoing, has an effect upon joy,
as well as pride. We fancy Ourselves more happy, as well as more virtuous
or beautiful, when we appear so to others; but are still more
ostentatious of our virtues than of our pleasures. This proceeds from
causes, which I shall endeavour to explain afterwards.

IV. The fourth limitation is derived from the inconstancy of the cause of
these passions, and from the short duration of its connexion with
ourselves. What is casual and inconstant gives but little joy, and less
pride. We are not much satisfyed with the thing itself; and are still
less apt to feel any new degrees of self-satisfaction upon its account.
We foresee and anticipate its change by the imagination; which makes us
little satisfyed with the thing: We compare it to ourselves, whose
existence is more durable; by which means its inconstancy appears still
greater. It seems ridiculous to infer an excellency in ourselves from an
object, which is of so much shorter duration, and attends us during so
small a part of our existence. It will be easy to comprehend the reason,
why this cause operates not with the same force in joy as in pride; since
the idea of self is not so essential to the former passion as to the
latter.

V. I may add as a fifth limitation, or rather enlargement of this system,
that general rules have a great influence upon pride and humility, as
well as on all the other passions. Hence we form a notion of different
ranks of men, suitable to the power of riches they are possest of; and
this notion we change not upon account of any peculiarities of the health
or temper of the persons, which may deprive them of all enjoyment in
their possessions. This may be accounted for from the same principles,
that explained the influence of general rules on the understanding.
Custom readily carries us beyond the just bounds in our passions, as well
as in our reasonings.

It may not be amiss to observe on this occasion, that the influence of
general rules and maxims on the passions very much contributes to
facilitate the effects of all the principles, which we shall explain in
the progress of this treatise. For 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
every object, and would. not readily find what degree of love or hatred,
pride or humility, or any other passion he ought to attribute to it. The
passions are often varyed by very inconsiderable principles; and these do
not always play with a perfect regularity, especially on the first trial.
But as custom and practice have brought to light all these principles,
and have settled the just value of every thing; this must certainly
contribute to the easy production of the passions, and guide us, by means
of general established maxims, in the proportions we ought to observe in
preferring one object to another. This remark may, perhaps, serve to
obviate difficulties, that mayarise concerning some causes, which I shall
hereafter ascribe to particular passions, and which may be esteemed too
refined to operate so universally and certainly, as they are found to do.

I shall close this subject with a reflection derived from these five
limitations. This reflection is, that the persons, who are proudest, and
who in the eye of the world have most reason for their pride, are not
always the happiest; nor the most humble always the most miserable, as
may at first sight be imagined from this system. An evil may be real.
though its cause has no relation to us: It may be real, without being
peculiar: It may be real, without shewing itself to others: It may be
real, without being constant: And it may he real, without falling under
the general rules. Such evils as these will not fail to render us
miserable, though they have little tendency to diminish pride: And perhaps
the most real and the most solid evils of life will be found of this
nature.



SECT. VII  OF VICE AND VIRTUE


Taking these limitations along with us, let us proceed to examine the
causes of pride and humility; and see, whether in every case we can
discover the double relations, by which they operate on the passions. If
we find that all these causes are related to self, and produce a pleasure
or uneasiness separate from the passion, there will remain no farther
scruple with regard to the present system. We shall principally endeavour
to prove the latter point; the former being in a manner self-evident.

To begin, with vice and virtue; which are the most obvious causes of
these passions; it would be entirely foreign to my present purpose to
enter upon the controversy, which of late years has so much excited the
curiosity of the publick. WHETHER THESE MORAL DISTINCTIONS BE FOUNDED ON
NATURAL AND ORIGINAL PRINCIPLES, OR ARISE FROM INTEREST AND EDUCATION.
The examination of this I reserve for the following book; and in the mean
time I shall endeavour to show, that my system maintains its ground upon
either of these hypotheses; which will be a strong proof of its solidity.

For granting that morality had no foundation in nature, it must still be
allowed, that vice and virtue, either from self-interest or the
prejudices of education, produce in us a real pain and pleasure; and this
we may observe to be strenuously asserted by the defenders of that
hypothesis. Every passion, habit, or turn of character (say they) which
has a tendency to our advantage or prejudice, gives a delight or
uneasiness; and it is from thence the approbation or disapprobation
arises. We easily gain from the liberality of others, but are always in
danger of losing by their avarice: Courage defends us, but cowardice lays
us open to every attack: Justice is the support of society, but
injustice, unless checked would quickly prove its ruin: Humility exalts;
but pride mortifies us. For these reasons the former qualities are
esteemed virtues, and the latter regarded as vices. Now since it is
granted there is a delight or uneasiness still attending merit or demerit
of every kind, this is all that is requisite for my purpose.

But I go farther, and observe, that this moral hypothesis and my present
system not only agree together, but also that, allowing the former to be
just, it is an absolute and invincible proof of the latter. For if all
morality be founded on the pain or pleasure, which arises from the
prospect of any loss or advantage, that may result from our own
characters, or from those of others, all the effects of morality must-be
derived from the same pain or pleasure, and among the rest, the passions
of pride and humility. The very essence of virtue, according to this
hypothesis, is to produce pleasure and that of vice to give pain. The
virtue and vice must be part of our character in order to excite pride or
humility. What farther proof can we desire for the double relation of
impressions and ideas?

The same unquestionable argument may be derived from the opinion of
those, who maintain that morality is something real, essential, and
founded on nature. The most probable hypothesis, which has been advanced
to explain the distinction betwixt vice and virtue, and the origin of
moral rights and obligations, is, that from a primary constitution of
nature certain characters and passions, by the very view and
contemplation, produce a pain, and others in like manner excite a
pleasure. The uneasiness and satisfaction are not only inseparable from
vice and virtue, but constitute their very nature and essence. To approve
of a character is to feel an original delight upon its appearance. To
disapprove of it is to be sensible of an uneasiness. The pain and
pleasure, therefore, being the primary causes of vice and virtue, must
also be the causes of all their effects, and consequently of pride and
humility, which are the unavoidable attendants of that distinction.

But supposing this hypothesis of moral philosophy should be allowed to be
false, it is still evident, that pain and pleasure, if not the causes of
vice and virtue, are at least inseparable from them. A generous and noble
character affords a satisfaction even in the survey; and when presented to
us, though only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm and delight us.
On the other hand cruelty and treachery displease from their very nature;
nor is it possible ever to reconcile us to these qualities, either in
ourselves or others. Thus one hypothesis of morality is an undeniable
proof of the foregoing system, and the other at worst agrees with it. But
pride and humility arise not from these qualities alone of the mind,
which, according to the vulgar systems of ethicks, have been comprehended
as parts of moral duty, but from any other that has a connexion with
pleasure and uneasiness. Nothing flatters our vanity more than the talent
of pleasing by our wit, good humour, or any other accomplishment; and
nothing gives us a more sensible mortification than a disappointment in
any attempt of that nature. No one has ever been able to tell what wit
is, and to-shew why such a system of thought must be received under that
denomination, and such another rejected. It is only by taste we can decide
concerning it, nor are we possest of any other standard, upon which we
can form a judgment of this kind. Now what is this taste, from which true
and false wit in a manner receive their being, and without which no
thought can have a title to either of these denominations? It is plainly
nothing but a sensation of pleasure from true wit, and of uneasiness from
false, without oar being able to tell the reasons of that pleasure or
uneasiness. The power of bestowing these opposite sensations is.
therefore, the very essence of true and false wit; and consequently the
cause of that pride or humility, which arises from them.

There may, perhaps, be some, who being accustomed to the style of the
schools and pulpit. and having never considered human nature in any other
light, than that in which they place it, may here be surprized to hear me
talk of virtue as exciting pride, which they look upon as a vice; and of
vice as producing humility, which they have been taught to consider as a
virtue. But not to dispute about words, I observe, that by pride I
understand that agreeable impression, which arises in the mind, when the
view either of our virtue, beauty, riches or power makes us satisfyed
with ourselves: and that by humility I mean the opposite impression. It is
evident the former impression is not always vicious, nor the latter
virtuous. The most rigid morality allows us to receive a pleasure from
reflecting on a generous action; and it is by none esteemed a virtue to
feel any fruitless remorses upon the thoughts of past villainy and
baseness. Let us, therefore, examine these impressions, considered in
themselves; and enquire into their causes, whether placed on the mind or
body, without troubling ourselves at present with that merit or blame,
which may attend them.



SECT. VIII  OF BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY


Whether we consider the body as a part of ourselves, or assent to those
philosophers, who regard it as something external, it must still be
allowed to be near enough connected with us to form one of these double
relations, which I have asserted to be necessary to the causes of pride
and humility. Wherever, therefore, we can find the other relation of
impressions to join to this of ideas, we may expect with assurance either
of these passions, according as the impression is pleasant or uneasy. But
beauty of all kinds gives us a peculiar delight and satisfaction; as
deformity produces pain, upon whatever subject it may be placed, and
whether surveyed in an animate or inanimate object. If the beauty or
deformity, therefore, be placed upon our own bodies, this pleasure or
uneasiness must be converted into pride or humility, as having in this
case all the circumstances requisite to produce a perfect transition of
impressions and ideas. These opposite sensations are related to the
opposite passions. The beauty or deformity is closely related to self,
the object of both these passions. No wonder, then our own beauty becomes
an object of pride, and deformity of humility.

But this effect of personal and bodily qualities is not only a proof of.
the present system, by shewing that the passions arise not in this case
without all the circumstances I have required, but may be employed as a
stronger and more convincing argument. If we consider all the hypotheses,
which have been formed either by philosophy or common reason, to explain
the difference betwixt beauty and deformity, we shall find that all of
them resolve into this, that beauty is such an order and construction of
parts, as either by the primary constitution of our nature, by custom, or
by caprice, is fitted to give a pleasure and satisfaction to the soul.
This is the distinguishing character of beauty, and forms all the
difference betwixt it and deformity, whose natural tendency is to produce
uneasiness. Pleasure and pain, therefore, are not only necessary
attendants of beauty and deformity, but constitute their very essence.
And indeed, if we consider, that a great part of the beauty, which we
admire either in animals or in other objects, is derived from the idea of
convenience and utility, we shall make no scruple to assent to this
opinion. That shape, which produces strength, is beautiful in one animal;
and that which is a sign of agility in another. The order and convenience
of a palace are no less essential to its beauty, than its mere figure and
appearance. In like manner the rules of architecture require, that the
top of a pillar should be more slender than its base, and that because
such a figure conveys to us the idea of security, which is pleasant;
whereas the contrary form gives us the apprehension of danger, which is
uneasy. From innumerable instances of this kind, as well as from
considering that beauty like wit, cannot be defined, but is discerned
only by a taste or sensation, we may conclude, that beauty is nothing but
a form, which produces pleasure, as deformity is a structure of parts,
which conveys pain; and since the power of producing pain and pleasure
make in this manner the essence of beauty and deformity, all the effects
of these qualities must be derived from the sensation; and among the rest
pride and humility, which of all their effects are the most common and
remarkable.

This argument I esteem just and decisive; but in order to give greater
authority to the present reasoning, let us suppose it false for a moment,
and see what will follow. It is certain, then, that if the power of
producing pleasure and pain forms not the essence of beauty and
deformity, the sensations are at least inseparable from the qualities,
and it is even difficult to consider them apart. Now there is nothing
common to natural and moral beauty, (both of which are the causes of
pride) but this power of producing pleasure; and as a common effect
supposes always a common cause, it is plain the pleasure must in both
cases be the real and influencing cause of the passion. Again; there is
nothing originally different betwixt the beauty of our bodies and the
beauty of external and foreign objects, but that the one has a near
relation to ourselves, which is wanting in the other. This original
difference, therefore, must be the cause of all their other differences,
and among the rest, of their different influence upon the passion of
pride, which is excited by the beauty of our person, but is not affected
in the lcast by that of foreign and external objects. Placing, then,
these two conclusions together, we find they compose the preceding system
betwixt them, viz, that pleasure, as a related or resembling impression,
when placed on a related object. by a natural transition, produces pride;
and its contrary, humility. This system, then, seems already sufficiently
confirmed by experience; that we have not yet exhausted all our
arguments.

It is not the beauty of the body alone that produces pride, but also its
strength and force. Strength is a kind of power; and therefore the desire
to excel in strength is to be considered as an inferior species of
ambition. For this reason the present phaenomenon will be sufficiently
accounted for, in explaining that passion.

Concerning all other bodily accomplishments we may observe in general,
that whatever in ourselves is either useful, beautiful, or surprising, is
an object of pride; and it's contrary, of humility. Now it is obvious,
that every thing useful, beautiful or surprising, agrees in producing a
separate pleasure and agrees in nothing else. The pleasure, therefore,
with the relation to self must be the cause of the passion.

Though it should be questioned, whether beauty be not something real, and
different from the power of producing pleasure, it can never be disputed,
that as surprize is nothing but a pleasure arising from novelty, it is
not, properly speaking, a quality in any object, but merely a passion or
impression in the soul. It must, therefore, be from that impression, that
pride by a natural transition arises. And it arises so naturally, that
there is nothing in us or belonging to us, which produces surprize, that
does not at the same time excite that other passion. Thus we are vain of
the surprising adventures we have met with, the escapes we have made, and
dangers we have been exposed to. Hence the origin of vulgar lying; where
men without any interest, and merely out of vanity, heap up a number of
extraordinary events, which are either the fictions of their brain, or if
true, have at least no connexion with themselves. Their fruitful
invention supplies them with a variety of adventures; and where that
talent is wanting, they appropriate such as belong to others, in order to
satisfy their vanity.

In this phaenomenon are contained two curious experiments, which if we
compare them together, according to the known rules, by which we judge of
cause and effect in anatomy, natural philosophy, and other sciences, will
be an undeniable argument for that influence of the double relations
above-mentioned. By one of these experiments we find, that an object
produces pride merely by the interposition of pleasure; and that because
the quality, by which it produces pride, is in reality nothing but the
power of producing pleasure. By the other experiment we find, that the
pleasure produces the pride by a transition along related ideas; because
when we cut off that relation the passion is immediately destroyed.. A
surprising adventure, in which we have been ourselves engaged, is related
to us, and by that means produces pride: But the adventures of others,
though they may cause pleasure, yet for want of this relation of ideas,
never excite that passion. What farther proof can be desired for the
present system?

There is only one objection to this system with regard to our body: which
is, that though nothing be more agreeable than health, and more painful
than sickness, yet commonly men are neither proud of the one, nor
mortifyed with the other. This will easily be accounted for, if we
consider the second and fourth limitations, proposed to our general
system. It was observed, that no object ever produces pride or humility,
if it has not something peculiar to ourself; as also, that every cause of
that passion must be in some measure constant, and hold some proportion
to the duration of our self, which, is its object. Now as health and
sickness vary incessantly to all men, and there is none, who is solely or
certainly fixed in either, these accidental blessings and calamities are
in a manner separated from us, and are never considered as connected with
our being and existence. And that this account is just appears hence,
that wherever a malady of any kind is so rooted in our constitution, that
we no longer entertain any hopes of recovery, from that moment it becomes
an object of humility; as is evident in old men, whom nothing mortifies
more than the consideration of their age and infirmities. They endeavour,
as long as possible, to conceal their blindness and deafness, their
rheums and gouts; nor do they ever confess them without reluctance and
uneasiness. And though young men are not ashamed of every head-ach or cold
they fall into, yet no topic is so proper to mortify human pride, and
make us entertain a mean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are
every moment of our lives subject to such infirmities. This sufficiently
proves that bodily pain and sickness are in themselves proper causes of
humility; though the custom of estimating every thing by comparison more
than by its intrinsic worth and value, makes us overlook these
calamities, which we find to be incident to every one, and causes us to
form an idea of our merit and character independent of them.

We are ashamed of such maladies as affect others, and are either
dangerous or disagreeable to them. Of the epilepsy; because it gives a
horror to every one present: Of the itch; because it is infectious: Of
the king's-evil; because it commonly goes to posterity. Men always
consider the sentiments of others in their judgment of themselves. This
has evidently appeared in some of the foregoing reasonings; and will
appear still more evidently, and be more fully explained afterwards,



SECT. IX  OF EXTERNAL ADVANTAGES AND DISADVANTAGES


But though pride and humility have the qualities of our mind and body that
is self, for their natural and more immediate causes, we find by
experience, that there are many other objects, which produce these
affections, and that the primary one is, in some measure, obscured and
lost by the rnultiplicity of foreign and extrinsic. We found a vanity
upon houses, gardens, equipages, as well as upon personal merit and
accomplishments; and though these external advantages be in themselves
widely distant from thought or a person, yet they considerably influence
even a passion, which is directed to that as its ultimate object, This,
happens when external objects acquire any particular relation to
ourselves, and are associated or connected with us. A beautiful fish in
the ocean, an animal in a desart, and indeed any thing that neither
belongs, nor is related to us, has no manner of influence on our vanity,
whatever extraordinary qualities it may be endowed with, and whatever
degree of surprize and admiration it may naturally occasion. It must be
some way associated with us in order to touch our pride. Its idea must
hang in a manner, upon that of ourselves and the transition from the one
to the other must be easy and natural.

But here it is remarkable, that though the relation of resemblance
operates upon the mind in the same manner as contiguity and causation, in
conveying us from one idea to another, yet it is seldom a foundation
either of pride or of humility. If we resemble a person in any of the
valuable parts of his character, we must, in some degree, possess the
quality, in which we resemble him; and this quality we always chuse to
survey directly in ourselves rather than by reflexion in another person,
when we would found upon it any degree of vanity. So that though a
likeness may occasionally produce that passion by suggesting a more
advantageous idea of ourselves, it is there the view fixes at last, and
the passion finds its ultimate and final cause.

There are instances, indeed, wherein men shew a vanity in resembling a
great man in his countenance, shape, air, or other minute circumstances,
that contribute not in any degree to his reputation; but it must be
confessed that this extends not very far, nor is of any considerable
moment in these affections. For this I assign the following reason. We
can never have a vanity of resembling in trifles any person, unless he be
possessed of very shining qualities, which give us a respect and
veneration for him. These qualities, then, are, properly speaking, the
causes of our vanity, by means of their relation to ourselves. Now after
what manner are they related to ourselves? They are parts of the person
we value, and consequently connected with these trifles; which are also
supposed to be parts of him. These trifles are connected with the
resembling qualities in us; and these qualities in us, being parts, are
connected with the whole; and by that means form a chain of several links
of the person we resemble. But besides that this multitude of relations
must weaken the connexion; it is evident the mind, in passing from the
shining qualities to the trivial ones, must by that contrast the better
perceive the minuteness of the latter, and be in some measure ashamed of
the comparison and resemblance.

The relation, therefore, of contiguity, or that of causation, betwixt the
cause and object of pride and humility, is alone requisite to give rise
to these passions; and these relations are nothing else but qualities, by
which the imagination is conveyed from one idea to another. Now let us
consider what effect these can possibly have upon the mind, and by what
means they become so requisite to the production of the passions. It is
evident, that the association of ideas operates in so silent and
imperceptible a manner, that we are scarce sensible of it, and discover
it more by its effects than by any immediate feeling or perception. It
produces no emotion, and gives rise to no new impression of any kind, but
only modifies those ideas, of which the mind was formerly possessed, and
which it coued recal upon occasion. From this reasoning, as well as from
undoubted experience, we may conclude, that an association of ideas,
however necessary, is not alone sufficient to give rise to any passion.

It is evident, then, that when the mind feels the passion either of pride
or humility upon the appearance of related object, there is, beside the
relation or transition of thought, an emotion or original impression
produced by some other principle. The question is, whether the emotion
first produced be the passion itself, or some other impression related to
it. This question we cannot be long in deciding, For besides all the
other arguments, with which this subject abounds, it must evidently
appear, that the relation of ideas, which experience shews to be so
requisite a circumstance to the production of the passion, would be
entirely superfluous, were it not to second a relation of affections, and
facilitate the transition from one impression to another. If nature
produced immediately the passion of pride or humility, it would be
compleated in itself, and would require no farther addition or encrease
from any other affection. But supposing the first emotion to be only
related to pride or humility, it is easily conceived to what purpose the
relation of objects may serve, and how the two different associations, of
impressions and ideas, by uniting their forces, may assist each other's
operation. This is not only easily conceived, but I will venture to
affirm it is the only manner, in which we can conceive this subject. An
easy transition of ideas, which, of itself, causes no emotion, can never
be necessary, or even useful to the passions, but by forwarding the
transition betwixt some related impressions. Not to mention, that the
same object causes a greater or smaller degree of pride, not only in
proportion to the encrease or decrease of its qualities, but also to the
distance or nearness of the relation; which is a clear argument for the
transition of affections along the relation of ideas; since every change
in the relation produces a proportionable change in the passion. Thus one
part of the preceding system, concerning the relations of ideas is a
sufficient proof of the other, concerning that of impressions; and is
itself so evidently founded on experience, that it would be lost time to
endeavour farther to prove it.

This will appear still more evidently in particular instances. Men are
vain of the beauty of their country, of their county, of their parish.
Here the idea of beauty plainly produces a pleasure. This pleasure is
related to pride. The object or cause of this pleasure is, by the
supposition, related to self, or the object of pride. By this double
relation of impressions and ideas, a transition is made from the one
impression to the other.

Men are also vain of the temperature of the climate, in which they were
born; of the fertility of their native soil; of the goodness of the
wines, fruits or victuals, produced by it; of the softness or force of
their language; with other particulars of that kind. These objects have
plainly a reference to the pleasures of the senses, and are originally
considered as agreeable to the feeling, taste or hearing. How is it
possible they coued ever become objects of pride, except by means of that
transition above-explained?

There are some, that discover a vanity of an opposite kind, and affect to
depreciate their own country, in comparison of those, to which they have
travelled. These persons find, when they are at home, and surrounded with
their countrymen, that the strong relation betwixt them and their own
nation is shared with so many, that it is in a manner lost to them;
whereas their distant relation to a foreign country, which is formed by
their having seen it and lived in it, is augmented by their considering
how few there are who have done the same. For this reason they always
admire the beauty, utility and rarity of what is abroad, above what is at
home.

Since we can be vain of a country, climate or any inanimate object, which
bears a relation to us, it is no wonder we are vain of the qualities of
those, who are connected with us by blood or friendship. Accordingly we
find, that the very same qualities, which in ourselves produce pride,
produce also in a lesser degree the same affection, when discovered in
persons related to us. The beauty, address, merit, credit and honours of
their kindred are carefully displayed by the proud, as some of their most
considerable sources of their vanity.

As we are proud of riches in ourselves, so to satisfy our vanity we
desire that every one, who has any connexion with us, should likewise be
possest of them, and are ashamed of any one, that is mean or poor, among
our friends and relations. For this reason we remove the poor as far from
us as possible; and as we cannot prevent poverty in some distant
collaterals, and our forefathers are taken to be our nearest relations;
upon this account every one affects to be of a good family, and to be
descended from a long succession of rich and honourable ancestors.

I have frequently observed, that those, who boast of the antiquity of
their families, are glad when they can join this circumstance, that their
ancestors for many generations have been uninterrupted proprietors of the
same portion of land, and that their family has never changed its
possessions, or been transplanted into any other county or province. I
have also observed, that it is an additional subject of vanity, when they
can boast, that these possessions have been transmitted through a descent
composed entirely of males, and that the honour, and fortune have never
past through any female. Let us endeavour to explain these phaenomena by
the foregoing system.

It is evident, that when any one boasts of the antiquity of his family,
the subjects of his vanity are not merely the extent of time and number
of ancestors, but also their riches and credit, which are supposed to
reflect a lustre on himself on account of his relation to them. He first
considers these objects; is affected by them in an agreeable manner; and
then returning back to himself, through the relation of parent and child,
is elevated with the passion of pride, by means of the double relation,
of impressions and ideas. Since therefore the passion depends on these
relations, whatever strengthens any of the relations must also encrease
the passion, and whatever weakens the relations must diminish the
passion. Now it is certain the identity of the possesion strengthens the
relation of ideas arising from blood and kindred, and conveys the fancy
with greater facility from one generation to another, from the remote
ancestors to their posterity, who are both their heirs and their
descendants. By this facility the impression is transmitted more entire,
and excites a greater degree of pride and vanity.

The case is the same with the transmission of the honours and fortune
through a succession of males without their passing through any female. It
is a quality of human nature, which we shall consider [Part II. Sect, 2.]
afterwards, that the imagination naturally turns to whatever is important
and considerable; and where two objects are presented to it, a small and a
great one, usually leaves the former, and dwells entirely upon the latter.
As in the society of marriage, the male sex has the advantage above the
female, the husband first engages our attention; and whether we consider
him directly, or reach him by passing through related objects, the thought
both rests upon him with greater satisfaction, and arrives at him with
greater facility than his consort. It is easy to see, that this property
must strengthen the child's relation to the father, and weaken that to the
mother. For as all relations are nothing hut a propensity to pass from
one idea ma another, whatever strengthens the propensity strengthens the
relation; and as we have a stronger propensity to pass from the idea of
the children to that of the father, than from the same idea to that of
the mother, we ought to regard the former relation as the closer and more
considerable. This is the reason why children commonly bear their
father's name, and are esteemed to be of nobler or baser birth, according
to his family. And though the mother should be possest of a superior
spirit and genius to the father, as often happens, the general rule
prevails, notwithstanding the exceprion, according to the doctrine
above-explained. Nay even when a superiority of any kind is so great, or
when any other reasons have such an effect, as to make the children rather
represent: the mother's family than the father's, the general rule still
retains such an efficacy that it weakens the relation, and makes a kind of
break in the line of ancestors. The imagination runs not along them with
facility, nor is able to transfer the honour and credit of the ancestors
to their posterity of the same name and family so readily, as when the
transition is conformable to the general rules, and passes from father to
son, or from brother to brother.



SECT. X  OF PROPERTY AND RICHES


But the relation, which is esteemed the closest, and which of all others
produces most commonly the passion of pride, is that of property. This
relation it will be impossible for me fully to explain before I come to
treat of justice and the other moral virtues. It is sufficient to observe
on this occasion, that property may be defined, such a relation betwixt a
person and an. object as permits him, but forbids any other, the free use
and possession of it, without violating the laws of justice and moral
equity. If justice, therefore, be a virtue, which has a natural and
original influence on the human mind, property may be looked upon as a
particular species of causation; whether we consider the liberty it gives
the proprietor to operate as he please upon the object or the advantages,
which he reaps from it. It is the same case, if justice, according to the
system of certain philosophers, should be esteemed an artificial and not
a natural virtue. For then honour, and custom, and civil laws supply the
place of natural conscience, and produce, in some degree, the same
effects. This in the mean time is certain, that the mention of the
property naturally carries our thought to the proprietor, and of the
proprietor to the property; which being a proof of a perfect relation of
ideas is all that is requisite to our present purpose. A relation of
ideas, joined to that of impressions, always produces a transition of
affections; and therefore, whenever any pleasure or pain arises from an
object, connected with us by property. we may be certain, that either
pride or humility must arise from this conjunction of relations; if the
foregoing system be solid and satisfactory. And whether it be so or not,
we may soon satisfy ourselves by the most cursory view of human life.

Every thing belonging to a vain man is the best that is any where to be
found. His houses, equipage, furniture, doaths, horses, hounds, excel all
others in his conceit; and it is easy to observe, that from the least
advantage in any of these, he draws a new subject of pride and vanity.
His wine, if you'll believe him, has a finer flavour than any other; his
cookery is more exquisite; his table more orderly; his servants more
expert; the air, in which he lives, more healthful; the soil he
cultivates more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier and to greater
perfection: Such a thing is remarkable for its novelty; such another for
its antiquity: This is the workmanship of a famous artist; that belonged
once to such a prince or great man: All objects, in a word, that are
useful, beautiful or surprising, or are related to such, may, by means of
property, give rise to this passion. These agree in giving pleasure, and
agree in nothing else. This alone is common to them; and therefore must
be the quality that produces the passion, which is their common effect.
As every new instance is a new argument, and as the instances are here
without number, I may venture to affirm, that scarce any system was ever
so fully proved by experience, as that which I have here advanced.

If the property of any thing, that gives pleasure either by its utility,
beauty or novelty, produces also pride by a double relation of
impressions and ideas; we need not be surprized, that the power of
acquiring this property, should have the same effect. Now riches are to
be considered as the power of acquiring the property of what pleases; and
it is only in this view they have any influence on the passions. Paper
will, on many occasions, be considered as riches, and that because it may
convey the power of acquiring money: And money is not riches, as it is a
metal endowed with certain qualities of solidity, weight and fusibility;
but only as it has a relation to the pleasures and conveniences of life.
Taking then this for granted, which is in itself so evident, we may draw
from it one of the strongest arguments I have yet employed to prove the
influence of the double relations on pride and humility.

It has been observed in treating of the understanding, that the
distinction, which we sometimes make betwixt a power and the exercise of
it, is entirely frivolous, and that neither man nor any other being ought
ever to be thought possest of any ability, unless it be exerted and put in
action. But though this be strictly true in a just and philosophical way
of thinking, it is certain it is not the philosophy of our passions; but
that many things operate upon them by means of the idea and supposition
of power, independent of its actual exercise. We are pleased when we
acquire an ability of procuring pleasure, and are displeased when another
acquires a power of giving pain. This is evident from experience; but in
order to give a just explication of the matter, and account for this
satisfaction and uneasiness, we must weigh the following reflections.

It is evident the error of distinguishing power from its exercise proceeds
not entirely from the scholastic doctrine of free-will, which, indeed,
enters very little into common life, and has but small influence on our
vulgar and popular ways of thinking. According to that doctrine, motives
deprive us not of free-will, nor take away our power of performing or
forbearing any action. But according to common notions a man has no
power, where very considerable motives lie betwixt him and the
satisfaction of his desires, and determine him to forbear what he wishes
to perform. I do not think I have fallen into my enemy's power, when I
see him pass me in the streets with a sword by his side, while I am
unprovided of any weapon. I know that the fear of the civil magistrate is
as strong a restraint as any of iron, and that I am in as perfect safety
as if he were chained or imprisoned. But when a person acquires such an
authority over me, that not only there is no external obstacle to his
actions; but also that he may punish or reward me as he pleases, without
any dread of punishment in his turn, I then attribute a full power to
him, and consider myself as his subject or vassal.

Now if we compare these two cases, that of a person, who has very strong
motives of interest or safety to forbear any action, and that of another,
who lies under no such obligation, we shall find, according to the
philosophy explained in the foregoing book, that the only known
difference betwixt them lies in this, that in the former case we conclude
from past experience, that the person never will perform that action, and
in the latter, that he possibly or probably will perform it. Nothing is
more fluctuating and inconstant on many occasions, than the will of man;
nor is there any thing but strong motives, which can give us an absolute
certainty in pronouncing concerning any of his future actions. When we
see a person free from these motives, we suppose a possibility either of
his acting or forbearing; and though in general we may conclude him to be
determined by motives and causes, yet this removes not the uncertainty of
our judgment concerning these causes, nor the influence of that
uncertainty on the passions. Since therefore we ascribe a power of
performing an action to every one, who has no very powerful motive to
forbear it, and refuse it to such as have; it may justly be concluded,
that power has always a reference to its exercise, either actual or
probable, and that we consider a person as endowed with any ability when
we find from past experience, that it is probable, or at least possible he
may exert it. And indeed, as our passions always regard the real
existence of objects, and we always judge of this reality from past
instances; nothing can be more likely of itself, without any farther
reasoning, than that power consists in the possibility or probability of
any action, as discovered by experience and the practice of the world.

Now it is evident, that wherever a person is in such a situadon with
regard to me, that there is no very powerful motive to deter him from
injuring me, and consequently it is uncertain whether he will injure me or
not, I must be uneasy in such a situation, and cannot consider the
possibility or probability of that injury without a sensible concern. The
passions are not only affected by such events as are certain and
infallible, but also in an inferior degree by such as are possible and
contingent. And though perhaps I never really feel any harm, and discover
by the event, that, philosophically speaking, the person never had any
power of harming me; since he did not exert any; this prevents not my
uneasiness from the preceding uncertainty. The agreeable passions may
here operate as well as the uneasy, and convey a pleasure when I perceive
a good to become either possible or probable by the possibility or
probability of another's bestowing it on me, upon the removal of any
strong motives, which might formerly have hindered him.

But we may farther observe, that this satisfaction encreases, when any
good approaches in such a manner that it it in one's own power to take or
leave it, and there neither is any physical impediment, nor any very
strong motive to hinder our enjoyment. As all men desire pleasure,
nothing can be more probable, than its existence when there is no
external obstacle to the producing it, and men perceive no danger in
following their inclinations. In that case their imagination easily
anticipates the satisfaction, and conveys the same joy, as if they were
persuaded of its real and actual existence.

But this accounts not sufficiently for the satisfaction, which attends
riches. A miser receives delight from his money; that is, from the power
it affords him of procuring all the pleasures and conveniences of life,
though he knows he has enjoyed his riches for forty years without ever
employing them; and consequently cannot conclude by any species of
reasoning, that the real existence of these pleasures is nearer, than if
he were entirely deprived of all his possessions. But though he cannot
form any such conclusion in a way of reasoning concerning she nearer
approach of the pleasure, it is certain he imagines it to approach nearer,
whenever all external obstacles are removed, along with the more powerful
motives of interest and danger, which oppose it. For farther satisfaction
on this head I must refer to my account of the will, where I shall
[Part III. Sect. 2.] explain that false sensation of liberty, which make,
us imagine we can perform any thing, that is not very dangerous or
destructive. Whenever any other person is under no strong obligations of
interest to forbear any pleasure, we judge from experience, that the
pleasure will exist, and that he will probably obtain it. But when
ourselves are in that situation, we judge from an illusion of the fancy,
that the pleasure is still closer and more immediate. The will seems to
move easily every way, and casts a shadow or image of itself, even to that
side, on which it did not settle. By means of this image the enjoyment
seems to approach nearer to us, and gives us the same lively satisfaction,
as if it were perfectly certain and unavoidable.

It will now be easy to draw this whole reasoning to a paint, and to prove,
that when riches produce any pride or vanity in their possessors, as they
never fail so do, it is only by means of a double relation of impressions
and ideas. The very essence of riches consists in the power of procuring
the pleasures and conveniences of life. The very essence of this consists
in the probability of its exercise, and in its causing us to anticipate,
by a true or false reasoning, the real existence of the pleasure. This
anticipation of pleasure is, in itself, a very considerable pleasure; and
as its cause is some possession or property, which we enjoy, and which is
thereby related to us, we here dearly see all the parts of the foregoing
system most exactly and distinctly drawn out before us. For the same
reason, that riches cause pleasure and pride, and poverty excites
uneasiness and humility, power must produce the former emotions, and
slavery the latter. Power or an authority over others makes us capable of
satisfying all our desires; as slavery, by subjecting us to the will of
others, exposes us to a thousand wants, and mortifications.

It is here worth observing, that the vanity of power, or shame of slavery,
are much augmented by the consideration of the persons, over whom we
exercise our authority, or who exercise it over us. For supposing it
possible to frame statues of such an admirable mechanism, that they coued
move and act in obedience to the will; it is evident the possession of
them would give pleasure and pride, but not to such a degree, as the same
authority, when exerted over sensible and rational creatures, whose
condition, being compared to our own, makes it seem more agreeable and
honourable. Comparison is in every case a sure method of augmenting our
esteem of any thing. A rich man feels the felicity of his condition
better by opposing it to that of a beggar. But there is a peculiar
advantage in power, by the contrast, which is, in a manner, presented to
us, betwixt ourselves and the person we command. The comparison is
obvious and natural: The imagination finds it in the very subject: The
passage of the thought to its conception is smooth and easy. And that
this circumstance has a considerable effect in augmenting its influence,
will appear afterwards in examining the nature of malice and envy.



SECT. XI  OF THE LOVE OF FAME


But beside these original causes of pride and humility, there is a
secondary one in the opinions of others, which has an equal influence on
the affections. Our reputation, our character, our name are
considerations of vast weight and importance; and even the other causes
of pride; virtue, beauty and riches; have little influence, when not
seconded by the opinions and sentiments of others. In order to account
for this phaenomenon it will be necessary to take some compass, and first
explain the nature of sympathy.

No quality of human nature is more remarkable, both in itself and in its
consequences, than that propensity we have to sympathize with others, and
to receive by communication their inclinations and sentiments, however
different from, or even contrary to our own. This is not only conspicuous
in children, who implicitly embrace every opinion proposed to them; but
also in men of the greatest judgment and understanding, who find it very
difficult to follow their own reason or inclination, in opposition to
that of their friends and daily companions. To this principle we ought to
ascribe the great uniformity we may observe in the humours and turn of
thinking of those of the same nation; and it is much more probable, that
this resemblance arises from sympathy, than from any influence of the
soil and climate, which, though they continue invariably the same, are not
able to preserve the character of a nation the same for a century
together. A good-natured man finds himself in an instant of the same
humour with his company; and even the proudest and most surly take a
tincture from their countrymen and acquaintance. A chearful countenance
infuses a sensible complacency and serenity into my mind; as an angry or
sorrowful one throws a sudden dump upon me. Hatred, resentment, esteem,
love, courage, mirth and melancholy; all these passions I feel more from
communication than from my own natural temper and disposition. So
remarkable a phaenomenon merits our attention, and must be traced up to
its first principles.

When any affection is infused by sympathy, it is at first known only by
its effects, and by those external signs in the countenance and
conversation, which convey an idea of it. This idea is presently
converted into an impression, and acquires such a degree of force and
vivacity, as to become the very passion itself, and produce an equal
emotion, as any original affection. However instantaneous this change of
the idea into an impression may be, it proceeds from certain views and
reflections, which will not escape the strict scrutiny of a. philosopher,
though they may the person himself, who makes them.

It is evident, that the idea, or rather impression of ourselves is always
intimately present with us, and that our consciousness gives us so lively
a conception of our own person, that it is not possible to imagine, that
any thing can in this particular go beyond it. Whatever object,
therefore, is related to ourselves must be conceived with a little
vivacity of conception, according to the foregoing principles; and though
this relation should not be so strong as that of causation, it must still
have a considerable influence. Resemblance and contiguity are relations
not to be neglected; especially when by an inference from cause and
effect, and by the observation of external signs, we are informed of the
real existence of the object, which is resembling or contiguous.

Now it is obvious, that nature has preserved a great resemblance among all
human creatures, and that we never remark any passion or principle in
others, of which, in some degree or other, we may not find a parallel in
ourselves. The case is the same with the fabric of the mind, as with that
of the body. However the parts may differ in shape or size, their
structure and composition are in general the same. There is a very
remarkable resemblance, which preserves itself amidst all their variety;
and this resemblance must very much contribute to make us enter into the
sentiments of others; and embrace them with facility and pleasure.
Accordingly we find, that where, beside the general resemblance of our
natures, there is any peculiar similarity in our manners, or character,
or country, or language, it facilitates the sympathy. The stronger the
relation is betwixt ourselves and any object, the more easily does the
imagination make the transition, and convey to the related idea the
vivacity of conception, with which we always form the idea of our own
person.

Nor is resemblance the only relation, which has this effect, but receives
new force from other relations, that may accompany it. The sentiments of
others have little influence, when far removed from us, and require the
relation of contiguity, to make them communicate themselves entirely. The
relations of blood, being a species of causation, may sometimes
contribute to the same effect; as also acquaintance, which operates in
the same manner with education and custom; as we shall see more fully
[Part II. Sect. 4.] afterwards. All these relations, when united together,
convey the impression or consciousness of our own person to the idea of
the sentiments or passions of others, and makes us conceive them in the
strongest and most lively manner.

It has been remarked in the beginning of this treatise, that all ideas
are borrowed from impressions, and that these two kinds of perceptions
differ only in the degrees of force and vivacity, with which they strike
upon the soul. The component part. of ideas and impressions are precisely
alike. The manner and order of their appearance may be the same. The
different degrees of their force and vivacity are, therefore, the only
particulars, that distinguish them: And as this difference may be
removed, in some measure, by a relation betwixt the impressions and
ideas, it is no wonder an idea of a sentiment or passion, may by this
means be inlivened as to become the very sentiment or passion. The lively
idea of any object always approaches is impression; and it is certain we
may feel sickness and pain from the mere force of imagination, and make a
malady real by often thinking of it. But this is most remarkable in the
opinions and affections; and it is there principally that a lively idea is
converted into an impression. Our affections depend more upon ourselves,
and the internal operations of the mind, than any other impressions; for
which reason they arise more naturally from the imagination, and from
every lively idea we form of them. This is the nature and cause of
sympathy; and it is after this manner we enter so deep into the opinions
and affections of others, whenever we discover them.

What is principally remarkable in this whole affair is the strong
confirmation these phaenomena give to the foregoing system concerning the
understanding, and consequently to the present one concerning the
passions; since these are analogous to each other. It is indeed evident,
that when we sympathize with the passions and sentiments of others, these
movements appear at first in our mind as mere ideas, and are conceived to
belong to another person, as we conceive any other matter of fact. It is
also evident, that the ideas of the affections of others are converted
into the very impressions they represent, and that the passions arise in
conformity to the images we form of them. All this is an object of the
plainest experience, and depends not on any hypothesis of philosophy.
That science can only be admitted to explain the phaenomena; though at the
same time it must be confest, they are so clear of themselves, that there
is but little occasion to employ it. For besides the relation of cause
and effect, by which we are convinced of the reality of the passion, with
which we sympathize; besides this, I say, we must be assisted by the
relations of resemblance and contiguity, in order to feel the sympathy in
its full perfection. And since these relations can entirely convert an
idea into an impression, and convey the vivacity of the latter into the
former, so perfectly as to lose nothing of it in the transition, we may
easily conceive how the relation of cause and effect alone, may serve to
strengthen and inliven an idea. In sympathy there is an evident
conversion of an idea into an impression. This conversion arises from the
relation of objects to ourself. Ourself is always intimately present to
us. Let us compare all these circumstances, and we shall find, that
sympathy is exactly correspondent to the operations of our understanding;
and even contains something more surprizing and extraordinary.

It is now time to turn our view from the general consideration of
sympathy, to its influence on pride and humility, when these passions
arise from praise and blame, from reputation and infamy. We may observe,
that no person is ever praised by another for any quality, which would
not, if real, produce, of itself, a pride in the person possest of it.
The elogiums either turn upon his power, or riches, or family, or virtue;
all of which are subjects of vanity, that we have already explained and
accounted for. It is certain, then, that if a person considered himself in
the same light, in which he appears to his admirer, he would first
receive a separate pleasure, and afterwards a pride or self-satisfaction,
according to the hypothesis above explained. Now nothing is more natural
than for us to embrace the opinions of others in this particular; both
from sympathy, which renders all their sentiments intimately present to
us; and from reasoning, which makes us regard their judgment, as a kind
of argument for what they affirm. These two principles of authority and
sympathy influence almost all our opinions; but must have a peculiar
influence, when we judge of our own worth and character. Such judgments
are always attended with passion [Book I, Part III. Sect. 10.]; and
nothing tends more to disturb our understanding, and precipitate us into
any opinions, however unreasonable, than their connexion with passion;
which diffuses itself over the imagination, and gives an additional force
to every related idea. To which we may add, that being conscious of great
partiality in our own favour, we are peculiarly pleased with any thing,
that confirms the good opinion we have of ourselves, and are easily
shocked with whatever opposes it.

All this appears very probable in theory; but in order to bestow a full
certainty on this reasoning, we must examine the phaenonena of the
passions, and see if they agree with it,

Among these phaenomena we may esteem it a very favourable one to our
present purposes that though fame in general be agreeable, yet we receive
a much greater satisfaction from the approbation of those, whom we
ourselves esteem and approve of, than of those, whom we hate and despise.
In like measure we are principally mortifyed with the contempt of
persons, upon whose judgment we set some value, and are, in a peat
measure, indifferent about the opinions of the rest of mankind. But if
the mind received from any original instinct a desire of fame and
aversion to infamy, fame and infamy would influence us without
distinction; and every opinion, according as it were favourabk or
unfavourable, would equally excite that desire or aversion. The judgment
of a fool is the judgment of another person, as well as that of a wise
man, and is only inferior in its influence on our own judgment.

We are not only better pleased with the approbation of a wise man than
with that of a fool, but receive an additional satisfaction from the
former, when it is obtained after a long and intimate acquaintance. This
is accounted for after the same manner.

The praises of others never give us much pleasure, unless they concur
with our own opinion, and extol us for those qualities, in which we
chiefly excel. A mere soldier little values the character of eloquence: A
gownman of courage: A bishop of humour: Or a merchant of learning.
Whatever esteem a man may have for any quality, abstractedly considered;
when he is conscious he is not possest of it; the opinions of the whole
world will give him little pleasure in that particular, and that because
they never will be able to draw his own opinion after them.

Nothing is more usual than for men of good families, but narrow
circumstances, to leave their friends and country, and rather seek their
livelihood by mean and mechanical employments among strangers, than among
those, who are acquainted with their birth and education. We shall be
unknown, say they, where we go. No body will suspect from what family we
are sprung. We shall be removed from all our friends and acquaintance,
and our poverty and meanness will by that means sit more easy upon us. In
examining these sentiments, I find they afford many very convincing
arguments for my present purpose.

First, We may infer from them, that the uneasiness of being contemned
depends on sympathy, and that sympathy depends on the relation of objects
to ourselves; since we are most uneasy under the contempt of persons, who
are both related to us by blood, and contiguous in place. Hence we-seek
to diminish this sympathy and uneasiness by separating these relations,
and placing ourselves in a contiguity to strangers, and at a distance
from relations.

Secondly, We may conclude, that relations are requisite to sympathy, not
absolutely considered as relations, but by their influence in converting
our ideas of the sentiments of others into the very sentiments, by means
of the association betwixt the idea of their persons, and that of our
own. For here the relations of kindred and contiguity both subsist; but
not being united in the same persons, they contribute in a less degree to
the sympathy.

Thirdly, This very circumstance of the diminution of sympathy by the
separation of relations is worthy of our attention. Suppose I am placed
in a poor condition among strangers, and consequently am but lightly
treated; I yet find myself easier in that situation, than when I was
every day exposed to the contempt of my kindred and countrymen. Here I
feel a double contempt; from my relations, but they are absent; from
those about me, but they are strangers. This double contempt is likewise
strengthened by the two relations of kindred and contiguity. But as the
persons are not the same, who are connected with me by those two
relations, this difference of ideas separates the impressions arising
from the contempt, and keeps them from running into each other. The
contempt of my neighbours has a certain influence; as has also that of my
kindred: But these influences are distinct, and never unite; as when the
contempt proceeds from persons who are at once both my neighbours and
kindred. This phaenomenon is analogous to the system of pride and
humility above-explained, which may seem so extraordinary to vulgar
apprehensions.

Fourthly, A person in these circumstances naturally conceals his birth
from those among whom he lives, and is very uneasy, if any one suspects
him to be of a family, much superior to his present fortune and way of
living. Every thing in this world is judged of by comparison. What is an
immense fortune for a private gentleman is beggary for a prince. A
peasant would think himself happy in what cannot afford necessaries for a
gentleman. When a man has either been acustomed to a more splendid way of
living, or thinks himself intitled to it by his birth and quality, every
thing below is disagreeable and even shameful; and it is with she greatest
industry he conceals his pretensions to a better fortune. Here he himself
knows his misfortunes; but as those, with whom he lives. are ignorant of
them, he has the disagreeable reflection and comparison suggested only by
his own thoughts, and never receives it by a sympathy with others; which
must contribute very much so his ease and satisfaction.

If there be any objections to this hypothesis, THAT THE PLEASURE, WHICH
WE RECEIVE FROM PRAISE, ARISES FROM A COMMUNICATION OF SENTIMENTS, we
shall find, uponexamination, that these objections, when taken in a
properlight, will serve to confirm it. Popular fame may be agreeable even
to a man, who despises the vulgar; but it is because their multitude gives
them additional weight and authority. Plagiaries are delighted with
praises, which they are conscious they do not deserve; but this is a kind
of castle-building, where the imagination amuses itself with its own
fictions, and strives to render them firm and stable by a sympathy with
the sentiments of others. Proud men are most shocked with contempt, should
they do not most readily assent to it; but it is because of the opposition
betwixt the passion, which is natural so them, and that received by
sympathy. A violent lover in like manner is very much disp pleased when
you blame and condemn his love; though it is evident your opposition can
have no influence, but by the hold it takes of himself, and by his
sympathy with you. If he despises you, or perceives you are in jest,
whatever you say has no effect upon him.



SECT. XII  OF THE PRIDE AND HUMILITY OF ANIMALS


Thus in whatever light we consider this subject, we may still observe,
that die causes of pride and humility correspond exactly to our
hypothesis, and that nothing can excite either of these passions, unless
it be both related to ourselves, and produces a pleasure or pain
independent of the passion. We have not only proved, that a tendency to
produce pleasure or pain is common to all the causes of pride or
humility, but also that it is the only thing, which is common; and
consequently is the quality, by which they operate. We have farther
proved, that the most considerable causes of these passions are really
nothing but the power of producing either agreeable or uneasy sensations;
and therefore that all their effects, and amongst the rest, pride and
humility, are derived solely from that origin. Such simple and natural
principles, founded on such solid proofs, cannot fail to be received by
philosophers, unless opposed by some objections, that have escaped me.

It is usual with anatomists to join their observations and experiments on
human bodies to those on beasts, and from the agreement of these
experiments to derive an additional argument for any particular
hypothesis. It is indeed certain, that where the structure of parts in
brutes is the same as in men, and the operation of these parts also the
same, the causes of that operation cannot be different, and that whatever
we discover to be true of the one species, may be concluded without
hesitation to be certain of the other. Thus though the mixture of humours
and the composition of minute parts may justly be presumed so be somewhat
different in men from what it is in mere animals; and therefore any
experiment we make upon the one concerning the effects of medicines will
not always apply to the other; yet as the structure of the veins and
muscles, the fabric and situation of the heart, of the lungs, the
stomach, the liver and other parts, are the same or nearly the same in
all animals, the very same hypothesis, which in one species explains
muscular motion, the progress of the chyle, the circulation of the blood,
must be applicable to every one; and according as it agrees or disagrees
with the experiments we may make in any species of creatures, we may draw
a proof of its truth or falshood on the whole. Let us, therefore, apply
this method of enquiry, which is found so just and useful in reasonings
concerning the body, to our present anatomy of the mind, and see what
discoveries we can make by it.

In order to this we must first shew the correspondence of passions in men
and animals, and afterwards compare the causes, which produce these
passions.

It is plain, that almost in every species of creatures, but especially of
the nobler kind, there are many evident marks of pride and humility. The
very port and gait of a swan, or turkey, or peacock show the high idea he
has entertained of himself, and his contempt of all others. This is the
more remarkable, that in the two last species of animals, the pride
always attends the beauty, and is discovered in the male only. The vanity
and emulation of nightingales in singing have been commonly remarked; as
likewise that of horses in swiftness, of hounds in sagacity and smell, of
the bull and cock in strength, and of every other animal in his
particular excellency. Add to this, that every species of creatures,
which approach so often to man, as to familiarize themselves with him,
show an evident pride in his approbation, and are pleased with his
praises and caresses, independent of every other consideration. Nor are
they the caresses of every one without distinction, which give them this
vanity, but those principally of the persons they know and love; in the
same manner as that passion is excited in mankind. All these are evident
proofs, that pride and humility are not merely human passions, but extend
themselves over the whole animal creation.

The CAUSES of these passions are likewise much the same in beasts as in
us, making a just allowance for our superior knowledge and understanding.
Thus animals have little or no sense of virtue or vice; they quickly lose
sight of the relations of blood; and are incapable of that of right and
property: For which reason the causes of their pride and humility must
lie solely in the body, and can never be placed either in the mind or
external objects. But so far as regards the body, the same qualities
cause pride in the animal as in the human kind; and it is on beauty,
strength, swiftness or some other useful or agreeable quality that this
passion is always founded.

The next question is, whether, since those passions are the same, and
arise from the same causes through the whole creation, the manner, in
which the causes operate, be also the same. According to all rules of
analogy, this is justly to be expected; and if we find upon trial, that
the explication of these phaenomena, which we make use of in one species,
will not apply to the rest, we may presume that that explication, however
specious, is in reality without foundation.

In order to decide this question, let us consider, that there is
evidently the same relation of ideas, and derived from the same causes,
in the minds of animals as in those of men. A dog, that has hid a bone,
often forgets the place; but when brought to it, his thought passes
easily to what he formerly concealed, by means of the contiguity, which
produces a relation among his ideas. In like manner, when he has been
heartily beat in any place, he will tremble on his approach to it, even
though he discover no signs of any present danger. The effects of
resemblance are not so remarkable; but as that relation makes a
considerable ingredient in causation, of which all animals shew so
evident a judgment, we may conclude that the three relations of
resemblance, contiguity and causation operate in the same manner upon
beasts as upon human creatures.

There are also instances of the relation of impressions, sufficient to
convince us, that there is an union of certain affections with each other
in the inferior species of creatures as well as in the superior, and that
their minds are frequently conveyed through a series of connected
emotions. A dog, when elevated with joy, runs naturally into love and
kindness, whether of his master or of the sex. In like manner, when full
of pain and sorrow, he becomes quarrelsome and illnatured; and that
passion; which at first was grief, is by the smallest occasion converted
into anger.

Thus all the internal principles, that are necessary in us to produce
either pride or humility, are commcm to all creaturn; and since the
causes, which excite these passions, are likewise the same, we may justly
conclude, that these causes operate after the same manner through the
whole animal creation. My hypothesis Is so simple, and supposes so little
reflection and judgment, that it is applicable to every sensible creature;
which must not only be allowed to be a convincing proof of its veracity,
but, I am confident, will be found an objection to every other system.




PART II  OF LOVE AND HATRED



SECT. I  OF THE OBJECT AND CAUSES OF LOVE AND HATRED


It is altogether impossible to give any definition of the passions of love
and hatred; and that because they produce merely a simple impression,
without any mixture or composition. Twould be as unnecessary to attempt
any description of them, drawn from their nature, origin, causes and
objects; and that both because these are the subjects of our present
enquiry, and because these passions of themselves are sufficiently known
from our common feeling and experience. This we have already observed
concerning pride and humility, and here repeat it concerning love and
hatred; and indeed there is so great a resemblance betwixt these two sets
of passions, that we shall be obliged to begin with a kind of abridgment
of our reasonings concerning the former, in order to explain the latter.

As the immediate object of pride and humility is self or that identical
person, of whose thoughts, actions, and sensations we are intimately
conscious; so the object of love and hatred is some other person, of
whose thoughts, actions, and sensations we are not conscious. This is
sufficiently evident from experience. Our love and hatred are always
directed to some sensible being external to us; and when we talk of
self-love, it is not in a proper sense, nor has the sensation it produces
any thing in common with that tender emotion which is excited by a friend
or mistress. It is the same case with hatred. We may be mortified by our
own faults and follies; but never feel any anger or hatred. except from
the injuries of others.

But though the object of love and hatred be always some other person, it
is plain that the object is not, properly speaking, the cause of these
passions, or alone sufficient to excite them. For since love and hatred
are directly contrary in their sensation, and have the same object in
common, if that object were also their cause, it would produce these
opposite passions in an equal degree; and as they must, from the very
first moment, destroy each other, none of them would ever be able to make
its appearance. There must, therefore, be some cause different from the
object.

If we consider the causes of love and hatred, we shall find they are very
much diversifyed, and have not many things in common. The virtue,
knowledge, wit, good sense, good humour of any person, produce love and
esteem; as the opposite qualities, hatred and contempt. The same passions
arise from bodily accomplishments, such as beauty, force, swiftness,
dexterity; and from their contraries; as likewise from the external
advantages and disadvantages of family, possession, cloaths, nation and
climate. There is not one of these objects, but what by its different
qualities may produce love and esteem, or hatred and contempt

From the view of these causes we may derive a new distinction betwixt the
quality that operates, and the subject on which it is placed. A prince,
that is possessed of a stately palace, commands the esteem of the people
upon that account; and that first, by the beauty of the palace, and
secondly, by the relation of property, which connects it with him. The
removal of either of these destroys the passion; which evidently proves
that the cause Is a compounded one.

Twould be tedious to trace the passions of love and hatred, through all
the observations which we have formed concerning pride and humility, and
which are equally applicable to both sets of passions. Twill be
sufficient to remark in general, that the object of love and hatred is
evidently some thinking person; and that the sensation of the former
passion is always agreeable, and of the latter uneasy. We may also
suppose with some shew of probability, THAT THE CAUSE OF BOTH THESE
PASSIONS IS ALWAYS RELATED TO A THINKING BEING, AND THAT THE CAUSE OF THE
FORMER PRODUCE A SEPARATE PLEASURE, AND OF THE LATTER A SEPARATE
UNEASINESS.

One of these suppositions, viz, that the cause of love and hatred must be
related to a person or thinking being, in order to produce these
passions, is not only probable, but too evident to be contested. Virtue
and vice, when considered in the abstract; beauty and deformity, when
placed on inanimate objects; poverty and riches when belonging to a third
person, excite no degree of love or hatred, esteem or contempt towards
those, who have no relation to them. A person looking out at a window,
sees me in the street, and beyond me a beautiful palace, with which I
have no concern: I believe none will pretend, that this person will pay
me the same respect, as if I were owner of the palace.

It is not so evident at first sight, that a relation of impressions is
requisite to these passions, and that because in the transition the one
impression is so much confounded with the other, that they become in a
manner undistinguishable. But as in pride and humility, we have easily
been able to make the separation, and to prove, that every cause of these
passions, produces a separate pain or pleasure, I might here observe the
same method with the same success, in examining particularly the several
causes of love and hatred. But as I hasten a full and decisive proof of
these systems, I delay this examination for a moment: And in the mean
time shall endeavour to convert to my present purpose all my reaaonings
concerning pride and humility, by an argument that isfounded on
unquestionable ex

There are few persons, that are satisfyed with their own character, or
genius, or fortune, who are nor desirous of shewing themselves to the
world, and of acquiring the love and approbation of mankind. Now it is
evident, that the very same qualities and circumstances, which are the
causes of pride or self-esteem, are also the causes of vanity or the
desire of reputation; and that we always put to view those particulars
with which in ourselves we are best satisfyed. But if love and esteem
were not produced by the same qualities as pride, according as these
qualities are related to ourselves or others, this method of proceeding
would be very absurd, nor coued men expect a correspondence in the
sentiments of every other person, with those themselves have entertained.
It is true, few can form exact systems of the passions, or make
reflections on their general nature and resemblances. But without such a
progress in philosophy, we are not subject to many mistakes in this
particular, but are sufficiently guided by common experience, as well as
by a kind of presentation; which tells us what will operate on others, by
what we feel immediately in ourselves. Since then the same qualities that
produce pride or humility, cause love or hatred; all the arguments that
have been employed to prove, that the causes of the former passions
excite a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will be applicable
with equal evidence to the causes of the latter.



SECT. II  EXPERIMENTS TO CONFIRM THIS SYSTEM


Upon duly weighing these arguments, no one will make any scruple to
assent to that condusion I draw from them, concerning the transition
along related impressions and ideas, especially as it is a principle, in
itself, so easy and natural. But that we may place this system beyond
doubt both with regard to love and hatred, pride and humility, it will be
proper to make some new experiments upon all these passions, as well as
to recal a few of these observations, which I have formerly touched upon.

In order to make these experiments, let us suppose I am m company with a
person, whom I formerly regarded without any sentiments either of
friendship or enmity. Here I have the natural and ultimate object of all
these four pas sions placed before me. Myself am the proper object of
pride or humility; the other person of love or hatred.

Regard now with attention the nature of these passions, and their
situation with respect to each other. It is evident here are four
affections, placed, as it were, in a square or regular connexion with,
and distance from each other. The passions of pride and humility, as well
as those of love and hatred, are connected together by the identity of
their object, which to the first set of passions is self, to the second
some other person. These two lines of communication or connexion form two
opposite sides of the square. Again, pride and love are agreeable
passions; hatred and humility uneasy. This similitude of sensation
betwixt pride and love, and that betwixt humility and hatred form a new
connexion, and may be considered as the other two sides of the square.
Upon the whole, pride is connected with humility, love with hatred, by
their objects or ideas: Pride with love, humility with hatred, by their
sensations or impressions.

I say then, that nothing can produce any of these passions without
bearing it a double relation, viz, of ideas to the object of the passion,
and of sensation to the passion itself. This we must prove by our
experiments. First Experiment. To proceed with the greater order in these
experiments, let us first suppose, that being placed in the situation
above-mentioned, viz, in company with some other person, there is an
object presented, that has no relation either of impressions or ideas to
any of these passions. Thus suppose we regard together an ordinary stone,
or other common object, belonging to neither of us, and causing of itself
no emotion, or independent pain and pleasure: It is evident such an object
will produce none of these four passions. Let us try it upon each of them
successively. Let us apply it to love, to hatred, to humility, to pride;
none of them ever arises in the smallest degree imaginable. Let us change
the object, as oft as we please; provided still we choose one, that has
neither of these two relations. Let us repeat the experiment in all the
dispositions, of which the mind is susceptible. No object, in the vast
variety of nature, will, in any disposition, produce any passion without
these relations.

Second Experiment. Since an object, that wants both these relations can
never produce any passion, let us bestow on it only one of these
relations; and see what will follow. Thus suppose, I regard a stone or
any common object, that belongs either to me or my companion, and by that
means acquires a relation of ideas to the object of the passions: It is
plain, that to consider the matter a priori, no emotion of any kind can
reasonably be expected. For besides, that a relation of ideas operates
secretly and calmly on the mind, it bestows an equal impulse towards the
opposite passions of pride and humility, love and hatred, according as
the object belongs to ourselves or others; which opposition of the
passions must destroy both, and leave the mind perfectly free from any
affection or emotion. This reasoning a priori is confirmed by experience.
No trivial or vulgar object, that causes not a pain or pleasure,
independent of the passion, will ever, by its property or other relations
either to ourselves or others, be able to produce the affections of pride
or humility, love or hatred.

Third Experiment. It is evident, therefore, that a relation of ideas is
not able alone to give rise to these affections. Let us now remove this
relation, and in its stead place a relation of impressions, by presenting
an object, which is agreeable or disagreeable, but has no relation either
to ourself or companion; and let us observe the consequences. To consider
the matter first a priori, as in the preceding experiment; we may
conclude, that the object will have a small, but an uncertain connexion
with these passions. For besides, that this relation is not a cold and
imperceptible one, it has not the inconvenience of the relation of ideas,
nor directs us with equal force to two contrary passions, which by their
opposition destroy each other. But if we consider, on the other hand,
that this transition from the sensation to the affection is not forwarded
by any principle, that produces a transition of ideas; but, on the
contrary, that though the one impression be easily transfused into the
other, yet the change of objects is supposed contrary to all the
principles, that cause a transition of that kind; we may from thence
infer, that nothing will ever be a steady or durable cause of any
passion, that is connected with the passion merely by a relation of
impressions. What our reason would conclude from analogy, after balancing
these arguments, would be, that an object, which produces pleasure or
uneasiness, but has no manner of connexion either with ourselves or
others, may give such a turn to the disposition, as that may naturally
fall into pride or love, humility or hatred, and search for other
objects, upon which by a double relation, it can found these affections;
but that an object, which has only one of these relations, though the most
advantageous one, can never give rise to any constant and established
passion.

Most fortunately all this reasoning is found to be exactly conformable to
experience, and the phaenomena of the passions. Suppose I were
travelling with a companion through a country, 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
with myself and fellow-traveller. But as we suppose, that this country
has no relation either to myself or friend. it can never be the immediate
cause of pride or love; and therefore if I found not the passion on some
other object, that bears either of us a closer relation, my emotions are
rather to be considerd as the overflowings of an elevate or humane
disposition, than as an established passion. The case is the same where
the object produces uneasiness.

Fourth Experiment. Having found, that neither an object without any
relation of ideas or impressions, nor an object, that has only one
relation, can ever cause pride or humility, love or hatred; reason alone
may convince us, without any farther experiment, that whatever has a
double relation must necessarily excite these passions; since it is
evident they must have some cause. But to leave as little room for doubt
as possible, let us renew our experiments, and see whether the event in
this case answers our expectation. I choose an object, such as virtue,
that causes a separate satisfaction: On this object I bestow a relation
to self; and find, that from this disposition of affairs, there
immediately arises a passion. But what passion? That very one of pride,
to which this object bears a double relation. Its idea is related to that
of self, the object of the passion: The sensation it causes resembles the
sensation of the passion. That I may be sure I am not mistaken in this
experiment, I remove first one relation; then another; and find, that
each removal destroys the passion, and leaves the object perfectly
indifferent. But I am not content with this. I make a still farther
trial; and instead of removing the relation, I only change it for one of
a different kind. I suppose the virtue to belong to my companion, not to
myself; and observe what follows from this alteration. I immediately
perceive the affections wheel to about, and leaving pride, where there is
only one relation, viz, of impressions, fall to the side of love, where
they are attracted by a double relation of impressions and ideas. By
repeating the same experiment, in changing anew the relation of ideas, I
bring the affections back to pride; and by a new repetition I again place
them at love or kindness. Being fully convinced of the influence of this
relation, I try the effects of the other; and by changing virtue for
vice, convert the pleasant impression, which arises from the former, into
the disagreeable one, which proceeds from the latter. The effect still
answers expectation. Vice, when placed on another, excites, by means of
its double relations, the passion of hatred, instead of love, which for
the same reason arises from virtue. To continue the experiment, I change
anew the relation of ideas, and suppose the vice to belong to myself.
What follows? What is usual. A subsequent change of the passion from
hatred to humility. This humility I convert into pride by a new change of
the impression; and find after all that I have compleated the round, and
have by these changes brought back the passion to that very situation, in
which I first found it.

But to make the matter still more certain, I alter the object; and
instead of vice and virtue, make the trial upon beauty and deformity,
riches and poverty, power and servitude. Each of these objects runs the
circle of the passions in the same manner, by a change of their
relations: And in whatever order we proceed, whether through pride, love,
hatred, humility, or through humility, hatred, love, pride, the experiment
is not in the least diversifyed. Esteem and contempt, indeed, arise on
some occasions instead of love and hatred; but these are at the bottom
the same passions, only diversifyed by some causes, which we shall
explain afterwards.

Fifth Experiment. To give greater authority to these experiments, let us
change the situation of affairs as much as possible, and place the
passions and objects in all the different positions, of which they are
susceptible. Let us suppose, beside the relations above-mentioned, that
the person, along with whom I make all these experiments, is closely
connected with me either by blood or friendship. He is, we shall suppose,
my son or brother, or is united to me by a long and familiar
acquaintance. Let us next suppose, that the cause of the passion acquires
a double relation of impressions and ideas to this person; and let us see
what the effects are of all these complicated attractions and relations.

Before we consider what they are in fact, let us determine what they
ought to be, conformable to my hypothesis. It is plain, that, according as
the impression is either pleasant or uneasy, the passion of love or
hatred must arise towards the person, who is thus connected to the cause
of the impression by these double relations, which I have all along
required. The virtue of a brother must make me love him; as his vice or
infamy must excite the contrary passion. But to judge only from the
situation of affairs, I should not expect, that the affections would rest
there, and never transfuse themselves into any other impression. As there
is here a person, who by means of a double relation is the object of my
passion, the very same reasoning leads me to think the passion will be
carryed farther. The person has a relation of ideas to myself, according
to the supposition; the passion, of which he is the object, by being
either agreeable or uneasy, has a relation of impressions to pride or
humility. It is evident, then, that one of these passions must arise from
the love or hatred.

This is the reasoning I form in conformity to my hypothesis; and am
pleased to find upon trial that every thing answers exactly to my
expectation. The virtue or vice of a son or brother not only excites love
or hatred, but by a new transition, from similar causes, gives rise to
pride or humility. Nothing causes greater vanity than any shining quality
in our relations; as nothing mortifies us more than their vice or infamy.
This exact conformity of experience to our reasoning is a convincing
proof of the solidity of that hypothesis, upon which we reason.

Sixth Experiment. This evidence will be still augmented, if we reverse
the experiment, and preserving still the same relations, begin only with
a different passion. Suppose, that instead of the virtue or vice of a son
or brother, which causes first love or hatred, and afterwards pride or
humility, we place these good or bad qualities on ourselves, without any
immediate connexion with the person, who is related to us: Experience
shews us, that by this change of situation the whole chain is broke, and
that the mind is not conveyed from one passion to another, as in the
preceding instance. We never love or hate a son or brother for the virtue
or vice we discern in ourselves; though it is evident the same qualities
in him give us a very sensible pride or humility. The transition from
pride or humility to love or hatred is not so natural as from love or
hatred to pride or humility. This may at first sight be esteemed contrary
to my hypothesis; since the relations of impressions and ideas are in both
cases precisely the same. Pride and humility are impressions related to
love and hatred. Myself am related to the person. It should, therefore,
be expected, that like causes must produce like effects, and a perfect
transition arise from the double relation, as in all other cases. This
difficulty we may easily solve by the following reflections.

It is evident, that as we are at all times intimately conscious of
ourselves, our sentiments and passions, their ideas must strike upon us
with greater vivacity than the ideas of the sentiments and passions of
any other person. But every thing, that strikes upon us with vivacity,
and appears in a full and strong light, forces itself, in a manner, into
our consideration, and becomes present to the mind on the smallest hint
and most trivial relation. For the same reason, when it is once present,
it engages the attention, and keeps it from wandering to other objects,
however strong may be their relation to our first object. The imagination
passes easily from obscure to lively ideas, but with difficulty from
lively to obscure. In the one case the relation is aided by another
principle: In the other case, it is opposed by it.

Now I have observed, that those two faculties of the mind, the
imagination and passions, assist each other in their operations when
their propensities are similar, and when they act upon the same object.
The mind has always a propensity to pass from a passion to any other
related to it; and this propensity is forwarded when the object of the
one passion is related to that of the other. The two impulses concur with
each other, and render the whole transition more smooth and easy. But if
it should happen, that while the relation of ideas, strictly speaking,
continues the same, its influence, in causing a transition of the
imagination, should no longer take place, it is evident its influence on
the passions must also cease, as being dependent entirely on that
transition. This is the reason why pride or humility is not transfused
into love or hatred with the same ease, that the latter passions are
changed into the former. If a person be my brother I am his likewise: but
though the relations be reciprocal they have very different effects on the
imagination. The passage is smooth and open from the consideration of any
person related to us to that of ourself, of whom we are every moment
conscious. But when the affections are once directed to ourself. the
fancy passes not with the same facility from that object to any other
person, how closely so ever connected with us. This easy or difficult
transition of the imagination operates upon the passions, and facilitates
or retards their transition, which is a clear proof, that these two
faculties of the passions and imagination are connected together, and
that the relations of ideas have an influence upon the affections.
Besides innumerable experiments that prove this, we here find, that even
when the relation remains; if by any particular circumstance its usual
effect upon the fancy in producing an association or transition of ideas,
is prevented; its usual effect upon the passions, in conveying us from
one to another, is in like manner prevented.

Some may, perhaps, find a contradiction betwixt this phaenomenon and that
of sympathy, where the mind passes easily from the idea of ourselves to
that of any other object related to us. But this difficulty will vanish,
if we consider that in sympathy our own person is not the object of any
passion, nor is there any thing, that fixes our attention on ourselves;
as in the present case, where we are supposed to be actuated with pride
or humility. Ourself, independent of the perception of every other
object, is in reality nothing: For which reason we must turn our view to
external objects; and it is natural for us to consider with most attention
such as lie contiguous to us, or resemble us. But when self is the object
of a passion, it is not natural to quit the consideration of it, till the
passion be exhausted: in which case the double relations of impressions
and ideas can no longer operate.

Seventh Experiment. To put this whole reasoning to a farther trial, let
us make a new experiment; and as we have already seen the effects of
related passions and ideas, let us here suppose an identity of passions
along with a relation of ideas; and let us consider the effects of this
new situation. It is evident a transition of the passions from the one
object to the other is here in all reason to be expected; since the
relation of ideas is supposed still to continue, and identity of
impressions must produce a stronger connexion, than the most perfect
resemblance, that can be imagined. If a double relation, therefore, of
impressions and ideas is able to produce a transition from one to the
other, much more an identity of impressions with a relation of ideas.
Accordingly we find, that when we either love or hate any person, the
passions seldom continue within their first bounds; but extend themselves
towards all the contiguous objects, and comprehend the friends and
relations of him we love or hate. Nothing is more natural than to bear a
kindness to one brother on account of our friendship for another, without
any farther examination of his character. A quarrel with one person gives
us a hatred for the whole family, though entirely innocent of that, which
displeases us. Instances of this kind are every where to be met with.

There is only one difficulty in this experiment, which it will be
necessary to account for, before we proceed any farther. It is evident,
that though all passions pass easily from one object to another related to
it, yet this transition is made with greater facility, where the more
considerable object is first presented, and the lesser follows it, than
where this order is reversed, and the lesser takes the precedence. Thus
it is more natural for us to love the son upon account of the father, than
the father upon account of the son; the servant for the master, than the
master for the servant; the subject for the prince, than the prince for
the subject. In like manner we more readily contract a hatred against a
whole family, where our first quarrel is with the head of it, than where
we are displeased with a son, or servant, or some inferior member. In
short, our passions, like other objects, descend with greater facility
than they ascend.

That we may comprehend, wherein consists the difficulty of explaining
this phaenomenon, we must consider, that the very same reason, which
determines the imagination to pass from remote to contiguous objects,
with more facility than from contiguous to remote, causes it likewise to
change with more ease, the less for the greater, than the greater for the
less. Whatever has the greatest influence is most taken notice of; and
whatever is most taken notice of, presents itself most readily to the
imagination. We are more apt to over-look in any subject, what is
trivial, than what appears of considerable moment; but especially if the
latter takes the precedence, and first engages our attention. Thus if any
accident makes us consider the Satellites of JUPITER, our fancy is
naturally determined to form the idea of that planet; but if we first
reflect on the principal planet, it is more natural for us to overlook its
attendants. The mention of the provinces of any empire conveys our
thought to the seat of the empire; but the fancy returns not with the
same facility to the consideration of the provinces. The idea of the
servant makes us think of the master; that of the subject carries our
view to the prince. But the same relation has not an equal influence in
conveying us back again. And on this is founded that reproach of Cornelia
to her sons, that they ought to be ashamed she should be more known by
the title of the daughter of Scipio than by that of the mother of the
Gracchi. This was, in other words, exhorting them to render themselves as
illustrious and famous as their grandfather, otherwise the imagination of
the people, passing from her who was intermediate, and placed in an equal
relation to both, would always leave them, and denominate her by what was
more considerable and of greater moment. On the same principle is founded
that common custom of making wives bear the name of their husbands,
rather than husbands that of their wives; as also the ceremony of giving
the precedency to those, whom we honour and respect. We might find many
other instances to confirm this principle, were it not already
sufficiently evident.

Now since the fancy finds the same facility in passing from the lesser to
the greater, as from remote to contiguous, why does not this easy
transition of ideas assist the transition of passions in the former case,
as well as in the latter? The virtues of a friend or brother produce
first love, and then pride; because in that case the imagination passes
from remote to contiguous, according to its propensity. Our own virtues
produce not first pride, and then love to a friend or brother; because
the passage in that case would be from contiguous to remote, contrary to
its propensity. But the love or hatred of an inferior causes not readily
any passion to the superior, though that be the natural propensity of the
imagination: While the love or hatred of a superior, causes a passion to
the inferior, contrary to its propensity. In short, the same facility of
transition operates not in the same manner upon superior and inferior as
upon contiguous and remote. These two phaenomena appear contradictory,
and require some attention to be reconciled.

As the transition of ideas is here made contrary to the natural
propensity of the imagination, that faculty must be overpowered by some
stronger principle of another kind; and as there is nothing ever present
to the mind but impressions and ideas, this principle must necessarily
lie in the impressions. Now it has been observed, that impressions or
passions are connected only by their resemblance, and that where any two
passions place the mind in the same or in similar dispositions, it very
naturally passes from the one to the other: As on the contrary, a
repugnance in the dispositions produces a difficulty in the transition of
the passions. But it is observable, that this repugnance may arise from a
difference of degree as well as of kind; nor do we experience a greater
difficulty in passing suddenly from a small degree of love to a small
degree of hatred, than from a small to a great degree of either of these
affections. A man, when calm or only moderately agitated, is so
different, in every respect, from himself, when disturbed with a violent
passion, that no two persons can be more unlike; nor is it easy to pass
from the one extreme to the other, without a considerable interval
betwixt them.

The difficulty is not less, if it be not rather greater, in passing from
the strong passion to the weak, than in passing from the weak to the
strong, provided the one passion upon its appearance destroys the other,
and they do not both of them exist at once. But the case is entirely
altered, when the passions unite together, and actuate the mind at the
same time. A weak passion, when added to a strong, makes not so
considerable a change in the disposition, as a strong when added to a
weak; for which reason there is a closer connexion betwixt the great
degree and the small, than betwixt the small degree and the great.

The degree of any passion depends upon the nature of its object; and an
affection directed to a person, who is considerable in our eyes, fills
and possesses the mind much more than one, which has for its object a
person we esteem of less consequence. Here then the contradiction betwixt
the propensities of the imagination and passion displays itself. When we
turn our thought to a great and a small object, the imagination finds
more facility in passing from the small to the great, than from the great
to the small; but the affections find a greater difficulty: And as the
affections are a more powerful principle than the imagination, no wonder
they prevail over it, and draw the mind to their side. In spite of the
difficulty of passing from the idea of great to that of little, a passion
directed to the former, produces always a similar passion towards the
latter; when the great and little are related together. The idea of the
servant conveys our thought most readily to the master; but the hatred or
love of the master produces with greater facility anger or good-will to
the servant. The strongest passion in this case takes the precedence; and
the addition of the weaker making no considerable change on the
disposition, the passage is by that means rendered more easy and natural
betwixt them.

As in the foregoing experiment we found, that a relation of ideas, which,
by any particular circumstance, ceases to produce its usual effect of
facilitating the transition of ideas, ceases likewise to operate on the
passions; so in the present experiment we find the same property of the
impressions. Two different degrees of the same passion are surely related
together; but if the smaller be first present, it has little or no
tendency to introduce the greater; and that because the addition of the
great to the little, produces a more sensible alteration on the temper,
than the addition of the little to the great. These phaenomena, when duly
weighed, will be found convincing proofs of this hypothesis.

And these proofs will be confirmed, if we consider the manner in which
the mind here reconciles the contradiction, I have observed betwixt the
passions and the imagination. The fancy passes with more facility from
the less to the greater, than from the greater to the less: But on the
contrary a violent passion produces more easily a feeble, than that does
a violent. In this opposition the passion in the end prevails over the
imagination; but it is commonly by complying with it, and by seeking
another quality, which may counter-ballance that principle, from whence
the opposition arises. When we love the father or master of a family, we
little think of his children or servants. But when these are present with
us, or when it lies any ways in our power to serve them, the nearness and
contiguity in this case encreases their magnitude, or at least removes
that opposition, which the fancy makes to the transition of the
affections. If the imagination finds a difficulty in passing from greater
to less, it finds an equal facility in passing from remote to contiguous,
which brings the matter to an equality, and leaves the way open from the
one passion to the other.

Eighth Experiment. I have observed that the transition from love or
hatred to pride or humility, is more easy than from pride or humility to
love or hatred; and that the difficulty, which the imagination finds in
passing from contiguous to remote, is the cause why we scarce have any
instance of the latter transition of the affections. I must, however,
make one exception, viz, when the very cause of the pride and humility is
placed in some other person. For in that case the imagination is
necessitated to consider the person, nor can it possibly confine its view
to ourselves. Thus nothing more readily produces kindness and affection
to any person, than his approbation of our conduct and character: As on
the other hand, nothing inspires us with a stronger hatred, than his
blame or contempt. Here it is evident, that the original passion is pride
or humility, whose object is self; and that this passion is transfused
into love or hatred, whose object is some other person, notwithstanding
the rule I have already established, THAT THE IMAGINATION PASSES WITH
DIFFICULTY FROM CONTIGUOUS TO REMOTE. But the transition in this case is
not made merely on account of the relation betwixt ourselves and the
person; but because that very person is the real cause of our first
passion, and of consequence is intimately connected with it. It is his
approbation that produces pride; and disapprobation, humility. No wonder,
then, the imagination returns back again attended with the related
passions of love and hatred. This is not a contradiction, but an
exception to the rule; and an exception that arises from the same reason
with the rule itself.

Such an exception as this is, therefore, rather a confirmation of the
rule. And indeed, if we consider all the eight experiments I have
explained, we shall find that the same principle appears in all of them,
and that it is by means of a transition arising from a double relation of
impressions and ideas, pride and humility, love and hatred are produced.
An object without [First Experiment.] a relation, or [Second and Third
Experiments] with but one, never produces either of these passions; and it
is [Fourth Experiment.] found that the passion always varies in conformity
to the relation. Nay we may observe, that where the relation, by any
particular circumstance, has not its usual effect of producing a
transition either of [Sixth Experiment.] ideas or of impressions, it
ceases to operate upon the passions, and gives rise neither to pride nor
love, humility nor hatred. This rule we find still to hold good [Seventh
and Eighth Experiments.] even under the appearance of its contrary; and as
relation is frequently experienced to have no effect; which upon
examination is found to proceed from some particular circumstance, that
prevents the transition; so even in instances, where that circumstance,
though present, prevents not the transition, it is found to arise from
some other circumstance, which counter-balances it. Thus not only the
variations resolve themselves into the general principle, but even the
variations of these variations.



SECT. III  DIFFICULTIES SOLVED


After so many and such undeniable proofs drawn from daily experience and
observation, it may seem superfluous to enter into a particular
examination of all the causes of love and hatred. I shall, therefore,
employ the sequel of this part, First, In removing some difficulties,
concerning particular causes of these passions. Secondly, In examining
the compound affections, which arise from the mixture of love and hatred
with other emotions.

Nothing is more evident, than that any person acquires our kindness, or
is exposed to our ill-will, in proportion to the pleasure or uneasiness
we receive from him, and that the passions keep pace exactly with the
sensations in all their changes and variations. Whoever can find the
means either by his services, his beauty, or his flattery, to render
himself useful or agreeable to us, is sure of our affections: As on the
other hand, whoever harms or displeases us never fails to excite our
anger or hatred. When our own nation is at war with any other, we detest
them under the character of cruel, perfidious, unjust and violent: But
always esteem ourselves and allies equitable, moderate, and merciful. If
the general of our enemies be successful, it is with difficulty we allow
him the figure and character of a man. He is a sorcerer: He has a
communication with daemons; as is reported of OLIVER CROMWELL, and the
DUKE OF LUXEMBOURG: He is bloody-minded, and takes a pleasure in death
and destruction. But if the success be on our side, our commander has all
the opposite good qualities, and is a pattern of virtue, as well as of
courage and conduct. His treachery we call policy: His cruelty is an evil
inseparable from war. In short, every one of his faults we either
endeavour to extenuate, or dignify it with the name of that virtue, which
approaches it. It is evident the same method of thinking runs through
common life.

There are some, who add another condition, and require not only that the
pain and pleasure arise from the person, but likewise that it arise
knowingly, and with a particular design and intention. A man, who wounds
and harms us by accident, becomes not our enemy upon that account, nor do
we think ourselves bound by any ties of gratitude to one, who does us any
service after the same manner. By the intention we judge of the actions,
and according as that is good or bad, they become causes of love or
hatred.

But here we must make a distinction. If that quality in another, which
pleases or displeases, be constant and inherent in his person and
character, it will cause love or hatred independent of the intention: But
otherwise a knowledge and design is requisite, in order to give rise to
these passions. One that is disagreeable by his deformity or folly is the
object of our aversion, though nothing be more certain, than that he has
not the least intention of displeasing us by these qualities. But if the
uneasiness proceed not from a quality, but an action, which is produced
and annihilated in a moment, it is necessary, in order to produce some
relation, and connect this action sufficiently with the person. that it
be derived from a particular fore-thought and design. It is not enough,
that the action arise from the person, and have him for its immediate
cause and author. This relation alone is too feeble and inconstant to be
a foundation for these passions. It reaches not the sensible and thinking
part, and neither proceeds from any thing durable in him, nor leaves any
thing behind it; but passes in a moment, and is as if it had never been.
On the other hand, an intention shews certain qualities, which remaining
after the action is performed, connect it with the person, and facilitate
the transition of ideas from one to the other. We can never think of him
without reflecting on these qualities; unless repentance and a change of
life have produced an alteration in that respect: In which case the
passion is likewise altered. This therefore is one reason, why an
intention is requisite to excite either love or hatred.

But we must farther consider, that an intention, besides its
strengthening the relation of ideas, is often necessary to produce a
relation of impressions, and give rise to pleasure and uneasiness. For
it is observable, that the principal part of an injury is the contempt and
hatred, which it shews in the person, that injures us; and without that,
the mere harm gives us a less sensible uneasiness. In like manner, a good
office is agreeable, chiefly because it flatters our vanity, and is a
proof of the kindness and esteem of the person, who performs it. The
removal of the intention, removes the mortification in the one case, and
vanity in the other, and must of course cause a remarkable diminution in
the passions of love and hatred.

I grant, that these effects of the removal of design, in diminishing the
relations of impressions and ideas, are not entire, nor able to remove
every degree of these relations. But then I ask, if the removal of design
be able entirely to remove the passion of love and hatred? Experience, I
am sure, informs us of the contrary, nor is there any thing more certain,
than that men often fall into a violent anger for injuries, which they
themselves must own to be entirely involuntary and accidental. This
emotion, indeed, cannot be of long continuance; but still is sufficient
to shew, that there is a natural connexion betwixt uneasiness and anger,
and that the relation of impressions will operate upon a very small
relation of ideas. But when the violence of the impression is once a
little abated, the defect of the relation begins to be better felt; and
as the character of a person is no wise interested in such injuries as
are casual and involuntary, it seldom happens that on their account, we
entertain a lasting enmity.

To illustrate this doctrine by a parallel instance, we may observe, that
not only the uneasiness, which proceeds from another by accident, has but
little force to excite our passion, but also that which arises from an
acknowledged necessity and duty. One that has a real design of harming
us, proceeding not from hatred and ill-will, but from justice and equity,
draws not upon him our anger, if we be in any degree reasonable;
notwithstanding he is both the cause, and the knowing cause of our
sufferings. Let us examine a little this phaenomenon.

It is evident in the first place, that this circumstance is not decisive;
and though it may be able to diminish the passions, it is seldom it can
entirely remove them. How few criminals are there, who have no ill-will
to the person, that accuses them, or to the judge, that condemns them,
even though they be conscious of their own deserts? In like manner our
antagonist in a law-suit, and our competitor for any office, are commonly
regarded as our enemies; though we must acknowledge, if we would but
reflect a moment, that their motive is entirely as justifiable as our
own.

Besides we may consider, that when we receive harm from any person, we
are apt to imagine him criminal, and it is with extreme difficulty we
allow of his justice and innocence. This is a clear proof, that,
independent of the opinion of iniquity, any harm or uneasiness has a
natural tendency to excite our hatred, and that afterwards we seek for
reasons upon which we may justify and establish the passion. Here the
idea of injury produces not the passion, but arises from it.

Nor is it any wonder that passion should produce the opinion of injury;
since otherwise it must suffer a considerable diminution, which all the
passions avoid as much as possible. The removal of injury may remove the
anger, without proving that the anger arises only from the injury. The
harm and the justice are two contrary objects, of which the one has a
tendency to produce hatred, and the other love; and it is according to
their different degrees, and our particular turn of thinking, that either
of the objects prevails, and excites its proper passion.



SECT. IV  OF THE LOVE OF RELATIONS


Having given a reason, why several actions, that cause a real pleasure or
uneasiness, excite not any degree, or but a small one, of the passion of
love or hatred towards the actors; it will be necessary to shew, wherein
consists the pleasure or uneasiness of many objects, which we find by
experience to produce these passions.

According to the preceding system there is always required a double
relation of impressions and ideas betwixt the cause and effect, in order
to produce either love or hatred. But though this be universally true, it
is remarkable that the passion of love may be excited by only one relation
of a different kind, viz, betwixt ourselves and the object; or more
properly speaking, that this relation is always attended with both the
others. Whoever is united to us by any connexion is always sure of a
share of our love, proportioned to the connexion, without enquiring into
his other qualities. Thus the relation of blood produces the strongest
tie the mind is capable of in the love of parents to their children, and
a lesser degree of the same affection, as the relation lessens. Nor has
consanguinity alone this effect, but any other relation without
exception. We love our country-men, our neighbours, those of the same
trade, profession, and even name with ourselves. Every one of these
relations is esteemed some tie, and gives a title to a share of our
affection.

There is another phaenomenon, which is parallel to this, viz, that
acquaintance, without any kind of relation, gives rise to love and
kindness. When we have contracted a habitude and intimacy with any person;
though in frequenting his company we have not been able to discover
any very valuable quality, of which he is possessed; yet we cannot
forebear preferring him to strangers, of whose superior merit we are
fully convinced. These two phaenomena of the effects of relation and
acquaintance will give mutual light to each other, and may be both
explained from the same principle.

Those, who take a pleasure in declaiming against human nature, have
observed, that man is altogether insufficient to support himself; and
that when you loosen all the holds, which he has of external objects, he
immediately drops down into the deepest melancholy and despair. From
this, say they, proceeds that continual search after amusement in gaming,
in hunting, in business; by which we endeavour to forget ourselves, and
excite our spirits from the languid state, into which they fall, when not
sustained by some brisk and lively emotion. To this method of thinking I
so far agree, that I own the mind to be insufficient, of itself, to its
own entertainment, and that it naturally seeks after foreign objects,
which may produce a lively sensation, and agitate the spirits. On the
appearance of such an object it awakes, as it were, from a dream: The
blood flows with a new tide: The heart is elevated: And the whole man
acquires a vigour, which he cannot command in his solitary and calm
moments. Hence company is naturally so rejoicing, as presenting the
liveliest of all objects, viz, a rational and thinking Being like
ourselves, who communicates to us all the actions of his mind; makes us
privy to his inmost sentiments and affections; and lets us see, in the
very instant of their production, all the emotions, which are caused by
any object. Every lively idea is agreeable, but especially that of a
passion, because such an idea becomes a kind of passion, and gives a more
sensible agitation to the mind, than any other image or conception.

This being once admitted, all the rest is easy. For as the company of
strangers is agreeable to us for a short time, by inlivening our thought;
so the company of our relations and acquaintance must be peculiarly
agreeable, because it has this effect in a greater degree, and is of more
durable influence. Whatever is related to us is conceived in a lively
manner by the easy transition from ourselves to the related object.
Custom also, or acquaintance facilitates the entrance, and strengthens
the conception of any object. The first case is parallel to our
reasonings from cause and effect; the second to education. And as
reasoning and education concur only in producing a lively and strong idea
of any object; so is this the only particular, which is common to
relation and acquaintance. This must, therefore, be the influencing
quality, by which they produce all their common effects; and love or
kindness being one of these effects, it must be from the force and
liveliness of conception, that the passion is derived. Such a conception
is peculiarly agreeable, and makes us have an affectionate regard for
every thing, that produces it, when the proper object of kindness and
goodwill.

It is obvious, that people associate together according to their
particular tempers and dispositions, and that men of gay tempers
naturally love the gay; as the serious bear an affection to the serious.
This not only happens, where they remark this resemblance betwixt
themselves and others, but also by the natural course of the disposition,
and by a certain sympathy, which always arises betwixt similar
characters. Where they remark the resemblance, it operates after the
manner of a relation, by producing a connexion of ideas. Where they do
not remark it, it operates by some other principle; and if this latter
principle be similar to the former, it must be received as a confirmation
of the foregoing reasoning.

The idea of ourselves is always intimately present to us, and conveys a
sensible degree of vivacity to the idea of any other object, to which we
are related. This lively idea changes by degrees into a real impression;
these two kinds of perception being in a great measure the same, and
differing only in their degrees of force and vivacity. But this change
must be produced with the greater ease, that our natural temper gives us
a propensity to the same impression, which we observe in others, and
makes it arise upon any slight occasion. In that case resemblance
converts the idea into an impression, not only by means of the relation,
and by transfusing the original vivacity into the related idea; but also
by presenting such materials as take fire from the least spark. And as in
both cases a love or affection arises from the resemblance, we may learn
that a sympathy with others is agreeable only by giving an emotion to the
spirits, since an easy sympathy and correspondent emotions are alone
common to RELATION, ACQUAINTANCE, and RESEMBLANCE.

The great propensity men have to pride may be considered as another
similar phaenomenon. It often happens, that after we have lived a
considerable time in any city; however at first it might be disagreeable
to us; yet as we become familiar with the objects, and contact an
acquaintance, though merely with the streets and buildings, the aversion
diminishes by degrees, and at last changes into the opposite passion. The
mind finds a satisfaction and ease in the view of objects, to which it is
accustomed, and naturally prefers them to others, which, though, perhaps,
in themselves more valuable, are less known to it. By the same quality of
the mind we are seduced into a good opinion of ourselves, and of all
objects, that belong to us. They appear in a stronger light; are more
agreeable; and consequently fitter subjects of pride and vanity, than any
other.

It may not be amiss, in treating of the affection we bear our
acquaintance and relations, to observe some pretty curious phaenomena,
which attend it. It is easy to remark in common life, that children esteem
their relation to their mother to be weakened, in a great measure, by her
second marriage, and no longer regard her with the same eye, as if she
had continued in her state of widow-hood. Nor does this happen only, when
they have felt any inconveniences from her second marriage, or when her
husband is much her inferior; but even without any of these
considerations, and merely because she has become part of another family.
This also takes place with regard to the second marriage of a father; but
in a much less degree: And it is certain the ties of blood are not so much
loosened in the latter case as by the marriage of a mother. These two
phaenomena are remarkable in themselves, but much more so when compared.

In order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects, it is
requisite, not only that the imagination be conveyed from one to the
other by resemblance, contiguity or causation, but also that it return
back from the second to the first with the same ease and facility. At
first sight this may seem a necessary and unavoidable consequence. If one
object resemble another, the latter object must necessarily resemble the
former. If one object be the cause of another, the second object is
effect to its cause. It is the same case with contiguity: And therefore
the relation being always reciprocal, it may be thought, that the return
of the imagination from the second to the first must also, in every case,
be equally natural as its passage from the first to the second. But upon
farther examination we shall easily discover our mistake. For supposing
the second object, beside its reciprocal relation to the first, to have
also a strong relation to a third object; in that case the thought,
passing from the first object to the second, returns not back with the
same facility, though the relation continues the same; but is readily
carryed on to the third object, by means of the new relation, which
presents itself, and gives a new impulse to the imagination. This new
relation, therefore, weakens the tie betwixt the first and second
objects. The fancy is by its very nature wavering and inconstant; and
considers always two objects as more strongly related together, where it
finds the passage equally easy both in going and returning, than where
the transition is easy only in one of these motions. The double motion is
a kind of a double tie, and binds the objects together in the closest and
most intimate manner.

The second marriage of a mother breaks not the relation of child and
parent; and that relation suffices to convey my imagination from myself
to her with the greatest ease and facility. But after the imagination is
arrived at this point of view, it finds its object to be surrounded with
so many other relations, which challenge its regard, that it knows not
which to prefer, and is at a loss what new object to pitch upon. The ties
of interest and duty bind her to another family, and prevent that return
of the fancy from her to myself, which is necessary to support the union.
The thought has no longer the vibration, requisite to set it perfectly at
ease, and indulge its inclination to change. It goes with facility, but
returns with difficulty; and by that interruption finds the relation much
weakened from what it would be were the passage open and easy on both
sides.

Now to give a reason, why this effect follows not in the same degree upon
the second marriage of a father: we may reflect on what has been proved
already, that though the imagination goes easily from the view of a lesser
object to that of a greater, yet it returns not with the same facility
from the greater to the less. When my imagination goes from myself to my
father, it passes not so readily from him to his second wife, nor
considers him as entering into a different family, but as continuing the
head of that family, of which I am myself a part. His superiority
prevents the easy transition of the thought from him to his spouse, but
keeps the passage still open for a return to myself along the same
relation of child and parent. He is not sunk in the new relation he
acquires; so that the double motion or vibration of thought is still easy
and natural. By this indulgence of the fancy in its inconstancy, the tie
of child and parent still preserves its full force and influence. A
mother thinks not her tie to a son weakened, because it is shared with her
husband: Nor a son his with a parent, because it is shared with a brother.
The third object is here related to the first, as well as to the second;
so that the imagination goes and comes along all of them with the
greatest facility.



SECT. V  OF OUR ESTEEM FOR THE RICH AND POWERFUL


Nothing has a greater tendency to give us an esteem for any person, than
his power and riches; or a contempt, than his poverty and meanness: And
as esteem and contempt are to be considered as species of love and
hatred, it will be proper in this place to explain these phaenomena.

Here it happens most fortunately, that the greatest difficulty is not to
discover a principle capable of producing such an effect, but to choose
the chief and predominant among several, that present themselves. The
satisfaction we take in the riches of others, and the esteem we have for
the possessors may be ascribed to three different causes. FIRST, To the
objects they possess; such as houses, gardens, equipages; which, being
agreeable in themselves, necessarily produce a sentiment of pleasure in
every one; that either considers or surveys them. SECONDLY, To the
expectation of advantage from the rich and powerful by our sharing their
possessions. THIRDLY, To sympathy, which makes us partake of the
satisfaction of every one, that approaches us. All these principles may
concur in producing the present phaenomenon. The question is, to which of
them we ought principally to ascribe it,

It is certain, that the first principle, viz, the reflection on agreeable
objects, has a greater influence, than what, at first sight, we may be
apt to imagine. We seldom reflect on what is beautiful or ugly, agreeable
or disagreeable, without an emotion of pleasure or uneasiness; and though
these sensations appear not much in our common indolent way of thinking,
it is easy, either in reading or conversation, to discover them. Men of
wit always turn the discourse on subjects that are entertaining to the
imagination; and poets never present any objects but such as are of the
same nature. Mr Philips has chosen CYDER for the subject of an excellent
poem. Beer would not have been so proper, as being neither so agreeable
to the taste nor eye. But he would certainly have preferred wine to
either of them, coued his native country have afforded him so agreeable a
liquor. We may learn from thence, that every thing, which is agreeable to
the senses, is also in some measure agreeable to the fancy, and conveys
to the thought an image of that satisfaction, which it gives by its real
application to the bodily organs.

But though these reasons may induce us to comprehend this delicacy of the
imagination among the causes of the respect, which we pay the rich and
powerful, there are many other reasons, that may keep us from regarding
it as the sole or principal. For as the ideas of pleasure can have an
influence only by means of their vivacity, which makes them approach
impressions, it is most natural those ideas should have that influence,
which are favoured by most circumstances, and have a natural tendency to
become strong and lively; such as our ideas of the passions and
sensations of any human creature. Every human creature resembles
ourselves, and by that means has an advantage above any other object, in
operating on the imagination.

Besides, if we consider the nature of that faculty, and the great
influence which all relations have upon it, we shall easily be persuaded,
that however the ideas of the pleasant wines, music, or gardens, which
the rich man enjoys, may become lively and agreeable, the fancy will not
confine itself to them, but will carry its view to the related objects;
and in particular, to the person, who possesses them. And this is the
more natural, that the pleasant idea or image produces here a passion
towards the person, by means of his relation to the object; so that it is
unavoidable but he must enter into the original conception, since he
makes the object of the derivative passion: But if he enters into the
original conception, and is considered as enjoying these agreeable
objects, it is sympathy, which is properly the cause of the affection; and
the third principle is more powerful and universal than the first.

Add to this, that riches and power alone, even though unemployed,
naturally cause esteem and respect: And consequently these passions arise
not from the idea of any beautiful or agreeable objects. It is true; money
implies a kind of representation of such objects, by the power it affords
of obtaining them; and for that reason may still be esteemed proper to
convey those agreeable images, which may give rise to the passion. But as
this prospect is very distant, it is more natural for us to take a
contiguous object, viz, the satisfaction, which this power affords the
person, who is possest of it. And of this we shall be farther satisfyed,
if we consider, that riches represent the goods of life, only by means of
the will; which employs them; and therefore imply in their very nature an
idea of the person, and cannot be considered without a kind of sympathy
with his sensations and enjoyments.

This we may confirm by a reflection, which to some will, perhaps, appear
too subtile and refined. I have already observed, that power, as
distinguished from its exercise, has either no meaning at all, or is
nothing but a possibility or probability of existence; by which any
object approaches to reality, and has a sensible influence on the mind. I
have also observed, that this approach, by an illusion of the fancy,
appears much greater, when we ourselves are possest of the power, than
when it is enjoyed by another; and that in the former case the objects
seem to touch upon the very verge of reality, and convey almost an equal
satisfaction, as if actually in our possession. Now I assert, that where
we esteem a person upon account of his riches, we must enter into this
sentiment of the proprietor, and that without such a sympathy the idea of
the agreeable objects, which they give him the power to produce, would
have but a feeble influence upon us. An avaritious man is respected for
his money, though he scarce is possest of a power; that is, there scarce
is a probability or even possibility of his employing it in the
acquisition of the pleasures and conveniences of life. To himself alone
this power seems perfect and entire; and therefore we must receive his
sentiments by sympathy, before we can have a strong intense idea of these
enjoyments, or esteem him upon account of them.

Thus we have found, that the first principle, viz, the agreeable idea of
those objects, which riches afford the enjoyment of; resolves itself in a
great measure into the third, and becomes a sympathy with the person we
esteem or love. Let us now examine the second principle, viz, the
agreeable expectation of advantage, and see what force we may justly
attribute to it.

It is obvious, that though riches and authority undoubtedly give their
owner a power of doing us service, yet this power is not to be considered
as on the same footing with that, which they afford him, of pleasing
himself, and satisfying his own appetites. Self-love approaches the power
and exercise very near each other in the latter case; but in order to
produce a similar effect in the former, we must suppose a friendship and
good-will to be conjoined with the riches. Without that circumstance it is
difficult to conceive on what we can found our hope of advantage from the
riches of others, though there is nothing more certain, than that we
naturally esteem and respect the rich, even before we discover in them
any such favourable disposition towards us.

But I carry this farther, and observe, not only that we respect the rich
and powerful, where they shew no inclination to serve us, but also when
we lie so much out of the sphere of their activity, that they cannot even
be supposed to be endowed with that power. Prisoners of war are always
treated with a respect suitable to their condition; and it is certain
riches go very far towards fixing the condition of any person. If birth
and quality enter for a share, this still affords us an argument of the
same kind. For what is it we call a man of birth, but one who is
descended from a long succession of rich and powerful ancestors, and who
acquires our esteem by his relation to persons whom we esteem? His
ancestors, therefore, though dead, are respected, in some measure, on
account of their riches, and consequently without any kind of
expectation.

But not to go so far as prisoners of war and the dead to find instances
of this disinterested esteem for riches, let us observe with a little
attention those phaenomena that occur to us in common life and
conversation. A man, who is himself of a competent fortune, upon coming
into a company of strangers, naturally treats them with different degrees
of respect and deference, as he is informed of their different fortunes
and conditions; though it is impossible he can ever propose, and perhaps
would not accept of any advantage from them. A traveller is always
admitted into company, and meets with civility, in proportion as his
train and equipage speak him a man of great or moderate fortune. In
short, the different ranks of men are, in a great measure, regulated by
riches, and that with regard to superiors as well as inferiors, strangers
as well as acquaintance.

There is, indeed, an answer to these arguments, drawn from the influence
of general rules. It may be pretended, that being accustomed to expect
succour and protection from the rich and powerful, and to esteem them
upon that account, we extend the same sentiments to those, who resemble
them in their fortune, but from whom we can never hope for any advantage.
The general rule still prevails, and by giving a bent to the imagination
draws along the passion, in the same manner as if its proper object were
real and existent.

But that this principle does not here take place, will easily appear, if
we consider, that in order to establish a general rule, and extend it
beyond its proper bounds, there is required a certain uniformity in our
experience, and a great superiority of those instances, which are
conformable to the rule, above the contrary. But here the case is quite
otherwise. Of a hundred men of credit and fortune I meet with, there is
not, perhaps, one from whom I can expect advantage; so that it is
impossible any custom can ever prevail in the present case.

Upon the whole, there remains nothing, which can give us an esteem for
power and riches, and a contempt for meanness and poverty, except the
principle of sympathy, by which we enter into the sentiments of the rich
and poor, and partake of their pleasure and uneasiness. Riches give
satisfaction to their possessor; and this satisfaction is conveyed to the
beholder by the imagination, which produces an idea resembling the
original impression in force and vivacity. This agreeable idea or
impression is connected with love, which is an agreeable passion. It
proceeds from a thinking conscious being, which is the very object of
love. From this relation of impressions, and identity of ideas, the
passion arises, according to my hypothesis.

The best method of reconciling us to this opinion is to take a general
survey of the universe, and observe the force of sympathy through the
whole animal creation, and the easy communication of sentiments from one
thinking being to another. In all creatures, that prey not upon others,
and are not agitated with violent passions, there appears a remarkable
desire of company, which associates them together, without any advantages
they can ever propose to reap from their union. This is still more
conspicuous in man, as being the creature of the universe, who has the
most ardent desire of society, and is fitted for it by the most
advantages. We can form no wish, which has not a reference to society. A
perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can suffer.
Every pleasure languishes when enjoyed a-part from company, and every
pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. Whatever other passions we may
be actuated by; pride, ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge or lust; the
soul or animating principle of them all is sympathy; nor would they have
any force, were we to abstract entirely from the thoughts and sentiments
of others. Let all the powers and elements of nature conspire to serve
and obey one man: Let the sun rise and set at his command: The sea and
rivers roll as he pleases, and the earth furnish spontaneously whatever
may be useful or agreeable to him: He will still be miserable, till you
give him some one person at least, with whom he may share his happiness,
and whose esteem and friendship he may enjoy.

This conclusion from a general view of human nature, we may confirm by
particular instances, wherein the force of sympathy is very remarkable.
Most kinds of beauty are derived from this origin; and though our first
object be some senseless inanimate piece of matter, it is seldom we rest
there, and carry not our view to its influence on sensible and rational
creatures. A man, who shews us any house or building, takes particular
care among other things to point out the convenience of the apartments,
the advantages of their situation, and the little room lost in the
stairs, antichambers and passages; and indeed it is evident, the chief
part of the beauty consists in these particulars. The observation of
convenience gives pleasure, since convenience is a beauty. But after what
manner does it give pleasure? It is certain our own interest is not in the
least concerned; and as this is a beauty of interest, not of form, so to
speak, it must delight us merely by communication, and by our
sympathizing with the proprietor of the lodging. We enter into his
interest by the force of imagination, and feel the same satisfaction,
that the objects naturally occasion in him.

This observation extends to tables, chairs, scritoires, chimneys,
coaches, sadles, ploughs, and indeed to every work of art; it being an
universal rule, that their beauty is chiefly derived from their utility,
and from their fitness for that purpose, to which they are destined. But
this is an advantage, that concerns only the owner, nor is there any
thing but sympathy, which can interest the spectator.

It is evident, that nothing renders a field more agreeable than its
fertility, and that scarce any advantages of ornament or situation will
be able to equal this beauty. It is the same case with particular trees
and plants, as with the field on which they grow. I know not but a plain,
overgrown with furze and broom, may be, in itself, as beautiful as a hill
covered with vines or olive-trees; though it will never appear so to one,
who is acquainted with the value of each. But this is a beauty merely of
imagination, and has no foundation in what appears to the senses.
Fertility and value have a plain reference to use; and that to riches,
joy, and plenty; in which though we have no hope of partaking, yet we
enter into them by the vivacity of the fancy, and share them, in some
measure, with the proprietor.

There is no rule in painting more reasonable than that of ballancing the
figures, and placing them with the greatest exactness on their proper
centers of gravity. A figure, which is not justly ballanced, is
disagreeable; and that because it conveys the ideas of its fall, of harm,
and of pain: Which ideas are painful, when by sympathy they acquire any
degree of force and vivacity.

Add to this, that the principal part of personal beauty is an air of
health and vigour, and such a construction of members as promises
strength and activity. This idea of beauty cannot be accounted for but by
sympathy.

In general we may remark, that the minds of men are mirrors to one
another, not only because they reflect each others emotions, but also
because those rays of passions, sentiments and opinions may be often
reverberated, and may decay away by insensible degrees. Thus the
pleasure, which a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown
upon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem; which sentiments again,
being perceived and sympathized with, encrease the pleasure of the
possessor; and being once more reflected, become a new foundation for
pleasure and esteem in the beholder. There is certainly an original
satisfaction in riches derived from that power, which they bestow, of
enjoying all the pleasures of life; and as this is their very nature and
essence, it must be the first source of all the passions, which arise
from them. One of the most considerable of these passions is that of love
or esteem in others, which therefore proceeds from a sympathy with the
pleasure of the possessor. But the possessor has also a secondary
satisfaction in riches arising from the love and esteem he acquires by
them, and this satisfaction is nothing but a second reflexion of that
original pleasure, which proceeded from himself. This secondary
satisfaction or vanity becomes one of the principal recommendations of
riches, and is the chief reason, why we either desire them for ourselves,
or esteem them in others. Here then is a third rebound of the original
pleasure; after which it is difficult to distinguish the images and
reflexions, by reason of their faintness and confusion.



SECT. VI  OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER


Ideas may be compared to the extension and solidity of matter, and
impressions, especially reflective ones, to colours, tastes, smells and
other sensible qualities. Ideas never admit of a total union, but are
endowed with a kind of impenetrability, by which they exclude each other,
and are capable of forming a compound by their conjunction, not by their
mixture. On the other hand, impressions and passions are susceptible of
an entire union; and like colours, may be blended so perfectly together,
that each of them may lose itself, and contribute only to vary that
uniform impression, which arises from the whole. Some of the most curious
phaenomena of the human mind are derived from this property of the
passions.

In examining those ingredients, which are capable of uniting with love
and hatred, I begin to be sensible, in some measure, of a misfortune,
that has attended every system of philosophy, with which the world has
been yet acquainted. It is commonly found, that in accounting for the
operations of nature by any particular hypothesis; among a number of
experiments, that quadrate exactly with the principles we would endeavour
to establish; there is always some phaenomenon, which is more stubborn,
and will not so easily bend to our purpose. We need not be surprized,
that this should happen in natural philosophy. The essence and
composition of external bodies are so obscure, that we must necessarily,
in our reasonings, or rather conjectures concerning them, involve
ourselves in contradictions and absurdities. But as the perceptions of
the mind are perfectly known, and I have used all imaginable caution in
forming conclusions concerning them, I have always hoped to keep clear of
those contradictions, which have attended every other system. Accordingly
the difficulty, which I have at present in my eye, is nowise contrary to
my system; but only departs a little from that simplicity, which has been
hitherto its principal force and beauty.

The passions of love and hatred are always followed by, or rather
conjoined with benevolence and anger. It is this conjunction, which
chiefly distinguishes these affections from pride and humility. For pride
and humility are pure emotions in the soul, unattended with any desire,
and not immediately exciting us to action. But love and hatred are not
compleated within themselves, nor rest in that emotion, which they
produce, but carry the mind to something farther. Love is always followed
by a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to
his misery: As hatred produces a desire of the misery and an aversion to
the happiness of the person hated. So remarkable a difference betwixt
these two sets of passions of pride and humility, love and hatred, which
in so many other particulars correspond to each other, merits our
attention.

The conjunction of this desire and aversion with love and hatred may be
accounted for by two different hypotheses. The first is, that love and
hatred have not only a cause, which excites them, viz, pleasure and pain;
and an object, to which they are directed, viz, a person or thinking
being; but likewise an end, which they endeavour to attain, viz, the
happiness or misery of the person beloved or hated; all which views,
mixing together, make only one passion. According to this system, love is
nothing but the desire of happiness to another person, and hatred that of
misery. The desire and aversion constitute the very nature of love and
hatred. They are not only inseparable but the same.

But this is evidently contrary to experience. For though it is certain we
never love any person without desiring his happiness, nor hate any
without wishing his misery, yet these desires arise only upon the ideas
of the happiness or misery of our friend or enemy being presented by the
imagination, and are not absolutely essential to love and hatred. They
are the most obvious and natural sentiments of these affections, but not
the only ones. The passions may express themselves in a hundred ways, and
may subsist a considerable time, without our reflecting on the happiness
or misery of their objects; which clearly proves, that these desires are
not the same with love and hatred, nor make any essential part of them.

We may, therefore, infer, that benevolence and anger are passions
different from love and hatred, and only conjoined with them, by the
original constitution of the mind. As nature has given to the body
certain appetites and inclinations, which she encreases, diminishes, or
changes according to the situation of the fluids or solids; she has
proceeded in the same manner with the mind. According as we are possessed
with love or hatred, the correspondent desire of the happiness or misery
of the person, who is the object of these passions, arises in the mind,
and varies with each variation of these opposite passions. This order of
things, abstractedly considered, is not necessary. Love and hatred might
have been unattended with any such desires, or their particular connexion
might have been entirely reversed. If nature had so pleased, love might
have had the same effect as hatred, and hatred as love. I see no
contradiction in supposing a desire of producing misery annexed to love,
and of happiness to hatred. If the sensation of the passion and desire be
opposite, nature coued have altered the sensation without altering the
tendency of the desire, and by that means made them compatible with each
other.



SECT. VII  OF COMPASSION


But though the desire of the happiness or misery of others, according to
the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbitrary and original instinct
implanted in our nature, we find it may be counterfeited on many
occasions, and may arise from secondary principles. Pity is a concern
for, and malice a joy in the misery of others, without any friendship or
enmity to occasion this concern or joy. We pity even strangers, and such
as are perfectly indifferent to us: And if our ill-will to another
proceed from any harm or injury, it is not, properly speaking, malice,
but revenge. But if we examine these affections of pity and malice we
shall find them to be secondary ones, arising from original affections,
which are varied by some particular turn of thought and imagination.

It will be easy to explain the passion of pity, from the precedent
reasoning concerning sympathy. We have a lively idea of every thing
related to us. All human creatures are related to us by resemblance.
Their persons, therefore, their interests, their passions, their pains
and pleasures must strike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an
emotion similar to the original one; since a lively idea is easily
converted into an impression. If this be true in general, it must be more
so of affliction and sorrow. These have always a stronger and more
lasting influence than any pleasure or enjoyment.

A spectator of a tragedy passes through a long train of grief, terror,
indignation, and other affections, which the poet represents in the
persons he introduces. As many tragedies end happily, and no excellent
one can be composed without some reverses of fortune, the spectator must
sympathize with all these changes, and receive the fictitious joy as well
as every other passion. Unless, therefore, it be asserted, that every
distinct passion is communicated by a distinct original quality, and is
not derived from the general principle of sympathy above-explained, it
must be allowed, that all of them arise from that principle. To except
any one in particular must appear highly unreasonable. As they are all
first present in the mind of one person, and afterwards appear in the
mind of another; and as the manner of their appearance, first as an idea,
then as an impression, is in every case the same, the transition must
arise from the same principle. I am at least sure, that this method of
reasoning would be considered as certain, either in natural philosophy or
common life.

Add to this, that pity depends, in a great measure, on the contiguity,
and even sight of the object; which is a proof, that it is derived from
the imagination. Not to mention that women and children are most subject
to pity, as being most guided by that faculty. The same infirmity, which
makes them faint at the sight of a naked sword, though in the hands of
their best friend, makes them pity extremely those, whom they find in any
grief or affliction. Those philosophers, who derive this passion from I
know not what subtile reflections on the instability of fortune, and our
being liable to the same miseries we behold, will find this observation
contrary to them among a great many others, which it were easy to
produce.

There remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable phaenomenon of
this passion; which is, that the communicated passion of sympathy
sometimes acquires strength from the weakness of its original, and even
arises by a transition from affections, which have no existence. Thus
when a person obtains any honourable office, or inherits a great fortune,
we are always the more rejoiced for his prosperity, the less sense he
seems to have of it, and the greater equanimity and indifference he shews
in its enjoyment. In like manner a man, who is not dejected by
misfortunes, is the more lamented on account of his patience; and if that
virtue extends so far as utterly to remove all sense of uneasiness, it
still farther encreases our compassion. When a person of merit falls into
what is vulgarly esteemed a great misfortune, we form a notion of his
condition; and carrying our fancy from the cause to the usual effect,
first conceive a lively idea of his sorrow, and then feel an impression
of it, entirely over-looking that greatness of mind, which elevates him
above such emotions, or only considering it so far as to encrease our
admiration, love and tenderness for him. We find from experience, that
such a degree of passion is usually connected with such a misfortune; and
though there be an exception in the present case, yet the imagination is
affected by the general rule, and makes us conceive a lively idea of the
passion, or rather feel the passion itself, in the same manner, as if the
person were really actuated by it. From the same principles we blush for
the conduct of those, who behave themselves foolishly before us; and that
though they shew no sense of shame, nor seem in the least conscious of
their folly. All this proceeds from sympathy; but it is of a partial kind,
and views its objects only on one side, without considering the other,
which has a contrary effect, and would entirely destroy that emotion,
which arises from the first appearance.

We have also instances, wherein an indifference and insensibility under
misfortune encreases our concern for the misfortunate, even though the
indifference proceed not from any virtue and magnanimity. It is an
aggravation of a murder, that it was committed upon persons asleep and in
perfect security; as historians readily observe of any infant prince, who
is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he is the more worthy of
compassion the less sensible he is of his miserable condition. As we
ourselves are here acquainted with the wretched situation of the person,
it gives us a lively idea and sensation of sorrow, which is the passion
that generally attends it; and this idea becomes still more lively, and
the sensation more violent by a contrast with that security and
indifference, which we observe in the person himself. A contrast of any
kind never fails to affect the imagination, especially when presented by
the subject; and it is on the imagination that pity entirely depends.

[Footnote 11.  To prevent all ambiguity, I must observe, that where I
oppose the imagination to the memory, I mean in general the faculty that
presents our fainter ideas. In all other places, and particularly when it
is opposed to the understanding, I understand the same faculty, excluding
only our demonstrative and probable reasonings.]



SECT. VIII  OF MALICE AND ENVY


We must now proceed to account for the passion of malice, which imitates
the effects of hatred, as pity does those of love; and gives us a joy in
the sufferings and miseries of others, without any offence or injury on
their part.

So little are men governed by reason in their sentiments and opinions,
that they always judge more of objects by comparison than from their
intrinsic worth and value. When the mind considers, or is accustomed to,
any degree of. perfection, whatever falls short of it, though really
esteemable, has notwithstanding the same effect upon the passions; as
what is defective and ill. This is an original quality of the soul, and
similar to what we have every day experience of in our bodies. Let a man
heat one band and cool the other; the same water will, at the same time,
seem both hot and cold, according to the disposition of the different
organs. A small degree of any quality, succeeding a greater, produces the
same sensation, as if less than it really is, and even sometimes as the
opposite quality. Any gentle pain, that follows a violent one, seems as
nothing, or rather becomes a pleasure; as on the other hand a violent
pain, succeeding a gentle one, is doubly grievous and uneasy.

This no one can doubt of with regard to our passions and sensations. But
there may arise some difficulty with regard to our ideas and objects.
When an object augments or diminishes to the eye or imagination from a
comparison with others, the image and idea of the object are still the
same, and are equally extended in the retina, and in the brain or organ
of perception. The eyes refract the rays of light, and the optic nerves
convey the images to the brain in the very same manner, whether a great
or small object has preceded; nor does even the imagination alter the
dimensions of its object on account of a comparison with others. The
question then is, how from the same impression and the same idea we can
form such different judgments concerning the same object, and at one time
admire its bulk, and at another despise its littleness. This variation in
our judgments must certainly proceed from a variation in some perception;
but as the variation lies not in the immediate impression or idea of the
object, it must lie in some other impression, that accompanies it.

In order to explain this matter, I shall just touch upon two principles,
one of which shall be more fully explained in the progress of this
treatise; the other has been already accounted for. I believe it may
safely be established for a general maxim, that no object is presented to
the senses, nor image formed in the fancy, but what is accompanyed with
some emotion or movement of spirits proportioned to it; and however
custom may make us insensible of this sensation and cause us to confound
it with the object or idea, it will be easy, by careful and exact
experiments, to separate and distinguish them. For to instance only in
the cases of extension and number; it is evident, that any very bulky
object, such as the ocean, an extended plain, a vast chain of mountains,
a wide forest: or any very numerous collection of objects, such as an
army, a fleet, a crowd, excite in the mind a sensible emotion; and that
the admiration, which arises on the appearance of such objects, is one of
the most lively pleasures, which human nature is capable of enjoying. Now
as this admiration encreases or diminishes by the encrease or diminution
of the objects, we may conclude, according to our foregoing
[Book I. Part III. Sect. 15.] principles, that it is a compound effect,
proceeding from the conjunction of the several effects, which arise from
each part of the cause. Every part, then, of extension, and every unite of
number has a separate emotion attending it; and though that emotion be not
always agreeable, yet by its conjunction with others, and by its agitating
the spirits to a just pitch, it contributes to the production of
admiration, which is always agreeable. If this be allowed with respect to
extension and number, we can make no difficulty with respect to virtue and
vice, wit and folly, riches and poverty, happiness and misery, and other
objects of that kind, which are always attended with an evident emotion.

The second principle I shall take notice of is that of our adherence to
general rules; which has such a mighty influence on the actions and
understanding, and is able to impose on the very senses. When an object
is found by-experience to be always accompanyed with another; whenever
the first object appears, though changed in very material circumstances;
we naturally fly to the conception of the second, and form an idea of it
in as lively and strong a manner, as if we had infered its existence by
the justest and most authentic conclusion of our understanding. Nothing
can undeceive us, not even our senses, which, instead of correcting this
false judgment, are often perverted by it, and seem to authorize its
errors.

The conclusion I draw from these two principles, joined to the influence
of comparison above-mentioned, is very short and decisive. Every object
is attended with some emotion proportioned to it; a great object with a
great emotion, a small object with a small emotion. A great object,
therefore, succeeding a small one makes a great emotion succeed a small
one. Now a great emotion succeeding a small one becomes still greater,
and rises beyond its ordinary proportion. But as there is a certain
degree of an emotion, which commonly attends every magnitude of a-n
object; when the emotion encreases, we naturally imagine that the object
has likewise encreased. The effect conveys our view to its usual cause, a
certain degree of emotion to a certain magnitude of the object; nor do we
consider, that comparison may change the emotion without changing
anything in the object. Those who are acquainted with the metaphysical
part of optics and know how we transfer the judgments and conclusions of
the understanding to the senses, will easily conceive this whole
operation.

But leaving this new discovery of an impression, that secretly attends
every idea; we must at least allow of that principle, from whence the
discovery arose, that objects appear greater or less by a comparison with
others. We have so many instances of this, that it is impossible we can
dispute its veracity; and it is from this principle I derive the passions
of malice and envy.

It is evident we must receive a greater or less satisfaction or uneasiness
from reflecting on our own condition and circumstances, in proportion as
they appear more or less fortunate or unhappy, in proportion to the
degrees of riches, and power, and merit, and reputation, which we think
ourselves possest of. Now as we seldom judge of objects from their
intrinsic value, but form our notions of them from a comparison with
other objects; it follows, that according as we observe a greater or less
share of happiness or misery in others, we must make an estimate of our
own, and feel a consequent pain or pleasure. The misery of another gives
us a more lively idea of our happiness, and his happiness of our misery.
The former, therefore, produces delight; and the latter uneasiness.

Here then is a kind of pity reverst, or contrary sensations arising in
the beholder, from those which are felt by the person, whom he considers.
In general we may observe, that in all kinds of comparison an object
makes us always receive from another, to which it is compared, a
sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and immediate
survey. A small object makes a great one appear still greater. A great
object makes a little one appear less. Deformity of itself produces
uneasiness; but makes us receive new pleasure by its contrast with a
beautiful object, whose beauty is augmented by it; as on the other hand,
beauty, which of itself produces pleasure, makes us receive a new pain by
the contrast with any thing ugiy, whose deformity it augments. The case,
therefore, must be the same with happiness and misery. The direct survey
of another's pleasure naturally gives us plcasure, and therefore produces
pain when cornpared with our own. His pain, considered in itself, is
painful to us, but augments the idea of our own happiness, and gives us
pleasure.

Nor will it appear strange, that we may feel a reverst sensation from the
happiness and misery of others; since we find the same comparison may
give us a kind of malice against ourselves, and make us rejoice for our
pains, and grieve for our pleasures. Thus the prospect of past pain is
agreeable, when we are satisfyed with our present condition; as on the
other hand our past pleasures give us uneasiness, when we enjoy nothing
at present equal to them. The comparison being the same, as when we
reflect on the sentiments of others, must be attended with the same
effects.

Nay a person may extend this malice against himself, even to his present
fortune, and carry it so far as designedly to seek affliction, and
encrease his pains and sorrows. This may happen upon two occasions.
First, Upon the distress and misfortune of a friend, or person dear to
him. Secondly, Upon the feeling any remorses for a crime, of which he has
been guilty. It is from the principle of comparison that both these
irregular appetites for evil arise. A person, who indulges himself in any
pleasure, while his friend lies under affliction, feels the reflected
uneasiness from his friend more sensibly by a comparison with the
original pleasure, which he himself enjoys. This contrast, indeed, ought
also to inliven the present pleasure. But as grief is here supposed to be
the predominant passion, every addition falls to that side, and is
swallowed up in it, without operating in the least upon the contrary
affection. It is the same case with those penances, which men inflict on
themselves for their past sins and failings. When a. criminal reflects on
the punishment he deserves, the idea of it is magnifyed by a comparison
with his present ease and satisfaction; which forces him, in a manner, to
seek uneasiness, in order to avoid so disagreeable a contrast.

This reasoning will account for the origin of envy as well as of malice.
The only difference betwixt these passions lies in this, that envy is
excited by some present enjoyment of another, which by comparison
diminishes our idea of our own: Whereas malice is the unprovoked desire
of producing evil to another, in order to reap a pleasure from the
comparison. The enjoyment, which is the object of envy, is commonly
superior to our own. A superiority naturally seems to overshade us, and
presents a disagreeable comparison. But even in the case of an
inferiority, we still desire a greater distance, in order to augment,
still more the idea of ourself. When this distance diminishes, the
comparison is less to our advantage; and consequently gives us less
pleasure, and is even disagreeable. Hence arises that species of envy,
which men feel, when they perceive their inferiors approaching or
overtaking them in the pursuits of glory or happiness. In this envy we
may see the effects of comparison twice repeated. A man, who compares
himself to his inferior, receives a pleasure from the comparison: And
when the inferiority decreases by the elevation of the inferior, what
should only have been a decrease of pleasure, becomes a real pain, by a
new comparison with its preceding condition.

It is worthy of observation concerning that envy, which arises from a
superiority in others, that it is not the great disproportion betwixt
ourself and another, which produces it; but on the contrary, our
proximity. A common soldier bears no such envy to his general as to his
sergeant or corporal; nor does an eminent writer meet with so great
jealousy in common hackney scriblers, as in authors, that more nearly
approach him. It may, indeed, be thought, that the greater the
disproportion is, the greater must be the uneasiness from the comparison.
But we may consider on the other hand, that the great disproportion cuts
off the relation, and either keeps us from comparing ourselves with what
is remote from us, or diminishes the effects of the comparison.
Resemblance and proximity always produce a relation of ideas; and where
you destroy these ties, however other accidents may bring two ideas
together; as they have no bond or connecting quality to join them in the
imagination; it is impossible they can remain long united, or have any
considerable influence on each other.

I have observed in considering the nature of ambition, that the great
feel a double pleasure in authority from the comparison of their own
condition with that of their slaves; and that this comparison has a
double influence, because it is natural, and presented by the subject.
When the fancy, in the comparison of objects, passes not easily from the
one object to the other, the action of the mind is, in a great measure,
broke, and the fancy, in considering the second object, begins, as it
were, upon a new footing. The impression, which attends every object,
seems not greater in that case by succeeding a less of the same kind; but
these two impressions are distinct, and produce their distinct effects,
without any communication together. The want of relation in the ideas
breaks the relation of the impressions, and by such a separation prevents
their mutual operation and influence.

To confirm this we may observe, that the proximity in the degree of merit
is not alone sufficient to give rise to envy, but must be assisted by
other relations. A poet is not apt to envy a philosopher, or a poet of a
different kind, of a different nation, or of a different age. All these
differences prevent or weaken the comparison, and consequently the
passion.

This too is the reason, why all objects appear great or little, merely by
a comparison with those of the same species. A mountain neither magnifies
nor diminishes a horse in our eyes; but when a Flemish and a Welsh horse
are seen together, the one appears greater and the other less, than when
viewed apart.

From the same principle we may account for that remark of historians,
that any party in a civil war always choose to call in a foreign enemy at
any hazard rather than submit to their fellow-citizens. Guicciardin
applies this remark to the wars in Italy, where the relations betwixt the
different states are, properly speaking, nothing but of name, language,
and contiguity. Yet even these relations, when joined with superiority,
by making the comparison more natural, make it likewise more grievous,
and cause men to search for some other superiority, which may be attended
with no relation, and by that means may have a less sensible influence on
the imagination. The mind quickly perceives its several advantages and
disadvantages; and finding its situation to be most uneasy, where
superiority is conjoined with other relations, seeks its repose as much
as possible, by their separation, and by breaking that association of
ideas, which renders the comparison so much more natural and efficacious.
When it cannot break the association, it feels a stronger desire to
remove the superiority; and this is the reason why travellers are
commonly so lavish of their praises to the Chinese and Persians, at the
same time, that they depreciate those neighbouring nations, which may
stand upon a foot of rivalship with their native country.

These examples from history and common experience are rich and curious;
but we may find parallel ones in the arts, which are no less remarkable.
should an author compose a treatise, of which one part was serious and
profound, another light and humorous, every one would condemn so strange
a mixture, and would accuse him of the neglect of all rules of art and
criticism. These rules of art are founded on the qualities of human
nature; and the quality of human nature, which requires a consistency in
every performance. is that which renders the mind incapable of passing in
a moment from one passion and disposition to a quite different one. Yet
this makes us not blame Mr Prior for joining his Alma and his Solomon in
the same volume; though that admirable poet has succeeded perfectly well
in the gaiety of the one, as well as in the melancholy of the other. Even
supposing the reader should peruse these two compositions without any
interval, he would feel little or no difficulty in the change of
passions: Why, but because he considers these performances as entirely
different, and by this break in the ideas, breaks the progress of the
affections, and hinders the one from influencing or contradicting the
other?

An heroic and burlesque design, united in one picture, would be
monstrous; though we place two pictures of so opposite a character in the
same chamber, and even close by each other, without any scruple or
difficulty.

In a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by comparison, or by
the passions they separately produce, unless they be united together by
some relation, which may cause an easy transition of the ideas, and
consequently of the emotions or impressions, attending the ideas; and may
preserve the one impression in the passage of the imagination to the
object of the other. This principle is very remarkable, because it is
analogous to what we have observed both concerning the understanding and
the passions. Suppose two objects to be presented to me, which are not
connected by any kind of relation. Suppose that each of these objects
separately produces a passion; and that these two passions are in
themselves contrary: We find from experience, that the want of relation
in the objects or ideas hinders the natural contrariety of the passions,
and that the break in the transition of the thought removes the
affections from each other, and prevents their opposition. It is the same
case with comparison; and from both these phaenomena we may safely
conclude, that the relation of ideas must forward the transition of
impressions; since its absence alone is able to prevent it, and to
separate what naturally should have operated upon each other. When the
absence of an object or quality re moves any usual or natural effect, we
may certalnly conclude that its presence contributes to the production of
the effect.



SECT. IX  OF THE MIXTURE OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER
            WITH COMPASSION AND MALICE


Thus we have endeavoured to account for pity and malice. Both these
affections arise from the imagination, according to the light, in which
it places its object. When our fancy considers directly the sentiments of
others, and enters deep into them, it makes us sensible of all the
passions it surveys, but in a particular manner of grief or sorrow. On
the contrary, when we compare the sentiments of others to our own, we
feel a sensation directly opposite to the original one, viz. a joy from
the grief of others, and a grief from their joy. But these are only the
first foundations of the affections of pity and malice. Other passions
are afterwards confounded with them. There is always a mixture of love or
tenderness with pity, and of hatred or anger with malice. But it must be
confessed, that this mixture seems at first sight to be contradictory to
my system. For as pity is an uneasiness, and malice a joy, arising from
the misery of others, pity should naturally, as in all other cases,
produce hatred; and malice, love. This contradiction I endeavour to
reconcile, after the following manner.

In order to cause a transition of passions, there is required a double
relation of impressions and ideas, nor is one relation sufficient to
produce this effect. But that we may understand the full force of this
double relation, we must consider, that it is not the present sensation
alone or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of
any passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginning to
the end. One impression may be related to another, not only when their
sensations are resembling, as we have all along supposed in the preceding
cases; but also when their im pulses or directions are similar and
correspondent. This cannot take place with regard to pride and humility;
because these are only pure sensations, without any direction or tendency
to action. We are, therefore, to look for instances of this peculiar
relation of impressions only in such affections, as are attended with a
certain appetite or desire; such as those of love and hatred,

Benevolence or the appetite, which attends love, is a desire of the
happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery; as anger
or the appetite, which attends hatred, is a desire of the misery of the
person hated, and an aversion to his happiness. A desire, therefore, of
the happiness of another, and aversion to his misery, are similar to
benevolence; and a desire of his misery and aversion to his happiness are
correspondent to anger. Now pity is a desire of happiness to another, and
aversion to his misery; as malice is the contrary appetite. Pity, then,
is related to benevolence; and malice to anger: And as benevolence has
been already found to be connected with love, by a natural and original
quality, and anger with hatred; it is by this chain the passions of pity
and malice are connected with love and hatred.

This hypothesis is founded on sufficient experience. A man, who from any
motives has entertained a resolution of performing an action, naturally
runs into every other view or motive, which may fortify that resolution,
and give it authority and influence on the mind. To confirm us in any
design, we search for motives drawn from interest, from honour, from
duty. What wonder, then, that pity and benevolence, malice, and anger,
being the same desires arising from different principles, should so
totally mix together as to be undistinguishable? As to the connexion
betwixt benevolence and love, anger and hatred, being original and
primary, it admits of no difficulty.

We may add to this another experiment, viz, that benevolence and anger,
and consequently love and hatred, arise when our happiness or misery have
any dependance on the happiness or misery of another person, without any
farther relation. I doubt not but this experiment will appear so singular
as to excuse us for stopping a moment to consider it.

Suppose, that two persons of the same trade should seek employment in a
town, that is not able to maintain both, it is plain the success of one is
perfectly incompatible with that of the other, and that whatever is for
the interest of either is contrary to that of his rival, and so vice
versa. Suppose again, that two merchants, though living in different parts
of the world, should enter into co-partnership together, the advantage or
loss of one becomes immediately the advantage or loss of his partner, and
the same fortune necessarily attends both. Now it is evident, that in the
first case, hatred always follows upon the contrariety of interests; as
in the second, love arises from their union. Let us consider to what
principle we can ascribe these passions.

It is plain they arise not from the double relations of impressions and
ideas, if we regard only the present sensation. For takeing the first
case of rivalship; though the pleasure and advantage of an antagonist
necessarily causes my pain and loss, yet to counter-ballance this, his
pain and loss causes my pleasure and advantage; and supposing him to be
unsuccessful, I may by this means receive from him a superior degree of
satisfaction. In the same manner the success of a partner rejoices me,
but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal proportion; and it is easy
to imagine, that the latter sentiment may in many cases preponderate. But
whether the fortune of a rival or partner be good or bad, I always hate
the former and love the latter.

This love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation or connexion
betwixt us; in the same manner as I love a brother or countryman. A rival
has almost as close a relation to me as a partner. For as the pleasure of
the latter causes my pleasure, and his pain my pain; so the pleasure of
the former causes my pain, and his pain my pleasure. The connexion, then,
of cause and effect is the same in both cases; and if in the one case,
the cause and effect have a farther relation of resemblance, they have
that of contrariety in the other; which, being also a species of
resemblance, leaves the matter pretty equal.

The only explication, then, we can give of this phaenomenon is derived
from that principle of a parallel direction above-mentioned. Our concern
for our own interest gives us a pleasure in the pleasure, and a pain in
the pain of a partner, after the same manner as by sympathy we feel a
sensation correspondent to those, which appear in any person, who is
present with us. On the other hand, the same concern for our interest
makes us feel a pain in the pleasure, and a pleasure in the pain of a
rival; and in short the same contrariety of sentiments as arises from
comparison and malice. Since, therefore, a parallel direction of the
affections, proceeding from interest, can give rise to benevolence or
anger, no wonder the same parallel direction, derived from sympathy and
from comparison, should have the same effect.

In general we may observe, that it is impossible to do good to others,
from whatever motive, without feeling some touches of kindness and
good-will towards them; as the injuries we do, not only cause hatred in
the person, who suffers them, but even in ourselves. These phaenomena,
indeed, may in part be accounted for from other principles.

But here there occurs a considerable objection, which it will be necessary
to examine before we proceed any farther. I have endeavoured to prove,
that power and riches, or poverty and meanness; which give rise to love
or hatred, without producing any original pleasure or uneasiness; operate
upon us by means of a secondary sensation derived from a sympathy with
that pain or satisfaction, which they produce in the person, who
possesses them. From a sympathy with his pleasure there arises love; from
that with his uneasiness, hatred. But it is a maxim, which I have just now
established, and which is absolutely necessary to the explication of the
phaenomena of pity and malice, that it is not the present sensation or
momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of any
passion, but the general bent or tendency of it from the beginning to the
end. For this reason, pity or a sympathy with pain produces love, and
that because it interests us in the fortunes of others, good or bad, and
gives us a secondary sensation correspondent to the primary; in which it
has the same influence with love and benevolence. Since then this rule
holds good in one case, why does it not prevail throughout, and why does
sympathy in uneasiness ever produce any passion beside good-will and
kindness? Is it becoming a philosopher to alter his method of reasoning,
and run from one principle to its contrary, according to the particular
phaenomenon, which he would explain?

I have mentioned two different causes, from which a transition of passion
may arise, viz, a double relation of ideas and impressions, and what is
similar to it, a conformity in the tendency and direction of any two
desires, which arise from different principles. Now I assert, that when a
sympathy with uneasiness is weak, it produces hatred or contempt by the
former cause; when strong, it produces love or tenderness by the latter.
This is the solution of the foregoing difficulty, which seems so urgent;
and this is a principle founded on such evident arguments, that we ought
to have established it, even though it were not necessary to the
explication of any phaenomenon.

It is certain, that sympathy is not always limited to the present moment,
but that we often feel by communication the pains and pleasures of
others, which are not in being, and which we only anticipate by the force
of imagination. For supposing I saw a person perfectly unknown to me,
who, while asleep in the fields, was in danger of being trod under foot
by horses, I should immediately run to his assistance; and in this I
should be actuated by the same principle of sympathy, which makes me
concerned for the present sorrows of a stranger. The bare mention of this
is sufficient. Sympathy being nothing but a lively idea converted into an
impression, it is evident, that, in considering the future possible or
probable condition of any person, we may enter into it with so vivid a
conception as to make it our own concern; and by that means be sensible.
of pains and pleasures, which neither belong to ourselves, nor at the
present instant have any real existence.

But however we may look forward to the future in sympathizing with any
person, the extending of our sympathy depends in a great measure upon our
sense of his present condition. It is a great effort of imagination, to
form such lively ideas even of the present sentiments of others as to
feel these very sentiments; but it is impossible we coued extend this
sympathy to the future, without being aided by some circumstance in the
present, which strikes upon us in a lively manner. When the present
misery of another has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the
conception is not confined merely to its immediate object, but diffuses
its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion of
all the circumstances of that person, whether past, present, or future;
possible, probable or certain. By means of this lively notion I am
interested in them; take part with them; and feel a sympathetic motion in
my breast, conformable to whatever I imagine in his. If I diminish the
vivacity of the first conception, I diminish that of the related ideas;
as pipes can convey no more water than what arises at the fountain. By
this diminution I destroy the future prospect, which is necessary to
interest me perfectly in the fortune of another. I may feel the present
impression, but carry my sympathy no farther, and never transfuse the
force of the first conception into my ideas of the related objects. If it
be another's misery, which is presented in this feeble manner, I receive
it by communication, and am affected with all the passions related to it:
But as I am not so much interested as to concern myself in his good
fortune, as well as his bad, I never feel the extensive sympathy, nor the
passions related to it.

Now in order to know what passions are related to these different kinds
of sympathy, we must consider, that benevolence is an original pleasure
arising from the pleasure of the person beloved, and a pain proceeding
from his pain: From which correspondence of impressions there arises a
subsequent desire of his pleasure, and aversion to his pain. In order,
then, to make a passion run parallel with benevolence, it is requisite we
should feel these double impressions, correspondent to those of the
person, whom we consider; nor is any one of them alone sufficient for
that purpose. When we sympathize only with one impression, and that a
painful one, this sympathy is related to anger and to hatred, upon
account of the uneasiness it conveys to us. But as the extensive or
limited sympathy depends upon the force of the first sympathy; it
follows, that the passion of love or hatred depends upon the same
principle. A strong impression, when communicated, gives a double
tendency of the passions; which is related to benevolence and love by a
similarity of direction; however painful the first impression might have
been. A weak impression, that is painful, is related to anger and hatred
by the resemblance of sensations. Benevolence, therefore, arises from a
great degree of misery, or any degree strongly sympathized with: Hatred
or contempt from a small degree, or one weakly sympathized with; which is
the principle I intended to prove and explain.

Nor have we only our reason to trust to for this principle, but also
experience. A certain degree of poverty produces contempt; but a degree
beyond causes compassion and good-will. We may under-value a peasant or
servant; but when the misery of a beggar appears very great, or is
painted in very lively colours, we sympathize with him in his
afflictions; and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and
benevolence. The same object causes contrary passions according to its
different degrees. The passions, therefore, must depend upon principles,
that operate in such certain degrees, according to my hypothesis. The
encrease of the sympathy has evidently the same effect as the encrease of
the misery.

A barren or desolate country always seems ugly and disagreeable, and
commonly inspires us with contempt for the inhabitants. This deformity,
however, proceeds in a great measure from a sympathy with the
inhabitants, as has been already observed; but it is only a weak one, and
reaches no farther than the immediate sensation, which is disagreeable.
The view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent sentiments; because we
there enter so deep into the interests of the miserable inhabitants, as
to wish for their prosperity, as well as feel their adversity.

But though the force of the impression generally produces pity and
benevolence, it is certain, that by being carryed too far it ceases to
have that effect. This, perhaps, may be worth our notice. When the
uneasiness is either small in itself, or remote from us, it engages not
the imagination, nor is able to convey an equal concern for the future
and contingent good, as for the present and real evil Upon its acquiring
greater force, we become so interested in the concerns of the person, as
to be sensible both of his good and had fortune; and from that compleat
sympathy there arises pity and benevolence. But it will easily be
imagined, that where the present evil strikes with more than ordinary
force, it may entirely engage our attention, and prevent that double
sympathy, above-mentioned. Thus we find, that though every one, but
especially women, are apt to contract a kindness for criminals, who go to
the scaffold, and readily imagine them to be uncommonly handsome and
wellshaped; yet one, who is present at the cruel execution of the rack,
feels no such tender emotions; but is in a manner overcome with horror,
and has no leisure to temper this uneasy sensation by any opposite
sympathy.

But the instance, which makes the most clearly for my hypothesis, is that
wherein by a change of the objects we separate the double sympathy even
from a midling degree of the passion; in which case we find, that pity,
instead of producing love and tenderness as usual, always gives rise to
the contrary affection. When we observe a person in misfortunes, we are
affected with pity and love; but the author of that misfortune becomes
the object of our strongest hatred, and is the more detested in
proportion to the degree of our compassion. Now for what reason should
the same passion of pity produce love to the person, who suffers the
misfortune, and hatred to the person, who causes it; unless it be because
in the latter case the author bears a relation only to the misfortune;
whereas in considering the sufferer we carry our view on every side, and
wish for his prosperity, as well as are sensible of his affliction?

I. shall just observe, before I leave the present subject, that this
phaenomenon of the double sympathy, and its tendency to cause love, may
contribute to the production of the kindness, which we naturally bear our
relations and acquaintance. Custom and relation make us enter deeply into
the sentiments of others; and whatever fortune we suppose to attend them,
is rendered present to us by the imagination, and operates as if
originally our own. We rejoice in their pleasures, and grieve for their
sorrows, merely from the force of sympathy. Nothing that concerns them is
indifferent to us; and as this correspondence of sentiments is the
natural attendant of love, it readily produces that affection.



SECT. X  OF RESPECT AND CONTEMPT


There now remains only to explain the passion of respect and contempt,
along with the amorous affection, in. order to understand all the
passions which have any mixture of love or hatred. Let us begin with
respect and contempt.

In considering the qualities and circumstances of others, we may either
regard them as they really are in themselves; or may make a comparison
betwixt them and our own qualities and circumstances; or may join these
two methods of consideration. The good qualities of others, from the
first point of view, produce love; from the second, humility; and from
the third, respect; which is a mixture of these two passions. Their bad
qualities, after the same manner, cause either hatred, or pride, or
contempt, according to the light in which we survey them.

That there is a mixture of pride in contempt, and of humility in respect,
is, I think, too evident, from their very feeling or appearance, to
require any particular proof. That this mixture arises from a tacit
comparison of the person contemned or respected with ourselves is no less
evident. The same man may cause either respect, love, or contempt by his
condition and talents, according as the person, who considers him, from
his inferior becomes his equal or superior. In changing the point of
view, though the object may remain the same, its proportion to ourselves
entirely alters; which is the cause of an alteration in the passions.
These passions, therefore, arise from our observing the proportion; that
is, from a comparison.

I have already observed, that the mind has a much stronger propensity to
pride than to humility, and have endeavoured, from the principles of
human nature, to assign a cause for this phaenomenon. Whether my
reasoning be received or not, the phaenomenon is undisputed, and appears
in many instances. Among the rest, it is the reason why there is a much
greater mixture of pride in contempt, than of humility in respect, and
why we are more elevated with the view of one below us, than mortifyed
with the presence of one above us. Contempt or scorn has so strong a
tincture of pride, that there scarce is any other passion discernable:
Whereas in esteem or respect, love makes a more considerable ingredient
than humility. The passion of vanity is so prompt, that it rouzes at the
least call; while humility requires a stronger impulse to make it exert
itself.

But here it may reasonably be asked, why this mixture takes place only in
some cases, and appears not on every occasion. All those objects, which
cause love, when placed on another person, are the causes of pride, when
transfered to ourselves; and consequently ought to be causes of humility,
as well as love, while they belong to others, and are only compared to
those, which we ourselves possess. In like manner every quality, which,
by being directly considered, produces hatred, ought always to give rise
to pride by comparison, and by a mixture of these passions of hatred and
pride ought to excite contempt or scorn. The difficulty then is, why any
objects ever cause pure love or hatred, and produce not always the mixt
passions of respect and contempt.

I have supposed all along, that the passions of love and pride, and those
of humility and hatred are similar in their sensations, and that the two
former are always agreeable, and the two latter painful. But though this
be universally true, it is observable, that the two agreeable, as well as
the two painful passions, have some difference, and even contrarieties,
which distinguish them. Nothing invigorates and exalts the mind equally
with pride and vanity; though at the same time love or tenderness is
rather found to weaken and infeeble it. The same difference is observable
betwixt the uneasy passions. Anger and hatred bestow a new force on all
our thoughts and actions; while humility and shame deject and discourage
us. Of these qualities of the passions, it will be necessary to form a
distinct idea. Let us remember, that pride and hatred invigorate the
soul; and love and humility infeeble it.

From this it follows, that though the conformity betwixt love and hatred
in the agreeableness of their sensation makes them always be excited by
the same objects, yet this other contrariety is the reason, why they are
excited in very different degrees. Genius and learning are pleasant and
magnificent objects, and by both these circumstances are adapted to pride
and vanity; but have a relation to love by their pleasure only. Ignorance
and simplicity are disagreeable and mean, which in the same manner gives
them a double connexion with humility, and a single one with hatred. We
may, therefore, consider it as certain, that though the same object always
produces love and pride, humility and hatred, according to its different
situations, yet it seldom produces either the two former or the two
latter passions, in the same proportion.

It is here we must seek for a solution of the difficulty above-mentioned,
why any object ever excites pure love or hatred, and does not always
produce respect or contempt, by a mixture of humility or pride. No
quality in another gives rise to humility by comparison, unless it would
have produced pride by being placed in ourselves; and vice versa no
object excites pride by comparison, unless it would have produced
humility by the direct survey. This is evident, objects always produce by
comparison a sensation directly contrary to their original one. Suppose,
therefore, an object to be presented, which is peculiarly fitted to
produce love, but imperfectly to excite pride; this object, belonging to
another, gives rise directly to a great degree of love, but to a small
one of humility by comparison; and consequently that latter passion is
scarce felt in the compound, nor is able to convert the love into
respect. This is the case with good nature, good humour, facility,
generosity, beauty, and many other qualities. These have a peculiar
aptitude to produce love in others; but not so great a tendency to excite
pride in ourselves: For which reason the view of them, as belonging to
another person, produces pure love, with but a small mixture of humility
and respect. It is easy to extend the same reasoning to the opposite
passions.

Before we leave this subject, it may not be amiss to account for a pretty
curious phaenomenon, viz, why we commonly keep at a distance such as we
contemn, and allow not our inferiors to approach too near even in place
and situation. It has already been observed, that almost every kind of
idea is attended with some emotion, even the ideas of number and
extension, much more those of such objects as are esteemed of consequence
in life, and fix our attention. It is not with entire indifference we can
survey either a rich man or a poor one, but must feel some faint touches
at least, of respect in the former case, and of contempt in the latter.
These two passions are contrary to each other; but in order to make this
contrariety be felt, the objects must be someway related; otherwise the
affections are totally separate and distinct, and never encounter. The
relation takes place wherever the persons become contiguous; which is a
general reason why we are uneasy at seeing such disproportioned objects,
as a rich man and a poor one, a nobleman and a porter, in that situation.

This uneasiness, which is common to every spectator, must be more
sensible to the superior; and that because the near approach of the
inferior is regarded as .a piece of illbreeding, and shews that he is not
sensible of the disproportion, and is no way affected by it. A sense of
superiority in another breeds in all men an inclination to keep
themselves at a distance from him, and determines them to redouble the
marks of respect and reverence, when they are obliged to approach him;
and where they do not observe that conduct, it is a proof they are not
sensible of his superiority. From hence too it proceeds, that any great
difference in the degrees of any quality is called a distance by a common
metaphor, which, however trivial it may appear, is founded on natural
principles of the imagination. A great difference inclines us to produce
a distance. The ideas of distance and difference are, therefore,
connected together. Connected ideas are readily taken for each other; and
this is in general the source of the metaphor, as we shall have occasion
to observe afterwards.



SECT. XI  OF THE AMOROUS PASSION, OR LOVE BETWIXT THE SEXES


Of all the compound passions, which proceed from a mixture of love and
hatred with other affections, no one better deserves our attention, than
that love, which arises betwixt the sexes, as well on account of its
force and violence, as those curious principles of philosophy, for which
it affords us an uncontestable argument. It is plain, that this affection,
in its most natural state, is derived from the conjunction of three
different impressions or passions, viz. The pleasing sensation arising
from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation; and a generous kindness
or good-will. The origin of kindness from beauty may be explained from
the foregoing reasoning. The question is how the bodily appetite is
excited by it.

The appetite of generation, when confined to a certain degree, is
evidently of the pleasant kind, and has a strong connexion with, all the
agreeable emotions. Joy, mirth. vanity, and kindness are all incentives
to this desire; as well as music, dancing, wine, and good cheer. On the
other hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility are destructive of it.
From this quality it is easily conceived why it should be connected with
the sense of beauty.

But there is another principle that contributes to the same effect. I
have observed that the parallel direction of the desires is a real
relation, and no less than a resemblance in their sensation, produces a
connexion among them. That we may fully comprehend the extent of this
relation, we must consider, that any principal desire may be attended
with subordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to which if other
desires are parallel, they are by that means related to the principal
one. Thus hunger may oft be considered as the primary inclination of the
soul, and the desire of approaching the meat as the secondary one; since
it is absolutely necessary to the satisfying that appetite. If an object,
therefore, by any separate qualities, inclines us to approach the meat,
it naturally encreases our appetite; as on the contrary, whatever
inclines us to set our victuals at a distance, is contradictory to
hunger, and diminishes our inclination to them. Now it is plain that
beauty has the first effect, and deformity the second: Which is the
reason why the former gives us a keener appetite for our victuals, and
the latter is sufficient to disgust us at the most savoury dish. that
cookery has invented. All this is easily applicable to the appetite for
generation.

From these two relations, viz, resemblance and a parallel desire, there
arises such a connexion betwixt the sense of beauty, the bodily appetite,
and benevolence, that they become in a manner inseparable: And we find
from experience that it is indifferent which of them advances first; since
any of them is almost sure to be attended with the related affections.
One, who is inflamed with lust, feels at least a momentary kindness
towards the object of it, and at the same time fancies her more beautiful
than ordinary; as there are many, who begin with kindness and esteem for
the wit and merit of the person, and advance from that to the other
passions. But the most common species of love is that which first arises
from beauty, and afterwards diffuses itself into kindness and into the
bodily appetite. Kindness or esteem, and the appetite to generation, are
too remote to unite easily together. The one is, perhaps, the most
refined passion of the soul; the other the most gross and vulgar. The
love of beauty is placed in a just medium betwixt them, and partakes of
both their natures: From whence it proceeds, that it is so singularly
fitted to produce both.

This account of love is not peculiar to my system, but is unavoidable on
any hypothesis. The three affections, which compose this passion, are
evidently distinct, and has each of them its distinct object. It is
certain, therefore, that it is only by their relation they produce each
other. But the relation of passions is not alone sufficient. It is
likewise necessary, there should be a relation of ideas. The beauty of one
person never inspires us with love for another. This then is a sensible
proof of the double relation of impressions and ideas. From one instance
so evident as this we may form a judgment of the rest.

This may also serve in another view to illustrate what I have insisted on
concerning the origin of pride and humility, love and hatred. I have
observed, that though self be the object of the first set of passions, and
some other person of the second, yet these objects cannot alone be the
causes of the passions; as having each of them a relation to two contrary
affections, which must from the very first moment destroy each other.
Here then is the situation of the mind, as I have already described it.
It has certain organs naturally fitted to produce a passion; that
passion, when produced, naturally turns the view to a certain object. But
this not being sufficient to produce the passion, there is required some
other emotion, which by a double relation of impressions and ideas may
set these principles in action, and bestow on them their first impulse.
This situation is still more remarkable with regard to the appetite of
generation. Sex is not only the object, but also the cause of the
appetite. We not only turn our view to it, when actuated by that
appetite; but the reflecting on it suffices to excite the appetite. But
as this cause loses its force by too great frequency, it is necessary it
should be quickened by some new impulse; and that impulse we find to
arise from the beauty of the person; that is, from a double relation of
impressions and ideas. Since this double relation is necessary where an
affection has both a distinct cause, and object, how much more so, where
it has only a distinct object, without any determinate cause?



SECT. XII  OF THE LOVE AND HATRED OF ANIMALS


But to pass from the passions of love and hatred, and from their mixtures
and compositions, as they appear m man, to the same affections, as they
display themselves in brutes; we may observe, not only that love and
hatred are common to the whole sensitive creation, but likewise that
their causes, as above-explained, are of so simple a nature, that they
may easily be supposed to operate on mere animals. There is no force of
reflection or penetration required. Every thing is conducted by springs
and principles, which are not peculiar to man, or any one species of
animals. The conclusion from this is obvious in favour of the foregoing
system.

Love in animals, has not for its only object animals of the same species,
but extends itself farther, and comprehends almost every sensible and
thinking being. A dog naturally loves a man above his own species, and
very commonly meets with a return of affection.

As animals are but little susceptible either of the pleasures or pains of
the imagination, they can judge of objects only by the sensible good or
evil, which they produce, and from that must regulate their affections
towards them. Accordingly we find, that by benefits or injuries we
produce their love or hatred; and that by feeding and cherishing any
animal, we quickly acquire his affections; as by beating and abusing him
we never fail to draw on us his enmity and ill-will.

Love in beasts is not caused so much by relation, as in our species; and
that because their thoughts are not so active as to trace relations,
except in very obvious instances. Yet it is easy to remark, that on some
occasions it has a considerable influence upon them. Thus acquaintance,
which has the same effect as relation, always produces love in animals
either to men or to each other. For the same reason any likeness among
them is the source of affection. An ox confined to a park with horses,
will naturally join their company, if I may so speak, but always leaves
it to enjoy that of his own species, where he has the choice of both.

The affection of parents to their young proceeds from a peculiar instinct
in animals, as well as in our species.

It is evident, that sympathy, or the communication of passions, takes
place among animals, no less than among men. Fear, anger, courage, and
other affections are frequently communicated from one animal to another,
without their knowledge of that cause, which produced the original
passion. Grief likewise is received by sympathy; and produces almost all
the same consequences, and excites the same emotions as in our species.
The howlings and lamentations of a dog produce a sensible concern in his
fellows. And it is remarkable, that though almost all animals use in play
the same member, and nearly the same action as in fighting; a lion, a
tyger, a cat their paws; an ox his horns; a dog his teeth; a horse his
heels: Yet they most carefully avoid harming their companion, even though
they have nothing to fear from his resentment; which is an evident proof
of the sense brutes have of each other's pain and pleasure.

Every one has observed how much more dogs are animated when they hunt in
a pack, than when they pursue their game apart; and it is evident this can
proceed from nothing but from sympathy. It is also well known to hunters,
that this effect follows in a greater degree, and even in too .great a
degree, where two packs, that are strangers to each other, are joined
together. We might, perhaps, be at a loss to explain this phaenomenon, if
we had not experience of a similar in ourselves.

Envy and malice are passions very remarkable in animals. They are perhaps
more common than pity; as requiring less effort of thought and
imagination.




PART III  OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS



SECT. I  OF LIBERTY AND NECESSITY


We come now to explain the direct passions, or the impressions, which
arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. Of this kind
are, desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear.

Of all the immediate effects of pain and pleasure, there is none more
remarkable than the WILL; and though properly speaking, it be not
comprehended among the passions, yet as the full understanding of its
nature and properties, is necessary to the explanation of them, we shall
here make it the subject of our enquiry. I desire it may be observed,
that by the will, I mean nothing but the internal impression we feel and
are conscious of, when we knowingly give rise to any new motion of our
body, or new perception of our mind. This impression, like the preceding
ones of pride and humility, love and hatred, it is impossible to define,
and needless to describe any farther; for which reason we shall cut off
all those definitions and distinctions, with which philosophers are wont
to perplex rather than dear up this question; and entering at first upon
the subject, shall examine that long disputed question concerning liberty
and necessity; which occurs so naturally in treating of the will.

It is universally acknowledged, that the operations of external bodies are
necessary, and that in the communication of their motion, in their
attraction, and mutual cohesion, there are nor the least traces of
indifference or liberty. Every object is determined by an absolute fate
toa 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
into an angel, or spirit, or any superior substance. The actions,
therefore, of matter are to be regarded as instances of necessary
actions; and whatever is in this respect on the same footing with matter,
must be acknowledged to be necessary. That we may know whether this be
the case with the actions of the mind, we shall begin with examining
matter, and considering on what the idea of a necessity in its operations
are founded, and why we conclude one body or action to be the infallible
cause of another.

It has been observed already, that in no single instance the ultimate
connexion of any objects is discoverable, either by our senses or reason,
and that we can never penetrate so far into the essence and construction
of bodies, as to perceive the principle, on which their mutual influence
depends. It is their constant union alone, with which we are acquainted;
and it is from the constant union the necessity arises. If objects had nor
an uniform and regular conjunction with each other, we should never
arrive at any idea of cause and effect; and even after all, the
necessity, which enters into that idea, is nothing but a determination of
the mind to pass from one object to its usual attendant, and infer the
existence of one from that of the other. Here then are two particulars,
which we are to consider as essential to necessity, viz, the constant
union and the inference of the mind; and wherever we discover these we
must acknowledge a necessity. As the actions of matter have no necessity,
but what is derived from these circumstances, and it is not by any
insight into the essence of bodies we discover their connexion, the
absence of this insight, while the union and inference remain, will
never, in any case, remove the necessity. It is the observation of the
union, which produces the inference; for which reason it might be thought
sufficient, if we prove a constant union in the actions of the mind, in
order to establish the inference, along with the necessity of these
actions. But that I may bestow a greater force on my reasoning, I shall
examine these particulars apart, and shall first prove from experience
that our actions have a constant union with our motives, tempers, and
circumstances, before I consider the inferences we draw from it.

To this end a very slight and general view of the common course of human
affairs will be sufficient. There is no light, in which we can take them,
that does nor confirm this principle. Whether we consider mankind
according to the difference of sexes, ages, governments, conditions, or
methods of education; the same uniformity and regular operation of
natural principles are discernible. Uke causes still produce like
effects; in the same manner as in the mutual action of the elements and
powers of nature.

There are different trees, which regularly produce fruit, whose relish is
different from each other; and this regularity will be admitted as an
instance of necessity and causes in external bodies. But are the products
of Guienne and of Champagne more regularly different than the sentiments,
actions, and passions of the two sexes, of which the one are
distinguished by their force and maturity, the other by their delicacy
and softness?

Are the changes of our body from infancy to old age more regular and
certain than those of our mind and conduct? And would a man be more
ridiculous, who would expect that an infant of four years old will raise
a weight of three hundred pound, than one, who from a person of the same
age. would look for a philosophical reasoning, or a prudent and
well-concerted action?

We must certainly allow, that the cohesion of the parts of matter arises
from natural and necessary principles, whatever difficulty we may find in
explaining them: And for a reason we must allow, that human society is
founded on like principles; and our reason in the latter case, is better
than even that in the former; because we not only observe, that men
always seek society, but can also explain the principles, on which this
universal propensity is founded. For is it more certain, that two flat
pieces of marble will unite together, than that two young savages of
different sexes will copulate? Do the children arise from this copulation
more uniformly, than does the parents care for their safety and
preservation? And after they have arrived at years of discretion by the
care of their parents, are the inconveniencies attending their separation
more certain than their foresight of these inconveniencies and their care
of avoiding them by a close union and confederacy?

The skin, pores, muscles, and nerves of a day-labourer are different from
those of a man of quality: So are his sentiments, actions and manners.
The different stations of life influence the whole fabric, external and
internal; and different stations arise necessarily, because uniformly,
from the necessary and uniform principles of human nature. Men cannot
live without society, and cannot be associated without government.
Government makes a distinction of property, and establishes the different
ranks of men. This produces industry, traffic, manufactures, law-suits,
war, leagues, alliances, voyages, travels, cities, fleets, ports, and all
those other actions and objects, which cause such a diversity, and at the
same time maintain such an uniformity in human life.

Should a traveller, returning from a far country, tell us, that he had
seen a climate in the fiftieth degree of northern latitude, where all the
fruits ripen and come to perfection in the winter, and decay in the
summer, after the same manner as in England they are produced and decay
in the contrary seasons, he would find few so credulous as to believe
him. I am apt to think a travellar would meet with as little credit, who
should inform us of people exactly of the same character with those in
Plato's republic on the one hand, or those in Hobbes's Leviathan on the
other. There is a general course of nature in human actions, as well as
in the operations of the sun and the climate. There are also characters
peculiar to different nations and particular persons, as well as common
to mankind. The knowledge of these characters is founded on the
observation of an uniformity in the actions, that flow from them; and
this uniformity forms the very essence of necessity.

I can imagine only one way of eluding this argument, which is by denying
that uniformity of human actions, on which it is founded. As long as
actions have a constant union and connexion with the situation and temper
of the agent, however we may in words refuse to acknowledge the
necessity, we really allow the thing. Now some may, perhaps, find a
pretext to deny this regular union and connexion. For what is more
capricious than human actions? What more inconstant than the desires of
man? And what creature departs more widely, not only from right reason,
but from his own character and disposition? An hour, a moment is
sufficient to make him change from one extreme to another, and overturn
what cost the greatest pain and labour to establish. Necessity is regular
and certain. Human conduct is irregular and uncertain. The one,
therefore, proceeds not from the other.

To this I reply, that in judging of the actions of men we must proceed
upon the same maxims, as when we reason concerning external objects. When
any phaenomena are constantly and invariably conjoined together, they
acquire such a connexion in the imagination, that it passes from one to
the other, without any doubt or hesitation. But below this there are many
inferior degrees of evidence and probability, nor does one single
contrariety of experiment entirely destroy all our reasoning. The mind
ballances the contrary experiments, and deducting the inferior from the
superior, proceeds with that degree of assurance or evidence, which
remains. Even when these contrary experiments are entirely equal, we
remove not the notion of causes and necessity; but supposing that the
usual contrariety proceeds from the operation of contrary and concealed
causes, we conclude, that the chance or indifference lies only in our
judgment on account of our imperfect knowledge, not in the things
themselves, which are in every case equally necessary, though to
appearance not equally constant or certain. No union can be more constant
and certain, than that of some actions with some motives and characters;
and if in other cases the union is uncertain, it is no more than what
happens in the operations of body, nor can we conclude any thing from the
one irregularity, which will not follow equally from the other.

It is commonly allowed that mad-men have no liberty. But were we to judge
by their actions, these have less regularity and constancy than the
actions of wise-men, and consequently are farther removed from necessity.
Our way of thinking in this particular is, therefore, absolutely
inconsistent; but is a natural consequence of these confused ideas and
undefined terms, which we so commonly make use of in our reasonings,
especially on the present subject.

We must now shew, that as the union betwixt motives and actions has the
same constancy, as that in any natural operations, so its influence on
the understanding is also the same, in determining us to infer the
existence of one from that of another. If this shall appear, there is no
known circumstance, that enters into the connexion and production of the
actions of matter, that is not to be found in all the operations of the
mind; and consequently we cannot, without a manifest absurdity, attribute
necessity to the one, and refuse into the other.

There is no philosopher, whose judgment is so riveted to this fantastical
system of liberty, as not to acknowledge the force of moral evidence, and
both in speculation and practice proceed upon it, as upon a reasonable
foundation. Now moral evidence is nothing but a conclusion concerning the
actions of men, derived from the consideration of their motives, temper
and situation. Thus when we see certain characters or figures described
upon paper, we infer that the person, who produced them, would affirm
such facts, the death of Caesar, the success of Augustus, the cruelty of
Nero; and remembering many other concurrent testimonies we conclude, that
those facts were once really existant, and that so many men, without any
interest, would never conspire to deceive us; especially since they must,
in the attempt, expose themselves to the derision of all their
contemporaries, when these facts were asserted to be recent and
universally known. The same kind of reasoning runs through politics, war,
commerce, economy, and indeed mixes itself so entirely in human life,
that it is impossible to act or subsist a moment without having recourse
to it. A prince, who imposes a tax upon his subjects, expects their
compliance. A general, who conducts an army, makes account of a certain
degree of courage. A merchant looks for fidelity and skill in his factor
or super-cargo. A man, who gives orders for his dinner, doubts not of the
obedience of his servants. In short, as nothing more nearly interests us
than our own actions and those of others, the greatest part of our
reasonings is employed in judgments concerning them. Now I assert, that
whoever reasons after this manner, does ipso facto believe the actions of
the will to arise from necessity, and that he knows not what he means,
when he denies it.

All those objects, of which we call the one cause and the other effect,
considered in themselves, are as distinct and separate from each other,
as any two things in nature, nor can we ever, by the most accurate survey
of them, infer the existence of the one from that of the other. It is only
from experience and the observation of their constant union, that we are
able to form this inference; and even after all, the inference is nothing
but the effects of custom on the imagination. We must not here be content
with saying, that the idea of cause and effect arises from objects
constantly united; but must affirm, that it is the very same with the idea
of those objects, and that the necessary connexion is not discovered by a
conclusion of the understanding, but is merely a perception of the mind.
Wherever, therefore, we observe the same union, and wherever the union
operates in the same manner upon the belief and opinion, we have the idea
of causes and necessity, though perhaps we may avoid those expressions.
Motion in one body in all past instances, that have fallen under our
observation, is followed upon impulse by motion in another. It is
impossible for the mind to penetrate farther. From this constant union it
forms the idea of cause and effect, and by its influence feels the
necessity. As there is the same constancy, and the same influence in what
we call moral evidence, I ask no more. What remains can only be a dispute
of words.

And indeed, when we consider how aptly natural and moral evidence cement
together, and form only one chain of argument betwixt them, we shall make
no scruple to allow, that they are of the same nature, and derived from
the same principles. A prisoner, who has neither money nor interest,
discovers the impossibility of his escape, as well from the obstinacy of
the goaler, as from the walls and bars with which he is surrounded; and
in all attempts for his freedom chuses rather to work upon the stone and
iron of the one, than upon the inflexible nature of the other. The same
prisoner, when conducted to the scaffold, foresees his death as certainly
from the constancy and fidelity of his guards as from the operation of
the ax or wheel. His mind runs along a certain train of ideas: The
refusal of the soldiers to consent to his escape, the action of the
executioner; the separation of the head and body; bleeding, convulsive
motions, and death. Here is a connected chain of natural causes and
voluntary actions; but the mind feels no difference betwixt them in
passing from one link to another; nor is less certain of the future event
than if it were connected with the present impressions of the memory and
senses by a train of causes cemented together by what we are pleased to
call a physical necessity. The same experienced union has the same effect
on the mind, whether the united objects be motives, volitions and
actions; or figure and motion. We may change the names of things; but
their nature and their operation on the understanding never change.

I dare be positive no one will ever endeavour to refute these reasonings
otherwise than by altering my definitions, and assigning a different
meaning to the terms of cause, and effect, and necessity, and liberty,
and chance. According to my definitions, necessity makes an essential
part of causation; and consequently liberty, by removing necessity,
removes also causes, and is the very same thing with chance. As chance is
commonly thought to imply a contradiction, and is at least directly
contrary to experience, there are always the same arguments against
liberty or free-will. If any one alters the definitions, I cannot pretend
to argue with him, until I know the meaning he assigns to these terms.



SECT. II  THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUed


I believe we may assign the three following reasons for the prevalance of
the doctrine of liberty, however absurd it may be in one sense, and
unintelligible in any other. First, After we have performed any action;
though we confess we were influenced by particular views and motives; it
is difficult for us to persuade ourselves we were governed by necessity,
and that it was utterly impossible for us to have acted otherwise; the
idea of necessity seeming to imply something of force, and violence, and
constraint, of which we are not sensible. Few are capable of
distinguishing betwixt the liberty of spontaniety, as it is called in the
schools, and the liberty of indifference; betwixt that which is opposed
to violence, and that which means a negation of necessity and causes. The
first is even the most common sense of the word; and as it is only that
species of liberty, which it concerns us to preserve, our thoughts have
been principally turned towards it, and have almost universally
confounded it with the other.

Secondly, There is a false sensation or experience even of the liberty of
indifference; which is regarded as an argument for its real existence.
The necessity of any action, whether of matter or of the mind, is not
properly a quality in the agent, but in any thinking or intelligent
being, who may consider the action, and consists in the determination of
his thought to infer its existence from some preceding objects: As
liberty or chance, on the other hand, is nothing but the want of that
determination, and a certain looseness, which we feel in passing or not
passing from the idea of one to that of the other. Now we may observe,
that though in reflecting on human actions we seldom feel such a looseness
or indifference, yet it very commonly happens, that in performing the
actions themselves we are sensible of something like it: And as all
related or resembling objects are readily taken for each other, this has
been employed as a demonstrative or even an intuitive proof of human
liberty. We feel that our actions are subject to our will on most
occasions, and imagine we feel that the will itself is subject to
nothing; because when by a denial of it we are provoked to try, we feel
that it moves easily every way, and produces an image of itself even on
that side, on which it did not settle. This image or faint motion, we
persuade ourselves, coued have been compleated into the thing itself;
because, should that be denyed, we find, upon a second trial, that it
can. But these efforts are all in vain; and whatever capricious and
irregular actions we may perform; as the desire of showing our liberty is
the sole motive of our actions; we can never free ourselves from the
bonds of necessity. We may imagine we feel a liberty within ourselves;
but a spectator can commonly infer our actions from our motives and
character; and even where he cannot, he concludes in general, that he
might, were he perfectly acquainted with every circumstance of our
situation and temper, and the most secret springs of our complexion and
disposition. Now this is the very essence of necessity, according to the
foregoing doctrine.

A third reason why the doctrine of liberty has generally been better
received in the world, than its antagonist, proceeds from religion, which
has been very unnecessarily interested in this question. There is no
method of reasoning more common, and yet none more blameable, than in
philosophical debates to endeavour to refute any hypothesis by a pretext
of its dangerous consequences to religion and morality. When any opinion
leads us into absurdities, it is certainly false; but it is not certain an
opinion is false, because it is of dangerous consequence. Such topics,
therefore, ought entirely to be foreborn, as serving nothing to the
discovery of truth, but only to make the person of an antagonist odious.
This I observe in general, without pretending to draw any advantage from
it. I submit myself frankly to an examination of this kind, and dare
venture to affirm, that the doctrine of necessity, according to my
explication of it, is not only innocent, but even advantageous to
religion and morality.

I define necessity two ways, conformable to the two definitions of cause,
of which it makes an essential part. I place it either in the constant
union and conjunction of like objects, or in the inference of the mind
from the one to the other. Now necessity, in both these senses, has
universally, though tacitely, in the schools, in the pulpit, and in common
life, been allowed to belong to the will of man, and no one has ever
pretended to deny, that we can draw inferences concerning human actions,
and that those inferences are founded on the experienced union of like
actions with like motives and circumstances. The only particular in which
any one can differ from me, is either, that perhaps he will refuse to
call this necessity. But as long as the meaning is understood, I hope the
word can do no harm. Or that he will maintain there is something else in
the operations of matter. Now whether it be so or not is of no
consequence to religion, whatever it may be to natural philosophy. I may
be mistaken in asserting, that we have no idea of any other connexion in
the actions of body, and shall be glad to be farther instructed on that
head: But sure I am, I ascribe nothing to the actions of the mind, but
what must readily be allowed of. Let no one, therefore, put an invidious
construction on my words, by saying simply, that I assert the necessity
of human actions, and place them on the same footing with the operations
of senseless matter. I do not ascribe to the will that unintelligible
necessity, which is supposed to lie in matter. But I ascribe to matter,
that intelligible quality, call it necessity or not, which the most
rigorous orthodoxy does or must allow to belong to the will. I change,
therefore, nothing in the received systems, with regard to the will, but
only with regard to material objects.

Nay I shall go farther, and assert, that this kind of necessity is so
essential to religion and morality, that without it there must ensue an
absolute subversion of both, and that every other supposition is entirely
destructive to all laws both divine and human. It is indeed certain, that
as all human laws are founded on rewards and punishments, it is supposed
as a fundamental principle, that these motives have an influence on the
mind, and both produce the good and prevent the evil actions. We may give
to this influence what name we please; but as it is usually conjoined with
the action, common sense requires it should be esteemed a cause, and be
booked upon as an instance of that necessity, which I would establish.

This reasoning is equally solid, when applied to divine laws, so far as
the deity is considered as a legislator, and is supposed to inflict
punishment and bestow rewards with a design to produce obedience. But I
also maintain, that even where he acts not in his magisterial capacity,
but is regarded as the avenger of crimes merely on account of their
odiousness and deformity, not only it is impossible, without the necessary
connexion of cause and effect in human actions, that punishments coued be
inflicted compatible with justice and moral equity; but also that it
coued ever enter into the thoughts of any reasonable being to inflict
them. The constant and universal object of hatred or anger is a person or
creature endowed with thought and consciousness; and when any criminal or
injurious actions excite that passion, it is only by their relation to the
person or connexion with him. But according to the doctrine of liberty or
chance, this connexion is reduced to nothing, nor are men more
accountable for those actions, which are designed and premeditated, than
for such as are the most casual and accidental. Actions are by their very
nature temporary and perishing; and where they proceed not from some
cause in the characters and disposition of the person, who performed
them, they infix not themselves upon him, and can neither redound to his
honour, if good, nor infamy, if evil. The action itself may be blameable;
it may be contrary to all the rules of morality and religion: But the
person is not responsible for it; and as it proceeded from nothing in
him, that is durable or constant, and leaves nothing of that nature
behind it, it is impossible he can, upon its account, become the object of
punishment or vengeance. According to the hypothesis of liberty,
therefore, a man is as pure and untainted, after having committed the
most horrid crimes, as at the first moment of his birth, nor is his
character any way concerned in his actions; since they are not derived
from it, and the wickedness of the one can never be used as a proof of
the depravity of the other. It is only upon the principles of necessity,
that a person acquires any merit or demerit from his actions, however the
common opinion may incline to the contrary.

But so inconsistent are men with themselves, that though they often
assert, that necessity utterly destroys all merit and demerit either
towards mankind or superior powers, yet they continue still to reason upon
these very principles of necessity in all their judgments concerning this
matter. Men are not blamed for such evil actions as they perform
ignorantly and casually, whatever may be their consequences. Why? but
because the causes of these actions are only momentary, and terminate in
them alone. Men are less blamed for such evil actions, as they perform
hastily and unpremeditately, than for such as proceed from thought and
deliberation. For what reason? but because a hasty temper, though a
constant cause in the mind, operates only by intervals, and infects not
the whole character. Again, repentance wipes off every crime, especially
if attended with an evident reformation of life and manners. How is this
to be accounted for? But by asserting that actions render a person
criminal, merely as they are proofs of criminal passions or principles in
the mind; and when by any alteration of these principles they cease to be
just proofs, they likewise cease to be criminal. But according to the
doctrine of liberty or chance they never were just proofs, and
consequently never were criminal.

Here then I turn to my adversary, and desire him to free his own system
from these odious consequences before he charge them upon others. Or if
he rather chuses, that this question should be decided by fair arguments
before philosophers, than by declamations before the people, let him
return to what I have advanced to prove that liberty and chance are
synonimous; and concerning the nature of moral evidence and the
regularity of human actions. Upon a review of these reasonings, I cannot
doubt of an entire victory; and therefore having proved, that all actions
of the will have particular causes, I proceed to explain what these
causes are, and how they operate.



SECT. III  OF THE INFLUENCING MOTIVES OF THE WILL


Nothing is more usual in philosophy, and even in common life, than to
talk of the combat of passion and reason, to give the preference to
reason, and assert that men are only so far virtuous as they conform
themselves to its dictates. Every rational creature, it is said, is
obliged to regulate his actions by reason; and if any other motive or
principle challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to oppose it,
till it be entirely subdued, or at least brought to a conformity with
that superior principle. On this method of thinking the greatest part of
moral philosophy, antient and modern, seems to be founded; nor is there
an ampler field, as well for metaphysical arguments, as popular
declamations, than this supposed pre-eminence of reason above passion.
The eternity, invariableness, and divine origin of the former have been
displayed to the best advantage: The blindness, unconstancy, and
deceitfulness of the latter have been as strongly insisted on. In order
to shew the fallacy of all this philosophy, I shall endeavour to prove
first, that reason alone can never be a motive to any action of the will;
and secondly, that it can never oppose passion in the direction of the
will.

The understanding exerts itself after two different ways, as it judges
from demonstration or probability; as it regards the abstract relations
of our ideas, or those relations of objects, of which experience only
gives us information. I believe it scarce will be asserted, that the
first species of reasoning alone is ever the cause of any action. As its
proper province is the world of ideas, and as the will always places us
in that of realities, demonstration and volition seem, upon that account,
to be totally removed, from each other. Mathematics, indeed, are useful
in all mechanical operations, and arithmetic in almost every art and
profession: But it is not of themselves they have any influence: Mechanics
are the art of regulating the motions of bodies to some designed end or
purpose; and the reason why we employ arithmetic in fixing the
proportions of numbers, is only that we may discover the proportions of
their influence and operation. A merchant is desirous of knowing the sum
total of his accounts with any person: Why? but that he may learn what
sum will have the same effects in paying his debt, and going to market,
as all the particular articles taken together. Abstract or demonstrative
reasoning, therefore, never influences any of our actions, but only as it
directs our judgment concerning causes and effects; which leads us to the
second operation of the understanding.

It is obvious, that when we have the prospect of pain or pleasure from any
object, we feel a consequent emotion of aversion or propensity, and are
carryed to avoid or embrace what will give us this uneasines or
satisfaction. It is also obvious, that this emotion rests not here, but
making us cast our view on every side, comprehends whatever objects are
connected with its original one by the relation of cause and effect. Here
then reasoning takes place to discover this relation; and according as
our reasoning varies, our actions receive a subsequent variation. But
it is evident in this case that the impulse arises not from reason, but is
only directed by it. It is from the prospect of pain or pleasure that the
aversion or propensity arises towards any object: And these emotions
extend themselves to the causes and effects of that object, as they are
pointed out to us by reason and experience. It can never in the least
concern us to know, that such objects are causes, and such others
effects, if both the causes and effects be indifferent to us. Where the
objects themselves do not affect us, their connexion can never give them
any influence; and it is plain, that as reason is nothing but the
discovery of this connexion, it cannot be by its means that the objects
are able to affect us.

Since reason alone can never produce any action, or give rise to
volition, I infer, that the same faculty is as incapable of preventing
volition, or of disputing the preference with any passion or emotion.
This consequence is necessary. It is impossible reason coued have the
latter effect of preventing volition, but by giving an impulse in a
contrary direction to our passion; and that impulse, had it operated
alone, would have been able to produce volition. Nothing can oppose or
retard the impulse of passion, but a contrary impulse; and if this
contrary impulse ever arises from reason, that latter faculty must have
an original influence on the will, and must be able to cause, as well as
hinder any act of volition. But if reason has no original influence, it is
impossible it can withstand any principle, which has such an efficacy, or
ever keep the mind in suspence a moment. Thus it appears, that the
principle, which opposes our passion, cannot be the same with reason, and
is only called so in an improper sense. We speak not strictly and
philosophically when we talk of the combat of passion and of reason.
Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never
pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them. As this opinion
may appear somewhat extraordinary, it may not be improper to confirm it
by some other considerations.

A passion is an original existence, or, if you will, modification of
existence, and contains not any representative quality, which renders it
a copy of any other existence or modification. When I am angry, I am
actually possest with the passion, and in that emotion have no more a
reference to any other object, than when I am thirsty, or sick, or more
than five foot high. It is impossible, therefore, that this passion can be
opposed by, or be contradictory to truth and reason; since this
contradiction consists in the disagreement of ideas, considered as
copies, with those objects, which they represent

What may at first occur on this head, is, that as nothing can be contrary
to truth or reason, except what has a reference to it, and as the
judgments of our understanding only have this reference, it must follow,
that passions can be contrary to reason only so far as they are
accompanyed with some judgment or opinion. According to this principle,
which is so obvious and natural, it is only in two senses, that any
affection can be called unreasonable. First, When a passion, such as hope
or fear, grief or joy, despair or security, is founded on the supposition
or the existence of objects, which really do not exist. Secondly, When in
exerting any passion in action, we chuse means insufficient for the
designed end, and deceive ourselves in our judgment of causes and
effects. Where a passion is neither founded on false suppositions, nor
chuses means insufficient for the end, the understanding can neither
justify nor condemn it. It is not contrary to reason to prefer the
destruction of the whole world to the scratching of my finger. It is not
contrary to reason for me to chuse my total ruin, to prevent the least
uneasiness of an Indian or person wholly unknown to me. It is as little
contrary to reason to prefer even my own acknowledgeed lesser good to my
greater, and have a more ardent affection for the former than the latter.
A trivial good may, from certain circumstances, produce a desire superior
to what arises from the greatest and most valuable enjoyment; nor is
there any thing more extraordinary in this, than in mechanics to see one
pound weight raise up a hundred by the advantage of its situation. In
short, a passion must be accompanyed with some false judgment. in order
to its being unreasonable; and even then it is not the passion, properly
speaking, which is unreasonable, but the judgment.

The consequences are evident. Since a passion can never, in any sense, be
called unreasonable, but when founded on a false supposition. or when it
chuses means insufficient for the designed end, it is impossible, that
reason and passion can ever oppose each other, or dispute for the
government of the will and actions. The moment we perceive the falshood
of any supposition, or the insufficiency of any means our passions yield
to our reason without any opposition. I may desire any fruit as of an
excellent relish; but whenever you convince me of my mistake, my longing
ceases. I may will the performance of certain actions as means of
obtaining any desired good; but as my willing of these actions is only
secondary, and founded on the supposition, that they are causes of the
proposed effect; as soon as I discover the falshood of that supposition,
they must become indifferent to me.

It is natural for one, that does not examine objects with a strict
philosophic eye, to imagine, that those actions of the mind are entirely
the same, which produce not a different sensation, and are not
immediately distinguishable to the feeling and perception. Reason, for
instance, exerts itself without producing any sensible emotion; and
except in the more sublime disquisitions of philosophy, or in the
frivolous subtilties of the school, scarce ever conveys any pleasure or
uneasiness. Hence it proceeds, that every action of the mind, which
operates with the same calmness and tranquillity, is confounded with
reason by all those, who judge of things from the first view and
appearance. Now it is certain, there are certain calm desires and
tendencies, which, though they be real passions, produce little emotion in
the mind, and are more known by their effects than by the immediate
feeling or sensation. These desires are of two kinds; either certain
instincts originally implanted in our natures, such as benevolence and
resentment, the love of life, and kindness to children; or the general
appetite to good, and aversion to evil, considered merely as such. When
any of these passions are calm, and cause no disorder in the soul, they
are very readily taken for the determinations of reason, and are supposed
to proceed from the same faculty, with that, which judges of truth and
falshood. Their nature and principles have been supposed the same,
because their sensations are not evidently different.

Beside these calm passions, which often determine the will, there are
certain violent emotions of the same kind, which have likewise a great
influence on that faculty. When I receive any injury from another, I
often feel a violent passion of resentment, which makes me desire his
evil and punishment, independent of all considerations of pleasure and
advantage to myself. When I am immediately threatened with any grievous
ill, my fears, apprehensions, and aversions rise to a great height, and
produce a sensible emotion.

The common error of metaphysicians has lain in ascribing the direction of
the will entirely to one of these principles, and supposing the other to
have no influence. Men often act knowingly against their interest: For
which reason the view of the greatest possible good does not always
influence them. Men often counter-act a violent passion in prosecution of
their interests and designs: It is not therefore the present uneasiness
alone, which determines them. In general we may observe, that both these
principles operate on the will; and where they are contrary, that either
of them prevails, according to the general character or present
disposition of the person. What we call strength of mind, implies the
prevalence of the calm passions above the violent; though we may easily
observe, there is no man so constantly possessed of this virtue, as never
on any occasion to yield to the sollicitations of passion and desire.
From these variations of temper proceeds the great difficulty of deciding
concerning the actions and resolutions of men, where there is any
contrariety of motives and passions.



SECT. IV  OF THE CAUSES OF THE VIOLENT PASSIONS


There is not-in philosophy a subject of more nice speculation than this
of the different causes and effects of the calm and violent passions.
It is evident passions influence not the will in proportion to their
violence, or the disorder they occasion in the temper; but on the
contrary, that when a passion has once become a settled principle of
action, and is the predominant inclination of the soul, it commonly
produces no longer any sensible agitation. As repeated custom and its own
force have made every thing yield to it, it directs the actions and
conduct without that opposition and emotion, which so naturally attend
every momentary gust of passion. We must, therefore, distinguish betwixt
a calm and a weak passion; betwixt a violent and a strong one. But
notwithstanding this, it is certain, that when we would govern a man, and
push him to any action, it will commonly be better policy to work upon the
violent than the calm passions, and rather take him by his inclination,
than what is vulgarly called his reason. We ought to place the object in
such particular situations as are proper to encrease the violence of the
passion. For we may observe, that all depends upon the situation of the
object, and that a variation in this particular will be able to change
the calm and the violent passions into each other. Both these kinds of
passions pursue good, and avoid evil; and both of them are encreased or
diminished by the encrease or diminution of the good or evil. But herein
lies the difference betwixt them: The same good, when near, will cause a
violent passion, which, when remote, produces only a calm one. As this
subject belongs very properly to the present question concerning the
will, we shall here examine it to the bottom, and shall consider some of
those circumstances and situations of objects, which render a passion
either calm or violent.

It is a remarkable property of human nature, that any emotion, which
attends a passion, is easily converted into it, though in their natures
they be originally different from, and even contrary to each other. It is
true; in order to make a perfect union among passions, there is always
required a double relation of impressions and ideas; nor is one relation
sufficient for that purpose. But though this be confirmed by undoubted
experience, we must understand it with its proper limitations, and must
regard the double relation, as requisite only to make one passion produce
another. When two passions are already produced by their separate causes,
and are both present in the mind, they readily mingle and unite, though
they have but one relation, and sometimes without any. The predominant
passion swallows up the inferior, and converts it into itself. The
spirits, when once excited, easily receive a change in their direction;
and it is natural to imagine this change will come from the prevailing
affection. The connexion is in many respects closer betwixt any two
passions, than betwixt any passion and indifference.

When a person is once heartily in love, the little faults and caprices of
his mistress, the jealousies and quarrels, to which that commerce is so
subject; however unpleasant and related to anger and hatred; are yet
found to give additional force to the prevailing passion. It is a common
artifice of politicians, when they would affect any person very much by a
matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, first to excite his
curiosity; delay as long as possible the satisfying it; and by that means
raise his anxiety and impatience to the utmost, before they give him a
full insight into the business. They know that his curiosity will
precipitate him into the passion they design to raise, and assist the
object in its influence on the mind. A soldier advancing to the battle,
is naturally inspired with courage and confidence, when he thinks on his
friends and fellow-soldiers; and is struck with fear and terror, when he
reflects on the enemy. Whatever new emotion, therefore, proceeds from the
former naturally encreases the courage; as the same emotion, proceeding
from the latter, augments the fear; by the relation of ideas, and the
conversion of the inferior emotion into the predominant. Hence it is that
in martial discipline, the uniformity and lustre of our habit, the
regularity of our figures and motions, with all the pomp and majesty of
war, encourage ourselves and allies; while the same objects in the enemy
strike terror into us, though agreeable and beautiful in themselves.

Since passions, however independent, are naturally transfused into each
other, if they are both present at the same time; it follows, that when
good or evil is placed in such a situation, as to cause any particular
emotion, beside its direct passion of desire or aversion, that latter
passion must acquire new force and violence.

This happens, among other cases, whenever any object excites contrary
passions. For it is observable that an opposition of passions commonly
causes a new emotion in the spirits, and produces more disorder, than the
concurrence of any two affections of equal force. This new emotion is
easily converted into the predominant passion, and encreases its
violence, beyond the pitch it would have arrived at had it met with no
opposition. Hence we naturally desire what is forbid, and take a pleasure
in performing actions, merely because they are unlawful. The notion of
duty, when opposite to the passions, is seldom able to overcome them; and
when it fails of that effect, is apt rather to encrease them, by
producing an opposition in our motives and principles. The same effect
follows whether the opposition arises from internal motives or external
obstacles. The passion commonly acquires new force and violence in both
cases.

The efforts, which the mind makes to surmount the obstacle, excite the
spirits and inliven the passion.

Uncertainty has the same influence as opposition. The agitation of the
thought; the quick turns it makes from one view to another; the variety
of passions, which succeed each other, according to the different views;
All these produce an agitation in the mind, and transfuse themselves into
the predominant passion.

There is not in my opinion any other natural cause, why security
diminishes the passions, than because it removes that uncertainty, which
encreases them. The mind, when left to itself, immediately languishes;
and in order to preserve its ardour, must be every moment supported by a
new flow of passion. For the same reason, despair, though contrary to
security, has a like influence.

It is certain nothing more powerfully animates any affection, than to
conceal some part of its object by throwing it into a kind of shade,
which at the same time that it chews enough to pre-possess us in favour
of the object, leaves still some work for the imagination. Besides that
obscurity is always attended with a kind of uncertainty; the effort,
which the fancy makes to compleat the idea, rouzes the spirits, and gives
an additional force to the passion.

As despair and security, though contrary to each other, produce the same
effects; so absence is observed to have contrary effects, and in
different circumstances either encreases or diminishes our affections.
The Duc de La Rochefoucault has very well observed, that absence destroys
weak passions, but encreases strong; as the wind extinguishes a candle,
but blows up a fire. Long absence naturally weakens our idea, and
diminishes the passion: But where the idea is so strong and lively as to
support itself, the uneasiness, arising from absence, encreases the
passion and gives it new force and violence.



SECT. V  OF THE EFFECTS OF CUSTOM


But nothing has a greater effect both to encrease and diminish our
passions, to convert pleasure into pain, and pain into pleasure, than
custom and repetition. Custom has two original effects upon the mind, in
bestowing a facility in the performance of any action or the conception
of any object; and afterwards a tendency or inclination towards it; and
from these we may account for all its other effects, however
extraordinary.

When the soul applies itself to the performance of any action, or the
conception of any object, to which it is not accustomed, there is a
certain unpliableness in the faculties, and a difficulty of the spirit's
moving in their new direction. As this difficulty excites the spirits,
it is the source of wonder, surprize, and of all the emotions, which arise
from novelty; and is in itself very agreeable, like every thing, which
inlivens the mind to a moderate degree. But though surprize be agreeable
in itself, yet as it puts the spirits in agitation, it not only augments
our agreeable affections, but also our painful, according to the foregoing
principle, that every emotion, which precedes or attends a passion, is
easily converted into it. Hence every thing, that is new, is most
affecting, and gives us either more pleasure or pain, than what, strictly
speaking, naturally belongs to it. When it often returns upon us, the
novelty wears off; the passions subside; the hurry of the spirits is
over; and we survey the objects with greater tranquillity.

By degrees the repetition produces a facility of the human mind, and an
infallible source of pleasure, where the facility goes not beyond a
certain degree. And here it is remarkable that the pleasure, which arises
from a moderate facility, has not the same tendency with that which
arises from novelty, to augment the painful, as well as the agreeable
affections. The pleasure of facility does not so much consist in any
ferment of the spirits, as in their orderly motion; which will sometimes
be so powerful as even to convert pain into pleasure, and give us a
relish in time what at first was most harsh and disagreeable.

But again, as facility converts pain into pleasure, so it often converts
pleasure into pain, when it is too great, and renders the actions of the
mind so faint and languid, that they are no longer able to interest and
support it. And indeed, scarce any other objects become disagreeable
through custom; but such as are naturally attended with some emotion or
affection, which is destroyed by the too frequent repetition. One can
consider the clouds, and heavens, and trees, and stones, however
frequently repeated, without ever feeling any aversion. But when the fair
sex, or music, or good cheer, or any thing, that naturally ought to be
agreeable, becomes indifferent, it easily produces the opposite
affection.

But custom not only gives a facility to perform any action, but likewise
an inclination and tendency towards it, where it is not entirely
disagreeable, and can never be the object of inclination. And this is the
reason why custom encreases all active habits, but diminishes passive,
according to the observation of a late eminent philosopher. The facility
takes off from the force of the passive habits by rendering the motion of
the spirits faint and languid. But as in the active, the spirits are
sufficiently supported of themselves, the tendency of the mind gives them
new force, and bends them more strongly to the action.



SECT. VI  OF THE INFLUENCE OF THE IMAGINATION ON THE PASSIONS


It is remarkable, that the imagination and affections have close union
together, and that nothing, which affects the former, can be entirely
indifferent to the latter. Wherever our ideas of good or evil acquire a
new vivacity, the passions become more violent; and keep pace with the
imagination in all its variations. Whether this proceeds from the
principle above-mentioned, that any attendant emotion is easily converted
into the predominant, I shall not determine. It is sufficient for my
present purpose, that we have many instances to confirm this influence of
the imagination upon the passions.

Any pleasure, with which we are acquainted, affects us more than any
other, which we own to be superior, but of whose nature we are wholly
ignorant. Of the one we can form a particular and determinate idea: The
other we conceive under the general notion of pleasure; and it is certain,
that the more general and universal any of our ideas are, the less
influence they have upon the imagination. A general idea, though it be
nothing but a particular one considered in a certain view, is commonly
more obscure; and that because no particular idea, by which we represent
a general one, is ever fixed or determinate, but may easily be changed
for other particular ones, which will serve equally in the
representation.

There is a noted passage in the history of Greece, which may serve for
our present purpose. Themistocles told the Athenians, that he had formed
a design, which would be highly useful to the public, but which it was
impossible for him to communicate to them without ruining the execution,
since its success depended entirely on the secrecy with which it should
be conducted. The Athenians, instead of granting him full power to act as
he thought fitting, ordered him to communicate his design to Aristides,
in whose prudence they had an entire confidence, and whose opinion they
were resolved blindly to submit to. The design of Themistocles was
secretly to set fire to the fleet of all the Grecian commonwealths, which
was assembled in a neighbouring port, and which being once destroyed
would give the Athenians the empire of the sea without any rival
Aristides returned to the assembly, and told them, that nothing coued be
more advantageous than the design of Themistocles but at the same time
that nothing coued be more unjust: Upon which the people unanimously
rejected the project.

A late celebrated historian [Mons. Rollin {Charles Rollin,
HISTOIRE ANCIENNE.(Paris 1730-38)}.] admires this passage of antient
history, as one of the most singular that is any where to be met.

"Here," says he, "they are not philosophers, to whom it is easy in their
schools to establish the finest maxims and most sublime rules of
morality, who decide that interest ought never to prevail above justice.
It is a whole people interested in the proposal. which is made to them,
who consider it as of importance to the public good, and who
notwithstanding reject it unanimously, and without hesitation, merely
because it is contrary to justice."

For my part I see nothing so extraordinary in this proceeding of the
Athenians. The same reasons, which render it so easy for philosophers to
establish these sublime maxims, tend, in part, to diminish the merit of
such a conduct in that people. Philosophers never ballance betwixt profit
and honesty, because their decisions are general, and neither their
passions nor imaginations are interested in the objects. And though in the
present case the advantage was immediate to the Athenians, yet as it was
known only under the general notion of advantage, without being conceived
by any particular idea, it must have had a less considerable influence on
their imaginations, and have been a less violent temptation, than if they
had been acquainted with all its circumstances: Otherwise it is difficult
to conceive, that a whole people, unjust and violent as men commonly are,
should so unanimously have adhered to justice, and rejected any
considerable advantage.

Any satisfaction, which we lately enjoyed, and of which the memory is
fresh and recent, operates on the will with more violence, than another
of which the traces are decayed, and almost obliterated. From whence does
this proceed, but that the memory in the first case assists the fancy.
and gives an additional force and vigour to its conceptions? The image of
the past pleasure being strong and violent, bestows these qualities on
the idea of the future pleasure, which is connected with it by the
relation of resemblance.

A pleasure, which is suitable to the way of life, in which we are
engaged, excites more our desires and appetites than another, which is
foreign to it. This phaenomenon may be explained from the same principle.

Nothing is more capable of infusing any passion into the mind, than
eloquence, by which objects are represented in their strongest and most
lively colours. We may of ourselves acknowledge, that such an object is
valuable, and such another odious; but until an orator excites the
imagination, and gives force to these ideas, they may have but a feeble
influence either on the will or the affections.

But eloquence is not always necessary. The bare opinion of another,
especially when inforced with passion, will cause an idea of good or evil
to have an influence upon us, which would otherwise have been entirely
neglected. This proceeds from the principle of sympathy or communication;
and sympathy, as I have already observed, is nothing but the conversion
of an idea into an impression by the force of imagination.

It is remarkable, that lively passions commonly attend a lively
imagination. In this respect, as well as others, the force of the passion
depends as much on the temper of the person, as the nature or situation
of the object.

I have already observed, that belief is nothing but a lively idea related
to a present impression. This vivacity is a requisite circumstance to the
exciting all our passions, the calm as well as the violent; nor has a
mere fiction of the imagination any considerable influence upon either of
them. It is too weak to take hold of the mind, or be attended with
emotion.



SECT. VII  OF CONTIGUITY AND DISTANCE IN SPACE AND TIME


There is an easy reason, why every thing contiguous to us, either in
space or time, should be conceived with a peculiar force and vivacity,
and excel every other object, in its influence on the imagination.
Ourself is intimately present to us, and whatever is related to self must
partake of that quality. But where an object is so far removed as to have
lost the advantage of this relation, why, as it is farther removed, its
idea becomes still fainter and more obscure, would, perhaps, require a
more particular examination.

It is obvious, that the imagination can never totally forget the points of
space and time, in which we are existent; but receives such frequent
advertisements of them from the passions and senses, that however it may
turn its attention to foreign and remote objects, it is necessitated
every moment to reflect on the present. IOt is also remarkable, that in
the conception of those objects, which we regard as real and existent, we
take them in their proper order and situation, and never leap from one
object to another, which is distant from it, without running over, at
least in a cursory manner, all those objects, which are interposed
betwixt them. When we reflect, therefore, on any object distant from
ourselves, we are obliged not only to reach it at first by passing through
all the intermediate space betwixt ourselves and the object, but also to
renew our progress every moment; being every moment recalled to the
consideration of ourselves and our present situation. It is easily
conceived, that this interruption must weaken the idea by breaking the
action of the mind, and hindering the conception from being so intense
and continued, as when we reflect on a nearer object. The fewer steps we
make to arrive at the object, and the smoother the road is, this
diminution of vivacity is less sensibly felt, but still may be observed
more or less in proportion to the degrees of distance and difficulty.

Here then we are to consider two kinds of objects, the contiguous and
remote; of which the former, by means of their relation to ourselves,
approach an impression in force and vivacity; the latter by reason of the
interruption in our manner of conceiving them, appear in a weaker and
more imperfect light. This is their effect on the imagination. If my
reasoning be just, they must have a proportionable effect on the will and
passions. Contiguous objects must have an influence much superior to the
distant and remote. Accordingly we find in common life, that men are
principally concerned about those objects, which are not much removed
either in space or time, enjoying the present, and leaving what is afar
off to the care of chance and fortune. Talk to a man of his condition
thirty years hence, and he will not regard you. Speak of what is to
happen tomorrow, and he will lend you attention. The breaking of a mirror
gives us more concern when at home, than the burning of a house, when
abroad, and some hundred leagues distant.

But farther; though distance both in space and time has a considerable
effect on the imagination, and by that means on the will and passions,
yet the consequence of a removal in space are much inferior to those of a
removal in time. Twenty years are certainly but a small distance of time
in comparison of what history and even the memory of some may inform them
of, and yet I doubt if a thousand leagues, or even the greatest distance
of place this globe can admit of, will so remarkably weaken our ideas,
and diminish our passions. A West-Indian merchant will tell you, that he
is not without concern about what passes in Jamaica; though few extend
their views so far into futurity, as to dread very remote accidents.

The cause of this phaenomenon must evidently lie in the different
properties of space and time. Without having recourse to metaphysics, any
one may easily observe, that space or extension consists of a number of
co-existent parts disposed in a certain order, and capable of being at
once present to the sight or feeling. On the contrary, time or succession,
though it consists likewise of parts, never presents to us more
than one at once; nor is it possible for any two of them ever to be
co-existent. These qualities of the objects have a suitable effect on the
imagination. The parts of extension being susceptible of an union to the
senses, acquire an union in the fancy; and as the appearance of one part
excludes not another, the transition or passage of the thought through the
contiguous parts is by that means rendered more smooth and easy. On the
other hand, the incompatibility of the parts of time in their real
existence separates them in the imagination, and makes it more difficult
for that faculty to trace any long succession or series of events. Every
part must appear single and alone, nor can regularly have entrance into
the fancy without banishing what is supposed to have been immediately
precedent. By this means any distance in time causes a greater
interruption in the thought than an equal distance in space, and
consequently weakens more considerably the idea, and consequently the
passions; which depend in a great measure, on the imagination, according
to my system.

There is another phaenomenon of a like nature with the foregoing, viz,
the superior effects of the same distance in futurity above that in the
past. This difference with respect to the will is easily accounted for.
As none of our actions can alter the past, it is not strange it should
never determine the will. But with respect to the passions the question
is yet entire, and well worth the examining.

Besides the propensity to a gradual progression through the points of space
and time, we have another peculiarity in our method of thinking, which
concurs in producing this phaenomenon. We always follow the succession of
time in placing our ideas, and from the consideration of any object pass
more easily to that, which follows immediately after it, than to that
which went before it. We may learn this, among other instances, from the
order, which is always observed in historical narrations. Nothing but an
absolute necessity can oblige an historian to break the order of time,
and in his narration give the precedence to an event, which was in
reality posterior to another.

This will easily be applied to the question in hand, if we reflect on
what I have before observed, that the present situation of the person is
always that of the imagination, and that it is from thence we proceed to
the conception of any distant object. When the object is past, the
progression of the thought in passing to it from the present is contrary
to nature, as proceeding from one point of time to that which is
preceding, and from that to another preceding, in opposition to the
natural course of the succession. On the other hand, when we turn our
thought to a future object, our fancy flows along the stream of time, and
arrives at the object by an order, which seems most natural, passing
always from one point of time to that which is immediately posterior to
it. This easy progression of ideas favours the imagination, and makes it
conceive its object in a stronger and fuller light, than when we are
continually opposed in our passage, and are obliged to overcome the
difficulties arising from the natural propensity of the fancy. A small
degree of distance in the past has, therefore, a greater effect, in
interupting and weakening the conception, than a much greater in the
future. From this effect of it on the imagination is derived its
influence on the will and passions.

There is another cause, which both contributes to the same effect, and
proceeds from the same quality of the fancy, by which we are determined
to trace the succession of time by a similar succession of ideas. When
from the present instant we consider two points of time equally distant
in the future and in the past, it is evident, that, abstractedly
considered, their relation to the present is almost equal. For as the
future will sometime be present, so the past was once present. If we
coued, therefore, remove this quality of the imagination, an equal
distance in the past and in the future, would have a similar influence.
Nor is this only true, when the fancy remains fixed, and from the present
instant surveys the future and the past; but also when it changes its
situation, and places us in different periods of time. For as on the one
hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a point of time interposed
betwixt the present instant and the future object, we find the future
object approach to us, and the past retire, and become more distant: so
on the other hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a point of time
interposed betwixt the present and the past, the past approaches to us,
and the future becomes more distant. But from the property of the fancy
above-mentioned we rather chuse to fix our thought on the point of time
interposed betwixt the present and the future, than on that betwixt the
present and the past. We advance, rather than retard our existence; and
following what seems the natural succession of time, proceed from past to
present, and from present to future. By which means we conceive the
future as flowing every moment nearer us, and the past as retiring. An
equal distance, therefore, in the past and in the future, has not the
same effect on the imagination; and that because we consider the one as
continually encreasing, and the other as continually diminishing. The
fancy anticipates the course of things, and surveys the object in that
condition, to which it tends, as well as in that, which is regarded as
the present.



SECT. VIII  THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUed


Thus we have accounted for three phaenomena, which seem pretty
remarkable. Why distance weakens the conception and passion: Why distance
in time has a greater effect than that in space: And why distance in past
time has still a greater effect than that in future. We must now consider
three phaenomena, which seem to be, in a manner, the reverse of these:
Why a very great distance encreases our esteem and admiration for an
object; Why such a distance in time encreases it more than that in space:
And a distance in past time more than that in future. The curiousness of
the subject will, I hope, excuse my dwelling on it for some time.

To begin with the first phaenomenon, why a great distance encreases our
esteem and admiration for an object; it is evident that the mere view and
contemplation of any greatness, whether successive or extended, enlarges
the soul, and give it a sensible delight and pleasure. A wide plain, the
ocean, eternity, a succession of several ages; all these are entertaining
objects, and excel every thing, however beautiful, which accompanies not
its beauty with a suitable greatness. Now when any very distant object is
presented to the imagination, we naturally reflect on the interposed
distance, and by that means, conceiving something great and magnificent,
receive the usual satisfaction. But as the fancy passes easily from one
idea to another related to it, and transports to the second all the
passions excited by the first, the admiration, which is directed to the
distance, naturally diffuses itself over the distant object. Accordingly
we find, that it is not necessary the object should be actually distant
from us, in order to cause our admiration; but that it is sufficient, if,
by the natural association of ideas, it conveys our view to any
considerable distance. A great traveller, though in the same chamber, will
pass for a very extraordinary person; as a Greek medal, even in our
cabinet, is always esteemed a valuable curiosity. Here the object, by a
natural transition, conveys our views to the distance; and the
admiration, which arises from that distance, by another natural
transition, returns back to the object.

But though every great distance produces an admiration for the distant
object, a distance in time has a more considerable effect than that in
space. Antient busts and inscriptions are more valued than Japan tables:
And not to mention the Greeks and Romans, it is certain we regard with
more veneration the old Chaldeans and Egyptians, than the modem Chinese
and Persians, and bestow more fruitless pains to dear up the history and
chronology of the former, than it would cost us to make a voyage, and be
certainly informed of the character, learning and government of the
latter. I shall be obliged to make a digression in order to explain this
phaenomenon.

It is a quality very observable in human nature, that any opposition,
which does not entirely discourage and intimidate us, has rather a
contrary effect, and inspires us with a more than ordinary grandeur and
magnanimity. In collecting our force to overcome the opposition, we
invigorate the soul, and give it an elevation with which otherwise it
would never have been acquainted. Compliance, by rendering our strength
useless, makes us insensible of it: but opposition awakens and employs it.

This is also true in the universe. Opposition not only enlarges the soul;
but the soul, when full of courage and magnanimity, in a manner seeks
opposition.


SPUMANTEMQUE DARI PECORA INTER INERTIA VOTIS
OPTAT APRUM, AUT FULVUM DESCENDERE MONTE LEONEM.

[And, among the tamer beasts, [he] longs to be granted, in answer to his
prayers, a slavering boar, or to have a tawny lion come down from the
mountain.]


Whatever supports and fills the passions is agreeable to us; as on the
contrary, what weakens and infeebles them is uneasy. As opposition 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 imagination as well as on the
passions. To be convinced of this we need only consider the influence of
heights and depths on that faculty. Any great elevation of place
communicates a kind of pride or sublimity of imagination, and gives a
fancyed superiority over those that lie below; and, vice versa, a sublime
and strong imagination conveys the idea of ascent and elevation. Hence it
proceeds, that we associate, in a manner, the idea of whatever is good
with that of height, and evil with low. ness. Heaven is supposed to be
above, and hell below. A noble genius is called an elevate and sublime
one. ATQUE UDAM SPERNIT HUMUM FUGIENTE PENNA. [Spurns the dank soil in
winged flight.] On the contrary, a vulgar and trivial conception is
stiled indifferently low or mean. Prosperity is denominated ascent, and
adversity descent. Kings and princes are supposed to be placed at the top
of human affairs; as peasants and day-labourers are said to be in the
lowest stations. These methods of thinking, and of expressing ourselves,
are not of so little consequence as they may appear at first sight.

It is evident to common sense, as well as philosophy, that there is no
natural nor essential difference betwixt high and low, and that this
distinction arises only from the gravitation of matter, which produces a
motion from the one to the other. The very same direction, which in this
part of the globe is called ascent, is denominated descent in our
antipodes; which can proceed from nothing but the contrary tendency of
bodies. Now it is certain, that the tendency of bodies, continually
operating upon our senses, must produce, from custom, a like tendency in
the fancy, and that when we consider any object situated in an ascent,
the idea of its weight gives us a propensity to transport it from the
place, in which it is situated, to the place immediately below it, and so
on, until we come to the ground, which equally stops the body and our
imagination. For a like reason we feel a difficulty in mounting, and pass
not without a kind of reluctance from the inferior to that which is
situated above it; as if our ideas acquired a kind of gravity from their
objects. As a proof of this, do we not find, that the facility, which is
so much studyed in music and poetry, is called the fail or cadency of the
harmony or period; the idea of facility communicating to us that of
descent, in the same manner as descent produces a facility?

Since the imagination, therefore, in running from low to high, finds an
opposition in its internal qualities and principles, and since the soul,
when elevated with joy and courage, in a manner seeks opposition, and
throws itself with alacrity into any scene of thought or action, where
its courage meets with matter to nourish and employ it; it follows, that
everything, which invigorates and inlivens the soul, whether by touching
the passions or imagination. naturally conveys to the fancy this
inclination for ascent, and determines it to run against the natural
stream of its thoughts and conceptions. This aspiring progress of the
imagination suits the present disposition of the mind; and the
difficulty, instead of extinguishing its vigour and alacrity, has the
contrary affect, of sustaining and encreasing it. Virtue, genius, power,
and riches are for this reason associated with height and sublimity; as
poverty, slavery, and folly are conjoined with descent and lowness. Were
the case the same with us as Milton represents it to be with the angels,
to whom descent is adverse, and who cannot sink without labour and
compulsion, this order of things would be entirely inverted; as appears
hence, that the very nature of ascent and descent is derived from the
difficulty and propensity, and consequently every one of their effects
proceeds from that origin.

All this is easily applied to the present question, why a considerable
distance in time produces a greater veneration for the distant objects
than a like removal in space. The imagination moves with more difficulty
in passing from one portion of time to another, than in a transition
through the parts of space; and that because space or extension appears
united to our senses, while time or succession is always broken and
divided. This difficulty, when joined with a small distance, interrupts
and weakens the fancy: But has a contrary effect in a great removal. The
mind, elevated by the vastness of its object, is still farther elevated
by the difficulty of the conception; and being obliged every moment to
renew its efforts in the transition from one part of time to another,
feels a more vigorous and sublime disposition, than in a transition
through the parts of space, where the ideas flow along with easiness and
facility. In this disposition, the imagination, passing, as is usual,
from the consideration of the distance to the view of the distant
objects, gives us a proportionable veneration for it; and this is the
reason why all the relicts of antiquity are so precious in our eyes, and
appear more valuable than what is brought even from the remotest parts of
the world.

The third phaenomenon I have remarked will be a full confirmation of
this. It is not every removal in time, which has the effect of producing
veneration and esteem. We are not apt to imagine our posterity will excel
us, or equal our ancestors. This phaenomenon is the more remarkable,
because any distance in futurity weakens not our ideas so much as an
equal removal in the past. Though a removal in the past, when very great,
encreases our passions beyond a like removal in the future, yet a small
removal has a greater influence in diminishing them.

In our common way of thinking we are placed in a kind of middle station
betwixt the past and future; and as our imagination finds a kind of
difficulty in running along the former, and a facility in following the
course of the latter, the difficulty conveys the notion of ascent, and
the facility of the contrary. Hence we imagine our ancestors to be, in a
manner, mounted above us, and our posterity to lie below us. Our fancy
arrives not at the one without effort, but easily reaches the other:
Which effort weakens the conception, where the distance is small; but
enlarges and elevates the imagination, when attended with a suitable
object. As on the other hand, the facility assists the fancy in a small
removal, but takes off from its force when it contemplates any
considerable distance.

It may not be improper, before we leave this subject of the will, to
resume, in a few words, all that has been said concerning it, in order to
set the whole more distinctly before the eyes of the reader. What we
commonly understand by passion is a violent and sensible emotion of mind,
when any good or evil is presented, or any object, which, by the original
formation of our faculties, is fitted to excite an appetite. By reason we
mean affections of the very same kind with the former; but such as
operate more calmly, and cause no disorder in the temper: Which
tranquillity leads us into a mistake concerning them, and causes us to
regard them as conclusions only of our intellectual faculties. Both the
causes and effects of these violent and calm passions are pretty
variable, and depend, in a great measure, on the peculiar temper and
disposition of every individual. Generally speaking, the violent passions
have a more powerful influence on the will; though it is often found, that
the calm ones, when corroborated by reflection, and seconded by
resolution, are able to controul them in their most furious movements.
What makes this whole affair more uncertain, is, that a calm passion may
easily be changed into a violent one, either by a change of temper, or of
the circumstances and situation of the object, as by the borrowing of
force from any attendant passion, by custom, or by exciting the
imagination. Upon the whole, this struggle of passion and of reason, as
it is called, diversifies human life, and makes men so different not only
from each other, but also from themselves in different times. Philosophy
can only account for a few of the greater and more sensible events of
this war; but must leave all the smaller and more delicate revolutions,
as dependent on principles too fine and minute for her comprehension.



SECT. IX  OF THE DIRECT PASSIONS


It is easy to observe, that the passions, both direct and indirect, are
founded on pain and pleasure, and that in order to produce an affection
of any kind, it is only requisite to present some good or evil. Upon the
removal of pain and pleasure there immediately follows a removal of love
and hatred, pride and humility, desire and aversion, and of most of our
reflective or secondary impressions.

The impressions, which arise from good and evil most naturally, and with
the least preparation are the direct passions of desire and aversion,
grief and joy, hope and fear, along with volition. The mind by an
original instinct tends to unite itself with the good, and to avoid the
evil, though they be conceived merely in idea, and be considered as to
exist in any future period of time.

But supposing that there is an immediate impression of pain or pleasure,
and that arising from an object related to ourselves or others, this does
not prevent the propensity or aversion, with the consequent emotions, but
by concurring with certain dormant principles of the human mind, excites
the new impressions of pride or humility, love or hatred. That
propensity, which unites us to the object, or separates us from it, still
continues to operate, but in conjunction with the indirect passions,
which arise from a double relation of impressions and ideas.

These indirect passions, being always agreeable or uneasy, give in their
turn additional force to the direct passions, and encrease our desire and
aversion to the object. Thus a suit of fine cloaths produces pleasure
from their beauty; and this pleasure produces the direct passions, or the
impressions of volition and desire. Again, when these cloaths are
considered as belonging to ourself, the double relation conveys to us the
sentiment of pride, which is an indirect passion; and the pleasure, which
attends that passion, returns back to the direct affections, and gives
new force to our desire or volition, joy or hope.

When good is certain or probable, it produces joy. When evil is in the
same situation there arises GRIEF or SORROW.

When either good or evil is uncertain, it gives rise to FEAR or HOPE,
according to the degrees of uncertainty on the one side or the other.

DESIRE arises from good considered simply, and AVERSION is derived from
evil. The WILL exerts itself, when either the good or the absence of the
evil may be attained by any action of the mind or body.

Beside good and evil, or in other words, pain and pleasure, the direct
passions frequently arise from a natural impulse or instinct, which is
perfectly unaccountable. Of this kind is the desire of punishment to our
enemies, and of happiness to our friends; hunger, lust, and a few other
bodily appetites. These passions, properly speaking, produce good and
evil, and proceed not from them, like the other affections.

None of the direct affections seem to merit our particular attention,
except hope and fear, which we shall here endeavour to account for. It is
evident that the very same event, which by its certainty would produce
grief or joy, gives always rise to fear or hope, when only probable and
uncertain. In order, therefore, to understand the reason why this
circumstance makes such a considerable difference, we must reflect on
what I have already advanced in the preceding book concerning the nature
of probability.

Probability arises from an opposition of contrary chances or causes, by
which the mind is not allowed to fix on either side, but is incessantly
tost from one to another, and at one moment is determined to consider an
object as existent, and at another moment as the contrary. The
imagination or understanding, call it which you please, fluctuates
betwixt the opposite views; and though perhaps it may be oftener turned to
the one side than the other, it is impossible for it, by reason of the
opposition of causes or chances, to rest on either. The pro and con of
the question alternately prevail; and the mind, surveying the object in
its opposite principles, finds such a contrariety as utterly destroys all
certainty and established opinion.

Suppose, then, that the object, concerning whose reality we are doubtful,
is an object either of desire or aversion, it is evident, that, according
as the mind turns itself either to the one side or the other, it must
feel a momentary impression of joy or sorrow. An object, whose existence
we desire, gives satisfaction, when we reflect on those causes, which
produce it; and for the same reason excites grief or uneasiness from the
opposite consideration: So that as the understanding, in all probable
questions, is divided betwixt the contrary points of view, the affections
must in the same manner be divided betwixt opposite emotions.

Now if we consider the human mind, we shall find, that with regard to the
passions, it is not the nature of a wind-instrument of music, which in
running over all the notes immediately loses the sound after the breath
ceases; but rather resembles a string-instrument, where after each stroke
the vibrations still retain some sound, which gradually and insensibly
decays. The imagination is extreme quick and agile; but the passions are
slow and restive: For which reason, when any object is presented, that
affords a variety of views to the one, and emotions to the other; though
the fancy may change its views with great celerity; each stroke will not
produce a clear and distinct note of passion, but the one passion will
always be mixt and confounded with the other. According as the
probability inclines to good or evil, the passion of joy or sorrow
predominates in the composition: Because the nature of probability is to
cast a superior number of views or chances on one side; or, which is the
same thing, a superior number of returns of one passion; or since the
dispersed passions are collected into one, a superior degree of that
passion. That is, in other words, the grief and joy being intermingled
with each other, by means of the contrary views of the imagination,
produce by their union the passions of hope and fear.

Upon this head there may be started a very curious question concerning
that contrariety of passions, which is our present subject. It is
observable, that where the objects of contrary passions are presented at
once, beside the encrease of the predominant passion (which has been
already explained, and commonly arises at their first shock or
rencounter) it sometimes happens, that both the passions exist
successively, and by short intervals; sometimes, that they destroy each
other, and neither of them takes place; and sometimes that both of them
remain united in the mind. It may, therefore, be asked, by what theory we
can explain these variations, and to what general principle we can reduce
them.

When the contrary passions arise from objects entirely different, they
take place alternately, the want of relation in the ideas separating the
impressions from each other, and preventing their opposition. Thus when a
man is afflicted for the loss of a law-suit, and joyful for the birth of
a son, the mind running from the agreeable to the calamitous object, with
whatever celerity it may perform this motion, can scarcely temper the one
affection with the other, and remain betwixt them in a state of
indifference.

It more easily attains that calm situation, when the same event is of a
mixt nature, and contains something adverse and something prosperous in
its different circumstances. For in that case, both the passions,
mingling with each other by means of the relation, become mutually
destructive, and leave the mind in perfect tranquility.

But suppose, in the third place, that the object is not a compound of
good or evil, but is considered as probable or improbable in any degree;
in that case I assert, that the contrary passions will both of them be
present at once in the soul, and instead of destroying and tempering each
other, will subsist together, and produce a third impression or affection
by their union. Contrary passions are not capable of destroying each
other, except when their contrary movements exactly rencounter, and are
opposite in their direction, as well as in the sensation they produce.
This exact rencounter depends upon the relations of those ideas, from
which they are derived, and is more or less perfect, according to the
degrees of the relation. In the case of probability the contrary chances
are so far related, that they determine concerning the existence or
non-existence of the same object. But this relation is far from being
perfect; since some of the chances lie on the side of existence, and
others on that of non-existence; which are objects altogether
incompatible. It is impossible by one steady view to survey the opposite
chances, and the events dependent on them; but it is necessary, that the
imagination should run alternately from the one to the other. Each view
of the imagination produces its peculiar passion, which decays away by
degrees, and is followed by a sensible vibration after the stroke. The
incompatibility of the views keeps the passions from shocking in a direct
line, if that expression may be allowed; and yet their relation is
sufficient to mingle their fainter emotions. It is after this manner that
hope and fear arise from the different mixture of these opposite passions
of grief and joy, and from their imperfect union and conjunction.

Upon the whole, contrary passions succeed each other alternately, when
they arise from different objects: They mutually destroy each other, when
they proceed from different parts of the same: And they subsist both of
them. and mingle together, when they are derived from the contrary and
incompatible chances or possibilities, on which any one object depends.
The influence of the relations of ideas is plainly seen in this whole
affair. If the objects of the contrary passions be totally different, the
passions are like two opposite liquors in different bottles, which have
no influence on each other. If the objects be intimately connected, the
passions are like an alcali and an acid, which, being mingled, destroy
each other. If the relation be more imperfect, and consists in the
contradictory views of the same object, the passions are like oil and
vinegar, which, however mingled, never perfectly unite and incorporate.

As the hypothesis concerning hope and fear carries its own evidence along
with it, we shall be the more concise in our proofs. A few strong
arguments are better than many weak ones.

The passions of fear and hope may arise when the chances are equal on
both sides, and no superiority can be discovered in the one above the
other. Nay, in this situation the passions are rather the strongest, as
the mind has then the least foundation to rest upon, and is tossed with
the greatest uncertainty. Throw in a superior degree of probability to
the side of grief, you immediately see that passion diffuse itself over
the composition, and tincture it into fear. Encrease the probability, and
by that means the grief, the fear prevails still more and more, till at
last it runs insensibly, as the joy continually diminishes, into pure
grief. After you have brought it to this situation, diminish the grief,
after the same manner that you encreased it; by diminishing the
probability on that side, and you'll see the passion clear every moment,
until it changes insensibly into hope; which again runs, after the same
manner, by slow degrees, into joy, as you encrease that part of the
composition by the encrease of the probability. Are not these as plain
proofs, that the passions of fear and hope are mixtures of grief and joy,
as in optics it is a proof, that a coloured ray of the sun passing through
a prism, is a composition of two others, when, as you diminish or encrease
the quantity of either, you find it prevail proportionably more or less
in the composition? I am sure neither natural nor moral philosophy admits
of stronger proofs.

Probability is of two kinds, either when the object is really in itself
uncertain, and to be determined by chance; or when, though the object be
already certain, yet it is uncertain to our judgment, which finds a number
of proofs on each side of the question. Both these kinds of probabilities
cause fear and hope; which can only proceed from that property, in which
they agree, viz, the uncertainty and fluctuation they bestow on the
imagination by that contrariety of views, which is common to both.

It is a probable good or evil, that commonly produces hope or fear;
because probability, being a wavering and unconstant method of surveying
an object, causes naturally a like mixture and uncertainty of passion.
But we may observe, that wherever from other causes this mixture can be
produced, the passions of fear and hope will arise, even though there be
no probability; which must be allowed to be a convincing proof of the
present hypothesis. We find that an evil, barely conceived as possible,
does sometimes produce fear; especially if the evil be very great. A man
cannot think of excessive pains and tortures without trembling, if he be
in the least danger of suffering them. The smallness of the probability
is compensated by the greatness of the evil; and the sensation is equally
lively, as if the evil were more probable. One view or glimpse of the
former, has the same effect as several of the latter.

But they are not only possible evils, that cause fear, but even some
allowed to be impossible; as when we tremble on the brink of a precipice,
though we know ourselves to be in perfect security, and have it in our
choice whether we wili advance a step farther. This proceeds from the
immediate presence of the evil, which influences the imagination in the
same manner as the certainty of it would do; but being encountered by the
reflection on our security, is immediately retracted, and causes the same
kind of passion, as when from a contrariety of chances contrary passions
are produced.

Evils, that are certain, have sometimes the same effect in producing
fear, as the possible or impossible. Thus a man in a strong prison
well-guarded, without the least means of escape, trembles at the thought
of the rack, to which he is sentenced. This happens only when the certain
evil is terrible and confounding; in which case the mind continually
rejects it with horror, while it continually presses in upon the thought.
The evil is there flxed and established, but the mind cannot endure to
fix upon it; from which fluctuation and uncertainty there arises a
passion of much the same appearance with fear.

But it is not only where good or evil is uncertain, as to its existence,
but also as to its kind, that fear or hope arises. Let one be told by a
person, whose veracity he cannot doubt of, that one of his sons is
suddenly killed, it is evident the passion this event would occasion,
would not settle into pure grief, till he got certain information, which
of his sons he had lost. Here there is an evil certain, but the kind of
it uncertain. Consequently the fear we feel on this occasion is without
the least mixture of joy, and arises merely from the fluctuation of the
fancy betwixt its objects. And though each side of the question produces
here the same passion, yet that passion cannot settle, but receives from
the imagination a tremulous and unsteady motion, resembling in its cause,
as well as in its sensation, the mixture and contention of grief and joy.

From these principles we may account for a phaenomenon in the passions,
which at first sight seems very extraordinary, viz, that surprize is apt
to change into fear, and every thing that is unexpected affrights us. The
most obvious conclusion from this is, that human nature is in general
pusillanimous; since upon the sudden appearance of any object. we
immediately conclude it to be an evil, and without waiting till we can
examine its nature, whether it be good or bad, are at first affected with
fear. This I say is the most obvious conclusion; but upon farther
examination we shall find that the phaenomenon is otherwise to be
accounted for. The suddenness and strangeness of an appearance naturally
excite a commotion in the mind, like every thing for which we are not
prepared, and to which we are not accustomed. This commotion, again,
naturally produces a curiosity or inquisitiveness, which being very
violent, from the strong and sudden impulse of the object, becomes
uneasy, and resembles in its fluctuation and uncertainty, the sensation
of fear or the mixed passions of grief and joy. This image of fear
naturally converts into the thing itself, and gives us a real
apprehension of evil, as the mind always forms its judgments more from
its present disposition than from the nature of its objects.

Thus all kinds of uncertainty have a strong connexion with fear, even
though they do not cause any opposition of passions by the opposite views
and considerations they present to us. A person, who has left his friend
in any malady, will feel more anxiety upon his account, than if he were
present, though perhaps he is not only incapable of giving him assistance,
but likewise of judging of the event of his sickness. In this case, though
the principal object of the passion, viz, the life or death of his
friend, be to him equally uncertain when present as when absent; yet
there are a thousand little circumstances of his friend's situation and
condition, the knowledge of which fixes the idea, and prevents that
fluctuation and uncertainty so near allyed to fear. Uncertainty is,
indeed, in one respect as near allyed to hope as to fear, since it makes
an essential part in the composition of the former passion; but the
reason, why it inclines not to that side, is, that uncertainty alone is
uneasy, and has a reladon of impressions to the uneasy passions.

It is thus our uncertainty concerning any minute circumstance relating to
a person encreases our apprehensions of his death or misfortune. Horace
has remarked this phaenomenon.


UT ASSIDENS IMPLUMI BUS PULLUS AVIS
SERPENTIUM ALLAPSUS TIRNET,
MAGIS RELICTIS; NON, UT ADSIT, AUXILI
LATURA PLUS PRESENTIBUS.

[As a bird, watching over her fledgelings, is more afraid of their being
attacked by snakes if she were to leave them even though, were she to
stay, she would not be any more capable of helping them, when they were
with her.]


But this principle of the connexion of fear with uncertainty I carry
farther, and observe that any doubt produces that passion, even though it
presents nothing to us on any side but what is good and desireable. A
virgin, on her bridalnight goes to bed full of fears and apprehensions,
though she expects nothing but pleasure of the highest kind, and what she
has long wished for. The newness and greatness of the event, the
confusion of wishes and joys so embarrass the mind, that it knows not on
what passion to fix itself; from whence arises a fluttering or
unsettledness of the spirits. which being, in some degree, uneasy, very
naturally degenerates into fear.

Thus we still find, that whatever causes any fluctuation or mixture of
passions, with any degree of uneasiness, always produces fear, or at
least a passion so like it, that they are scarcely to be distinguished.

I have here confined myself to the examination of hope and fear in their
most simple and natural situation, without considering all the variations
they may receive from the mixture of different views and reflections.
Terror, consternation, astonishment, anxiety, and other passions of that
kind, are nothing but different species and degrees of fear. It is easy to
imagine how a different situation of the object, or a different turn of
thought, may change even the sensation of a passion; and this may in
general account for all the particular sub-divisions of the other
affections, as well as of fear. Love may shew itself in the shape of
tenderness, friendship, intimacy, esteem, good-will, and in many other
appearances; which at the bottom are the same affections; and arise from
the same causes, though with a small variation, which it is not necessary
to give any particular account of. It is for this reason I have all along
confined myself to the principal passion.

The same care of avoiding prolixity is the reason why I wave the
examination of the will and direct passions, as they appear in animals;
since nothing is more evident, than that they are of the same nature, and
excited by the same causes as in human creatures. I leave this to the
reader's own observation; desiring him at the same time to consider the
additional force this bestows on the present system.



SECT. X  OF CURIOSITY, OR THE LOVE OF TRUTH


But methinks we have been not a little inattentive to run over so many
different parts of the human mind, and examine so many passions, without
taking once into the consideration that love of truth, which was the
first source of all our enquiries. Twill therefore be proper, before we
leave this subject, to bestow a few reflections on that passion, and shew
its origin in human nature. It is an affection of so peculiar a kind, that
it would have been impossible to have treated of it under any of those
heads, which we have examined, without danger of obscurity and confusion.

Truth is of two kinds, consisting either in the discovery of the
proportions of ideas, considered as such, or in the conformity of our
ideas of objects to their real existence. It is certain, that the former
species of truth, is not desired merely as truth, and that it is not the
justness of our conclusions, which alone gives the pleasure. For these
conclusions are equally just, when we discover the equality of two bodies
by a pair of compasses, as when we learn it by a mathematical
demonstration; and though in the one case the proofs be demonstrative, and
in the other only sensible, yet generally speaking, the mind acquiesces
with equal assurance in the one as in the other. And in an arithmetical
operation, where both the truth and the assurance are of the same nature,
as in the most profound algebraical problem, the pleasure is very
inconsiderable, if rather it does not degenerate into pain: Which is an
evident proof, that the satisfaction, which we sometimes receive from the
discovery of truth, proceeds not from it, merely as such, but only as
endowed with certain qualities.

The first and most considerable circumstance requisite to render truth
agreeable, is the genius and capacity, which is employed in its invention
and discovery. What is easy and obvious is never valued; and even what is
in itself difficult, if we come to the knowledge of it without
difficulty, and without any stretch of thought or judgment, is but little
regarded. We love to trace the demonstrations of mathematicians; but
should receive small entertainment from a person, who should barely
inform us of the proportions of lines and angles, though we reposed the
utmost confidence both in his judgment and veracity. In this case it is
sufficient to have ears to learn the truth. We never are obliged to fix
our attention or exert our genius; which of all other exercises of the
mind is the most pleasant and agreeable.

But though the exercise of genius be the principal source of that
satisfaction we receive from the sciences, yet I doubt, if it be alone
sufficient to give us any considerable enjoyment. The truth we discover
must also be of some importance. It is easy to multiply algebraical
problems to infinity, nor is there any end in the discovery of the
proportions of conic sections; though few mathematicians take any pleasure
in these researches, but turn their thoughts to what is more useful and
important. Now the question is, after what manner this utility and
importance operate upon us? The difficulty on this head arises from
hence, that many philosophers have consumed their time, have destroyed
their health, and neglected their fortune, in the search of such truths,
as they esteemed important and useful to the world, though it appeared
from their whole conduct and behaviour, that they were not endowed with
any share of public spirit, nor had any concern for the interests of
mankind. Were they convinced, that their discoveries were of no
consequence, they would entirely lose all relish for their studies, and
that though the consequences be entirely indifferent to them; which seems
to be a contradiction.

To remove this contradiction, we must consider, that there are certain
desires and inclinations, which go no farther than the imagination, and
are rather the faint shadows and images of passions, than any real
affections. Thus, suppose a man, who takes a survey of the fortifications
of any city; considers their strength and advantages, natural or
acquired; observes the disposition and contrivance of the bastions,
ramparts, mines, and other military works; it is plain, that in proportion
as all these are fitted to attain their ends he will receive a suitable
pleasure and satisfaction. This pleasure, as it arises from the utility,
not the form of the objects, can be no other than a sympathy with the
inhabitants, for whose security all this art is employed; though it is
possible, that this person, as a stranger or an enemy, may in his heart
have no kindness for them, or may even entertain a hatred against them.

It may indeed be objected, that such a remote sympathy is a very slight
foundation for a passion, and that so much industry and application, as
we frequently observe in philosophers, can never be derived from so
inconsiderable an original. But here I return to what I have already
remarked, that the pleasure of study conflicts chiefly in the action of
the mind, and the exercise of the genius and understanding in the
discovery or comprehension of any truth. If the importance of the truth
be requisite to compleat the pleasure, it is not on account of any
considerable addition, which of itself it brings to our enjoyment, but
only because it is, in some measure, requisite to fix our attention. When
we are careless and inattentive, the same action of the understanding has
no effect upon us, nor is able to convey any of that satisfaction, which
arises from it, when we are in another disposition.

But beside the action of the mind, which is the principal foundation of
the pleasure, there is likewise required a degree of success in the
attainment of the end, or the discovery of that truth we examine. Upon
this head I shall make a general remark, which may be useful on many
occasions, viz, that where the mind pursues any end with passion; though
that passion be not derived originally from the end, but merely from the
action and pursuit; yet by the natural course of the affections, we
acquire a concern for the end itself, and are uneasy under any
disappointment we meet with in the pursuit of it. This proceeds from the
relation and parallel direction of the passions above-mentioned.

To illustrate all this by a similar instance, I shall observe, that there
cannot be two passions more nearly resembling each other, than those of
hunting and philosophy, whatever disproportion may at first sight appear
betwixt them. It is evident, that the pleasure of hunting conflicts in the
action of the mind and body; the motion, the attention, the difficulty,
and the uncertainty. It is evident likewise, that these actions must be
attended with an idea of utility, in order to their having any effect
upon us. A man of the greatest fortune, and the farthest removed from
avarice, though he takes a pleasure in hunting after patridges and
pheasants, feels no satisfaction in shooting crows and magpies; and that
because he considers the first as fit for the table, and the other as
entirely useless. Here it is certain, that the utility or importance of
itself causes no real passion, but is only requisite to support the
imagination; and the same person, who over-looks a ten times greater
profit in any other subject, is pleased to bring home half a dozen
woodcocks or plovers, after having employed several hours in hunting
after them. To make the parallel betwixt hunting and philosophy more
compleat, we may observe, that though in both cases the end of our action
may in itself be despised, yet in the heat of the action we acquire such
an attention to this end, that we are very uneasy under any
disappointments, and are sorry when we either miss our game, or fall into
any error in our reasoning.

If we want another parallel to these affections, we may consider the
passion of gaming, which affords a pleasure from the same principles as
hunting and philosophy. It has been remarked, that the pleasure of gaming
arises not from interest alone; since many leave a sure gain for this
entertainment: Neither is it derived from the game alone; since the same
persons have no satisfaction, when they play for nothing: But proceeds
from both these causes united, though separately they have no effect. It
is here, as in certain chymical preparations, where the mixture of two
clear and transparent liquids produces a third, which is opaque and
coloured..

The interest, which we have in any game, engages our attention, without
which we can have no enjoyment, either in that or in any other action.
Our attention being once engaged, the difficulty, variety, and sudden
reverses of fortune, still farther interest us; and it is from that
concern our satisfaction arises. Human life is so tiresome a scene, and
men generally are of such indolent dispositions, that whatever amuses
them, though by a passion mixt with pain, does in the main give them a
sensible pleasure. And this pleasure is here encreased by the nature of
the objects, which being sensible, and of a narrow compass, are entered
into with facility, and are agreeable to the imagination.

The same theory, that accounts for the love of truth in mathematics and
algebra. may be extended to morals, politics, natural philosophy, and
other studies, where we consider not the other abstract relations of
ideas, but their real connexions and existence. But beside the love of
knowledge, which displays itself in the sciences, there is a certain
curiosity implanted in human nature, which is a passion derived from a
quite different principle. Some people have an insatiable desire of
knowing the actions and circumstances of their neighbours, though their
interest be no way concerned in them, and they must entirely depend on
others for their information; in which case there is no room for study or
application. Let us search for the reason of this phaenomenon.

It has been proved at large, that the influence of belief is at once to
inliven and infix any idea in the imagination, and prevent all kind of
hesitation and uncertainty about it. Both these circumstances are
advantageous. By the vivacity of the idea we interest the fancy, and
produce, though in a lesser degree, the same pleasure, which arises from a
moderate passion. As the vivacity of the idea gives pleasure, so its
certainty prevents uneasiness, by fixing one particular idea in the mind,
and keeping it from wavering in the choice of its objects. It is a quality
of human nature, which is conspicuous on many occasions, and is common
both to the mind and body, that too sudden and violent a change is
unpleasant to us, and that however any objects may in themselves be
indifferent, yet their alteration gives uneasiness. As it is the nature of
doubt to cause a variation in the thought, and transport us suddenly from
one idea to another, it must of consequence be the occasion of pain. This
pain chiefly takes place, where interest, relation, or the greatness and
novelty of any event interests us in it. It is not every matter of fact,
of which we have a curiosity to be informed; neither are they such only
as we have an interest to know. It is sufficient if the idea strikes on us
with such force, and concerns us so nearly, as to give us an uneasiness
in its instability and inconstancy. A stranger, when he arrives first at
any town, may be entirely indifferent about knowing the history and
adventures of the inhabitants; but as he becomes farther acquainted with
them, and has lived any considerable time among them, he acquires the
same curiosity as the natives. When we are reading the history of a
nation, we may have an ardent desire of clearing up any doubt or
difficulty, that occurs in it; but become careless in such researches,
when the ideas of these events are, in a great measure, obliterated.





BOOK III  OF MORALS




PART I  OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL



SECT. I  MORAL DISTINCTIONS NOT DERIVed FROM REASON


There is an inconvenience which attends all abstruse reasoning. that it
may silence, without convincing an antagonist, and requires the same
intense study to make us sensible of its force, that was at first
requisite for its invention. When we leave our closet, and engage in the
common affairs of life, its conclusions seem to vanish, like the phantoms
of the night on the appearance of the morning; and it is difficult for us
to retain even that conviction, which we had attained with difficulty.
This is still more conspicuous in a long chain of reasoning, where we
must preserve to the end the evidence of the first propositions, and
where we often lose sight of ail the most received maxims, either of
philosophy or common life. I am not, however, without hopes, that the
present system of philosophy will acquire new force as it advances; and
that our reasonings concerning morals will corroborate whatever has been
said concerning the UNDERSTANDING and the PASSIONS. Morality is a subject
that interests us above all others: We fancy the peace of society to be
at stake in every decision concerning it; and it is evident, that this
concern must make our speculations appear more real and solid, than where
the subject is, in a great measure, indifferent to us. What affects us,
we conclude can never be a chimera; and as our passion is engaged on the
one side or the other, we naturally think that the question lies within
human comprehension; which, in other cases of this nature, we are apt to
entertain some doubt of. Without this advantage I never should have
ventured upon a third volume of such abstruse philosophy, in an age,
wherein the greatest part of men seem agreed to convert reading into an
amusement, and to reject every thing that requires any considerable
degree of attention to be comprehended.

It has been observed, that nothing is ever present to the mind but its
perceptions; and that all the actions of seeing, hearing, judging,
loving, hating, and thinking, fall under this denomination. The mind can
never exert itself in any action, which we may not comprehend under the
term of perception; and consequently that term is no less applicable to
those judgments, by which we distinguish moral good and evil, than to
every other operation of the mind. To approve of one character, to
condemn another, are only so many different perceptions.

Now as perceptions resolve themselves into two kinds, viz. impressions
and ideas, this distinction gives rise to a question, with which we shall
open up our present enquiry concerning morals. WHETHER IT IS BY MEANS OF
OUR IDEAS OR IMPRESSIONS WE DISTINGUISH BETWIXT VICE AND VIRTUE, AND
PRONOUNCE AN ACTION BLAMEABLE OR PRAISEWORTHY? This will immediately cut
off all loose discourses and declamations, and reduce us to something
precise and exact on the present subject.

Those who affirm that virtue is nothing but a conformity to reason; that
there are eternal fitnesses and unfitnesses of things, which are the same
to every rational being that considers them; that the immutable measures
of right and wrong impose an obligation, not only on human creatures, but
also on the Deity himself: All these systems concur in the opinion, that
morality, like truth, is discerned merely by ideas, and by their
juxta-position and comparison. In order, therefore, to judge of these
systems, we need only consider, whether it be possible, from reason
alone, to distinguish betwixt moral good and evil, or whether there must
concur some other principles to enable us to make that distinction,

If morality had naturally no influence on human passions and actions,
it were in vain to take such pains to inculcate it; and nothing would be
more fruitless than that multitude of rules and precepts, with which all
moralists abound. Philosophy is commonly divided into speculative and
practical; and as morality is always comprehended under the latter
division, it is supposed to influence our passions and actions, and to go
beyond the calm and indolent judgments of the understanding. And this is
confirmed by common experience, which informs us, that men are often
governed by their duties, and are detered from some actions by the
opinion of injustice, and impelled to others by that of obligation.

Since morals, therefore, have an influence on the actions and affections,
it follows, that they cannot be derived from reason; and that because
reason alone, as we have already proved, can never have any such
influence. Morals excite passions, and produce or prevent actions. Reason
of itself is utterly impotent in this particular. The rules of morality.
therefore, are not conclusions of our reason.

No one, I believe, will deny the justness of this inference; nor is there
any other means of evading it, than by denying that principle, on which
it is founded. As long as it is allowed, that reason has no influence on
our passions and action, it is in vain to pretend, that morality is
discovered only by a deduction of reason. An active principle can never
be founded on an inactive; and if reason be inactive in itself, it must
remain so in all its shapes and appearances, whether it exerts itself in
natural or moral subjects, whether it considers the powers of external
bodies, or the actions of rational beings.

It would be tedious to repeat all the arguments, by which I have
proved [Book II. Part III. Sect 3.], that reason is perfectly inert, and
can never either prevent or produce any action or affection. it will be
easy to recollect what has been said upon that subject. I shall only
recall on this occasion one of these arguments, which I shall endeavour to
render still more conclusive, and more applicable to the present subject.

Reason is the discovery of truth or falshood. Truth or falshood consists
in an agreement or disagreement either to the real relations of ideas, or
to real existence and matter of fact. Whatever, therefore, is not
susceptible of this agreement or disagreement, is incapable of being true
or false, and can never be an object of our reason. Now it is evident our
passions, volitions, and actions, are not susceptible of any such
agreement or disagreement; being original facts and realities, compleat
in themselves, and implying no reference to other passions, volitions,
and actions. It is impossible, therefore, they can be pronounced either
true or false, and be either contrary or conformable to reason.

This argument is of double advantage to our present purpose. For it
proves DIRECTLY, that actions do not derive their merit from a conformity
to reason, nor their blame from a contrariety to it; and it proves the
same truth more INDIRECTLY, by shewing us, that as reason can never
immediately prevent or produce any action by contradicting or approving
of it, it cannot be the source of moral good and evil, which are found to
have that influence. Actions may be laudable or blameable; but they
cannot be reasonable: Laudable or blameable, therefore, are not the same
with reasonable or unreasonable. The merit and demerit of actions
frequently contradict, and sometimes controul our natural propensities.
But reason has no such influence. Moral distinctions, therefore, are not
the offspring of reason. Reason is wholly inactive, and can never be the
source of so active a principle as conscience, or a sense of morals.

But perhaps it may be said, that though no will or action can be
immediately contradictory to reason, yet we may find such a contradiction
in some of the attendants of the action, that is, in its causes or
effects. The action may cause a judgment, or may be obliquely caused by
one, when the judgment concurs with a passion; and by an abusive way of
speaking, which philosophy will scarce allow of, the same contrariety
may, upon that account, be ascribed to the action. How far this truth or
faishood may be the source of morals, it will now be proper to consider.

It has been observed, that reason, in a strict and philosophical sense,
can have influence on our conduct only after two ways: Either when it
excites a passion by informing us of the existence of something which is
a proper object of it; or when it discovers the connexion of causes and
effects, so as to afford us means of exerting any passion. These are the
only kinds of judgment, which can accompany our actions, or can be said
to produce them in any manner; and it must be allowed, that these
judgments may often be false and erroneous. A person may be affected with
passion, by supposing a pain or pleasure to lie in an object, which has
no tendency to produce either of these sensations, or which produces the
contrary to what is imagined. A person may also take false measures for
the attaining his end, and may retard, by his foolish conduct, instead of
forwarding the execution of any project. These false judgments may be
thought to affect the passions and actions, which are connected with
them, and may be said to render them unreasonable, in a figurative and
improper way of speaking. But though this be acknowledged, it is easy to
observe, that these errors are so far from being the source of all
immorality, that they are commonly very innocent, and draw no manner of
guilt upon the person who is so unfortunate as to fail into them. They
extend not beyond a mistake of fact, which moralists have not generally
supposed criminal, as being perfectly involuntary. I am more to be
lamented than blamed, if I am mistaken with regard to the influence of
objects in producing pain or pleasure, or if I know not the proper means
of satisfying my desires. No one can ever regard such errors as a defect
in my moral character. A fruit, for instance, that is really
disagreeable, appears to me at a distance, and through mistake I fancy it
to be pleasant and delicious. Here is one error. I choose certain means
of reaching this fruit, which are not proper for my end. Here is a second
error; nor is there any third one, which can ever possibly enter into our
reasonings concerning actions. I ask, therefore, if a man, in this
situation, and guilty of these two errors, is to be regarded as vicious
and criminal, however unavoidable they might have been? Or if it be
possible to imagine, that such errors are the sources of all immorality?

And here it may be proper to observe, that if moral distinctions be
derived from the truth or falshood of those judgments, they must take
place wherever we form the judgments; nor will there be any difference,
whether the question be concerning an apple or a kingdom, or whether the
error be avoidable or unavoidable. For as the very essence of morality is
supposed to consist in an agreement or disagreement to reason, the other
circumstances are entirely arbitrary, and can never either bestow on any
action the character of virtuous or vicious, or deprive it of that
character. To which we may add, that this agreement or disagreement, not
admitting of degrees, all virtues and vices would of course be equal.

Should it be pretended, that though a mistake of fact be not criminal, yet
a mistake of right often is; and that this may be the source of
immorality: I would answer, that it is impossible such a mistake can ever
be the original source of immorality, since it supposes a real right and
wrong; that is, a real distinction in morals, independent of these
judgments. A mistake, therefore, of right may become a species of
immorality; but it is only a secondary one, and is founded on some other,
antecedent to it.

As to those judgments which are the effects of our actions, and which,
when false, give occasion to pronounce the actions contrary to truth and
reason; we may observe, that our actions never cause any judgment, either
true or false, in ourselves, and that it is only on others they have such
an influence. It is certain, that an action, on many occasions, may give
rise to false conclusions in others; and that a person, who through a
window sees any lewd behaviour of mine with my neighbour's wife, may be
so simple as to imagine she is certainly my own. In this respect my
action resembles somewhat a lye or falshood; only with this difference,
which is material, that I perform not the action with any intention of
giving rise to a false judgment in another, but merely to satisfy my lust
and passion. It causes, however, a mistake and false judgment by
accident; and the falshood of its effects may be ascribed, by some odd
figurative way of speaking, to the action itself. But still I can see no
pretext of reason for asserting, that the tendency to cause such an error
is the first spring or original source of all immorality.


[Footnote 12.  One might think It were entirely superfluous to prove this,
if a late author [William Wollaston, THE RELIGION OF NATURE DELINEATED
(London 1722)], who has had the good fortune to obtain some reputation,
had not seriously affirmed, that such a falshood is the foundation of all
guilt and moral deformity. That we may discover the fallacy of his
hypothesis, we need only consider, that a false conclusion is drawn from
an action, only by means of an obscurity of natural principles, which
makes a cause be secretly interrupted In its operation, by contrary
causes, and renders the connexion betwixt two objects uncertain and
variable. Now, as a like uncertainty and variety of causes take place,
even in natural objects, and produce a like error in our judgment, if that
tendency to produce error were the very essence of vice and immorality, it
should follow, that even inanimate objects might be vicious and immoral.

One might think It were entirely superfluous to prove this, if a late
author [William Wollaston, THE RELIGION OF NATURE DELINEATED (London
1722)], who has had the good fortune to obtain some reputation, had not
seriously affirmed, that such a falshood is the foundation of all guilt
and moral deformity. That we may discover the fallacy of his hypothesis,
we need only consider, that a false conclusion is drawn from an action,
only by means of an obscurity of natural principles, which makes a cause
be secretly interrupted In its operation, by contrary causes, and renders
the connexion betwixt two objects uncertain and variable. Now, as a like
uncertainty and variety of causes take place, even in natural objects,
and produce a like error in our judgment, if that tendency to produce
error were the very essence of vice and immorality, it should follow,
that even inanimate objects might be vicious and immoral.

It is in vain to urge, that inanimate objects act without liberty and
choice. For as liberty and choice are not necessary to make an action
produce in us an erroneous conclusion, they can be, in no respect,
essential to morality; and I do not readily perceive, upon this system,
how they can ever come to be regarded by it. If the tendency to cause
error be the origin of immorality, that tendency and immorality would in
every case be inseparable.

Add to this, that if I had used the precaution of shutting the windows,
while I indulged myself in those liberties with my neighbour's wife, I
should have been guilty of no immorality; and that because my action,
being perfectly concealed, would have had no tendency to produce any
false conclusion.

For the same reason, a thief, who steals In by a ladder at a window, and
takes all imaginable care to cause no disturbance, is in no respect
criminal. For either he will not be perceived, or if he be, it is
impossible he can produce any error, 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 others, and that we Imagine they salute or are talking to one
person, while they address themselves to anther. Are they therefore, upon
that account, immoral?

Besides, we may easily observe, that in all those arguments there is an
evident reasoning in a circle. A person who takes possession of another's
goods, and uses them as his own, in a manner declares them to be his own;
and this falshood is the source of the immorality of injustice. But is
property, or right, or obligation, intelligible, without an antecedent
morality?

A man that is ungrateful to his benefactor, in a manner affirms, that he
never received any favours from him. But in what manner? Is it because
it is his duty to be grateful? But this supposes, that there is some
antecedent rule of duty and morals. Is it because human nature is
generally grateful, and makes us conclude, that a man who does any harm
never received any favour from the person he harmed? But human nature is
not so generally grateful, as to justify such a conclusion. Or if it
were, is an exception to a general rule in every case criminal, for no
other reason than because it is an exception?

But what may suffice entirely to destroy this whimsical system is, that
it leaves us under the same difficulty to give a reason why truth is
virtuous and falshood vicious, as to account for the merit or turpitude
of any other action. I shall allow, if you please, that all immorality is
derived from this supposed falshood in action, provided you can give me
any plausible reason, why such a falshood is immoral. If you consider
rightly of the matter, you will find yourself in the same difficulty as
at the beginning.

This last argument is very conclusive; because, if there be not an
evident merit or turpitude annexed to this species of truth or falahood,
It can never have any influence upon our actions. For, who ever thought
of forbearing any action, because others might possibly draw false
conclusions from it? Or, who ever performed any, that he might give rise
to true conclusions?]


Thus upon the whole, it is impossible, that the distinction betwixt moral
good and evil, can be made to reason; since that distinction has an
influence upon our actions, of which reason alone is incapable. Reason
and judgment may, indeed, be the mediate cause of an action, by
prompting, or by directing a passion: But it is not pretended, that a
judgment of this kind, either in its truth or falshood, is attended with
virtue or vice. And as to the judgments, which are caused by our
judgments, they can still less bestow those moral qualities on the
actions, which are their causes.

But to be more particular, and to shew, that those eternal immutable
fitnesses and unfitnesses of things cannot be defended by sound
philosophy, we may weigh the following considerations.

If the thought and understanding were alone capable of fixing the
boundaries of right and wrong, the character of virtuous and vicious
either must lie in some relations of objects, or must be a matter of
fact, which is discovered by our reasoning. This consequence is evident.
As the operations of human understanding divide themselves into two
kinds, the comparing of ideas, and the inferring of matter of fact; were
virtue discovered by the understanding; it must be an object of one of
these operations, nor is there any third operation of the understanding.
which can discover it. There has been an opinion very industriously
propagated by certain philosophers, that morality is susceptible of
demonstration; and though no one has ever been able to advance a single
step in those demonstrations; yet it is taken for granted, that this
science may be brought to an equal certainty with geometry or algebra.
Upon this supposition. vice and virtue must consist in some relations;
since it is allowed on all hands, that no matter of fact is capable of
being demonstrated. Let us, therefore, begin with examining this
hypothesis, and endeavour, if possible, to fix those moral qualities,
which have been so long the objects of our fruitless researches. Point
out distinctly the relations, which constitute morality or obligation,
that we may know wherein they consist, and after what manner we must
judge of them.

If you assert, that vice and virtue consist in relations susceptible of
certainty and demonstration, you must confine yourself to those four
relations, which alone admit of that degree of evidence; and in that case
you run into absurdities, from which you will never be able to extricate
yourself. For as you make the very essence of morality to lie in the
relations, and as there is no one of these relations but what is
applicable, not only to an irrational, but also to an inanimate object;
it follows, that even such objects must be susceptible of merit or
demerit. RESEMBLANCE, CONTRARIETY, DEGREES IN QUALITY, and PROPORTIONS IN
QUANTITY AND NUMBER; all these relations belong as properly to matter, as
to our actions, passions, and volitions. It is unquestionable, therefore,
that morality lies not in any of these relations, nor the sense of it in
their discovery.

[Footnote 13.  As a proof, how confused our way of thinking on this
subject commonly is, we may observe, that those who assert, that morality
is demonstrable, do not say, that morality lies in the relations, and that
the relations are distinguishable by reason. They only say, that reason
can discover such an action, In such relations, to be virtuous, and such
another vicious. It seems they thought it sufficient, if they could bring
the word, Relation, into the proposition, without troubling themselves
whether it was to the purpose or not. But here, I think, is plain
argument. Demonstrative reason discovers only relations. But that reason,
according to this hypothesis, discovers also vice and virtue. These moral
qualities, therefore, must be relations. When we blame any action, in any
situation, the whole complicated object, of action and situation, must
form certain relations, wherein the essence of vice consists. This
hypothesis is not otherwise intelligible. For what does reason discover,
when it pronounces any action vicious? Does it discover a relation or a
matter of fact? These questions are decisive, and must not be eluded.]

Should it be asserted, that the sense of morality consists in the
discovery of some relation, distinct from these, and that our enumeration
was not compleat, when we comprehended all demonstrable relations under
four general heads: To this I know not what to reply, till some one be so
good as to point out to me this new relation. It is impossible to refute a
system, which has never yet been explained. In such a manner of fighting
in the dark, a man loses his blows in the air, and often places them
where the enemy is not present.

I must, therefore, on this occasion, rest contented with requiring the
two following conditions of any one that would undertake to clear up this
system. First, As moral good and evil belong only to the actions of the
mind, and are derived from our situation with regard to external objects,
the relations, from which these moral distinctions arise, must lie only
betwixt internal actions, and external objects, and must not be
applicable either to internal actions, compared among themselves, or to
external objects, when placed in opposition to other external objects.
For as morality is supposed to attend certain relations, if these
relations coued belong to internal actions considered singly, it would
follow, that we might be guilty of crimes in ourselves, and independent
of our situation, with respect to the universe: And in like manner, if
these moral relations coued be applied to external objects, it would
follow, that even inanimate beings would be susceptible of moral beauty
and deformity. Now it seems difficult to imagine, that any relation can
be discovered betwixt our passions, volitions and actions, compared to
external objects, which relation might not belong either to these
passions and volitions, or to these external objects, compared among
themselves. But it will be still more difficult to fulfil the second
condition, requisite to justify this system. According to the principles
of those who maintain an abstract rational difference betwixt moral good
and evil, and a natural fitness and unfitness of things, it is not only
supposed, that these relations, being eternal and immutable, are the
same, when considered by every rational creature, but their effects are
also supposed to be necessarily the same; and it is concluded they have no
less, or rather a greater, influence in directing the will of the deity,
than in governing the rational and virtuous of our own species. These two
particulars are evidently distinct. It is one thing to know virtue, and
another to conform the will to it. In order, therefore, to prove, that
the measures of right and wrong are eternal laws, obligatory on every
rational mind, it is not sufficient to shew the relations upon which they
are founded: We must also point out the connexion betwixt the relation
and the will; and must prove that this connexion is so necessary, that in
every well-disposed mind, it must take place and have its influence;
though the difference betwixt these minds be in other respects immense and
infinite. Now besides what I have already proved, that even in human
nature no relation can ever alone produce any action: besides this, I
say, it has been shewn, in treating of the understanding, that there is
no connexion of cause and effect, such as this is supposed to be, which
is discoverable otherwise than by experience, and of which we can pretend
to have any security by the simple consideration of the objects. All
beings in the universe, considered in themselves, appear entirely loose
and independent of each other. It is only by experience we learn their
influence and connexion; and this influence we ought never to extend
beyond experience.

Thus it will be impossible to fulfil the first condition required to the
system of eternal measures of right and wrong; because it is impossible
to shew those relations, upon which such a distinction may be founded:
And it is as impossible to fulfil the second condition; because we cannot
prove A PRIORI, that these relations, if they really existed and were
perceived, would be universally forcible and obligatory.

But to make these general reflections more dear and convincing, we may
illustrate them by some particular instances, wherein this character of
moral good or evil is the most universally acknowledged. Of all crimes
that human creatures are capable of committing, the most horrid and
unnatural is ingratitude, especially when it is committed against
parents, and appears in the more flagrant instances of wounds and death.
This is acknowledged by all mankind, philosophers as well as the people;
the question only arises among philosophers, whether the guilt or moral
deformity of this action be discovered by demonstrative reasoning, or be
felt by an internal sense, and by means of some sentiment, which the
reflecting on such an action naturally occasions. This question will soon
be decided against the former opinion, if we can shew the same relations
in other objects, without the notion of any guilt or iniquity attending
them. Reason or science is nothing but the comparing of ideas, and the
discovery of their relations; and if the same relations have different
characters, it must evidently follow, that those characters are not
discovered merely by reason. To put the affair, therefore, to this trial,
let us chuse any inanimate object, such as an oak or elm; and let us
suppose, that by the dropping of its seed, it produces a sapling below
it, which springing up by degrees, at last overtops and destroys the
parent tree: I ask, if in this instance there be wanting any relation,
which is discoverable in parricide or ingratitude? Is not the one tree
the cause of the other's existence; and the latter the cause of the
destruction of the former, in the same manner as when a child murders his
parent? It is not sufficient to reply, that a choice or will is wanting.
For in the case of parricide, a will does not give rise to any DIFFERENT
relations, but is only the cause from which the action is derived; and
consequently produces the same relations, that in the oak or elm arise
from some other principles. It is a will or choice, that determines a man
to kill his parent; and they are the laws of matter and motion, that
determine a sapling to destroy the oak, from which it sprung. Here then
the same relations have different causes; but still the relations are the
same: And as their discovery is not in both cases attended with a notion
of immorality, it follows, that that notion does not arise from such a
discovery.

But to chuse an instance, still more resembling; I would fain ask any
one, why incest in the human species is criminal, and why the very same
action, and the same relations in animals have not the smallest moral
turpitude and deformity? If it be answered, that this action is innocent
in animals, because they have not reason sufficient to discover its
turpitude; but that man, being endowed with that faculty which ought to
restrain him to his duty, the same action instantly becomes criminal to
him; should this be said, I would reply, that this is evidently arguing
in a circle. For before reason can perceive this turpitude, the turpitude
must exist; and consequently is independent of the decisions of our
reason, and is their object more properly than their effect. According to
this system, then, every animal, that has sense, and appetite, and will;
that is, every animal must be susceptible of all the same virtues and
vices, for which we ascribe praise and blame to human creatures. All the
difference is, that our superior reason may serve to discover the vice or
virtue, and by that means may augment the blame or praise: But still this
discovery supposes a separate being in these moral distinctions, and a
being, which depends only on the will and appetite, and which, both in
thought and reality, may be distinguished from the reason. Animals are
susceptible of the same relations, with respect to each other, as the
human species, and therefore would also be susceptible of the same
morality, if the essence of morality consisted in these relations. Their
want of a sufficient degree of reason may hinder them from perceiving the
duties and obligations of morality, but can never hinder these duties
from existing; since they must antecedently exist, in order to their
being perceived. Reason must find them, and can never produce them. This
argument deserves to be weighed, as being, in my opinion, entirely
decisive.

Nor does this reasoning only prove, that morality consists not in any
relations, that are the objects of science; but if examined, will prove
with equal certainty, that it consists not in any matter of fact, which
can be discovered by the understanding. This is the second part of our
argument; and if it can be made evident, we may conclude, that morality
is not an object of reason. But can there be any difficulty in proving,
that vice and virtue are not matters of fact, whose existence we can
infer by reason? Take any action allowed to be vicious: Wilful murder,
for instance. Examine it in all lights, and see if you can find that
matter of fact, or real existence, which you call vice. In which-ever way
you take it, you find only certain passions, motives, volitions and
thoughts. There is no other matter of fact in the case. The vice entirely
escapes you, as long as you consider the object. You never can find it,
till you turn your reflection into your own breast, and find a sentiment
of disapprobation, which arises in you, towards this action. Here is a
matter of fact; but it is the object of feeling, not of reason. It lies in
yourself, not in the object. So that when you pronounce any action or
character to be vicious, you mean nothing, but that from the constitution
of your nature you have a feeling or sentiment of blame from the
contemplation of it. Vice and virtue, therefore, may be compared to
sounds, colours, heat and cold, which, according to modern philosophy,
are not qualities in objects, but perceptions in the mind: And this
discovery in morals, like that other in physics, is to be regarded as a
considerable advancement of the speculative sciences; though, like that
too, it has little or no influence on practice. Nothing can be more real,
or concern us more, than our own sentiments of pleasure and uneasiness;
and if these be favourable to virtue, and unfavourable to vice, no more
can be requisite to the regulation of our conduct and behaviour.

I cannot forbear adding to these reasonings an observation, which may,
perhaps, be found of some importance. In every system of morality, which
I have hitherto met with, I have always remarked, that the author
proceeds for some time in the ordinary way of reasoning, and establishes
the being of a God, or makes observations concerning human affairs; when
of a sudden I am surprized to find, that instead of the usual copulations
of propositions, is, and is not, I meet with no proposition that is not
connected with an ought, or an ought not. This change is imperceptible;
but is, however, of the last consequence. For as this ought, or ought
not, expresses some new relation or affirmation, it is necessary that it
should be observed and explained; and at the same time that a reason
should be given, for what seems altogether inconceivable, how this new
relation can be a deduction from others, which are entirely different
from it. But as authors do not commonly use this precaution, I shall
presume to recommend it to the readers; and am persuaded, that this small
attention would subvert all the vulgar systems of morality, and let us
see, that the distinction of vice and virtue is not founded merely on the
relations of objects, nor is perceived by reason.



SECT. II  MORAL DISTINCTIONS DERIVed FROM A MORAL SENSE


Thus the course of the argument leads us to conclude, that since vice and
virtue are not discoverable merely by reason, or the comparison of ideas,
it must be by means of some impression or sentiment they occasion, that
we are able to mark the difference betwixt them. Our decisions concerning
moral rectitude and depravity are evidently perceptions; and as all
perceptions are either impressions or ideas, the exclusion of the one is
a convincing argument for the other. Morality, therefore, is more
properly felt than judged of; though this feeling or sentiment is commonly
so soft and gentle, that we are apt to confound it with an idea,
according to our common custom of taking all things for the same, which
have any near resemblance to each other.

The next question is, Of what nature are these impressions, and after
what manner do they operate upon us? Here we cannot remain long in
suspense, but must pronounce the impression arising from virtue, to be
agreeable, and that proceding from vice to be uneasy. Every moments
experience must convince us of this. There is no spectacle so fair and
beautiful as a noble and generous action; nor any which gives us more
abhorrence than one that is cruel and treacherous. No enjoyment. equals
the satisfaction we receive from the company of those we love and esteem;
as the greatest of all punishments is to be obliged to pass our lives
with those we hate or contemn. A very play or romance may afford us
instances of this pleasure, which virtue conveys to us; and pain, which
arises from vice.

Now since the distinguishing impressions, by which moral good or evil is
known, are nothing but particular pains or pleasures; it follows, that in
all enquiries concerning these moral distinctions, it will be sufficient
to shew the principles, which make us feel a satisfaction or uneasiness
from the survey of any character, in order to satisfy us why the
character is laudable or blameable. An action, or sentiment, or character
is virtuous or vicious; why? because its view causes a pleasure or
uneasiness of a particular kind. In giving a reason, therefore, for the
pleasure or uneasiness, we sufficiently explain the vice or virtue. To
have the sense of virtue, is nothing but to feel a satisfaction of a
particular kind from the contemplation of a character. The very feeling
constitutes our praise or admiration. We go no farther; nor do we enquire
into the cause of the satisfaction. We do not infer a character to be
virtuous, because it pleases: But in feeling that it pleases after such a
particular manner, we in effect feel that it is virtuous. The case is the
same as in our judgments concerning all kinds of beauty, and tastes, and
sensations. Our approbation is implyed in the immediate pleasure they
convey to us.

I have objected to the system, which establishes eternal rational
measures of right and wrong, that it is impossible to shew, in the actions
of reasonable creatures, any relations, which are not found in external
objects; and therefore, if morality always attended these relations,
it were possible for inanimate matter to become virtuous or vicious. Now
it may, in like manner, be objected to the present system, that if virtue
and vice be determined by pleasure and pain, these qualities must, in
every case, arise from the sensations; and consequently any object,
whether animate or inanimate, rational or irrational, might become
morally good or evil, provided it can excite a satisfaction or
uneasiness. But though this objection seems to be the very same, it has by
no means the same force, in the one case as in the other. For, first, tis
evident, that under the term pleasure, we comprehend sensations, which
are very different from each other, and which have only such a distant
resemblance, as is requisite to make them be expressed by the same
abstract term. A good composition of music and a bottle of good wine
equally produce pleasure; and what is more, their goodness is determined
merely by the pleasure. But shall we say upon that account, that the wine
is harmonious, or the music of a good flavour? In like manner an
inanimate object, and the character or sentiments of any person may, both
of them, give satisfaction; but as the satisfaction is different, this
keeps our sentiments concerning them from being confounded, and makes us
ascribe virtue to the one, and not to the other. Nor is every sentiment
of pleasure or pain, which arises from characters and actions, of that
peculiar kind, which makes us praise or condemn. The good qualities of an
enemy are hurtful to us; but may still command our esteem and respect.
It is only when a character is considered in general, without reference to
our particular interest, that it causes such a feeling or sentiment, as
denominates it morally good or evil. It is true, those sentiments, from
interest and morals, are apt to be confounded, and naturally run into one
another. It seldom happens, that we do not think an enemy vicious, and
can distinguish betwixt his opposition to our interest and real villainy
or baseness. But this hinders not, but that the sentiments are, in
themselves, distinct; and a man of temper and judgment may preserve
himself from these illusions. In like manner, though it is certain a
musical voice is nothing but one that naturally gives a particular kind of
pleasure; yet it is difficult for a man to be sensible, that the voice of
an enemy is agreeable, or to allow it to be musical. But a person of a
fine ear, who has the command of himself, can separate these feelings,
and give praise to what deserves it.

SECONDLY, We may call to remembrance the preceding system of the
passions, in order to remark a still more considerable difference among
our pains and pleasures. Pride and humility, love and hatred are excited,
when there is any thing presented to us, that both bears a relation to
the object of the passion, and produces a separate sensation related to
the sensation of the passion. Now virtue and vice are attended with these
circumstances. They must necessarily be placed either in ourselves or
others, and excite either pleasure or uneasiness; and therefore must give
rise to one of these four passions; which clearly distinguishes them from
the pleasure and pain arising from inanimate objects, that often bear no
relation to us: And this is, perhaps, the most considerable effect that
virtue and vice have upon the human mind.

It may now be asked in general, concerning this pain or pleasure, that
distinguishes moral good and evil, FROM WHAT PRINCIPLES IS IT DERIVED,
AND WHENCE DOES IT ARISE IN THE HUMAN MIND? To this I reply, first, that
it is absurd to imagine, that in every particular instance, these
sentiments are produced by an original quality and primary constitution.
For as the number of our duties is, in a manner, infinite, it is
impossible that our original instincts should extend to each of them, and
from our very first infancy impress on the human mind all that multitude
of precepts, which are contained in the compleatest system of ethics.
Such a method of proceeding is not conformable to the usual maxims, by
which nature is conducted, where a few principles produce all that
variety we observe in the universe, and every thing is carryed on in the
easiest and most simple manner. It is necessary, therefore, to abridge
these primary impulses, and find some more general principles, upon which
all our notions of morals are founded.

But in the second place, should it be asked, Whether we ought to search
for these principles in nature, or whether we must look for them in some
other origin? I would reply, that our answer to this question depends
upon the definition of the word, Nature, than which there is none more
ambiguous and equivocal. If nature be opposed to miracles, not only the
distinction betwixt vice and virtue is natural, but also every event,
which has ever happened in the world, EXCEPTING THOSE MIRACLES, ON WHICH
OUR RELIGION IS FOUNDED. In saying, then, that the sentiments of vice and
virtue are natural in this sense, we make no very extraordinary
discovery.

But nature may also be opposed to rare and unusual; and in this sense of
the word, which is the common one, there may often arise disputes
concerning what is natural or unnatural; and one may in general affirm,
that we are not possessed of any very precise standard, by which these
disputes can be decided. Frequent and rare depend upon the number of
examples we have observed; and as this number may gradually encrease or
diminish, it will be impossible to fix any exact boundaries betwixt them.
We may only affirm on this head, that if ever there was any thing, which
coued be called natural in this sense, the sentiments of morality
certainly may; since there never was any nation of the world, nor any
single person in any nation, who was utterly deprived of them, and who
never, in any instance, shewed the least approbation or dislike of
manners. These sentiments are so rooted in our constitution and temper,
that without entirely confounding the human mind by disease or madness,
it is impossible to extirpate and destroy them.

But nature may also be opposed to artifice, as well as to what is rare
and unusual; and in this sense it may be disputed, whether the notions of
virtue be natural or not. We readily forget, that the designs, and
projects, and views of men are principles as necessary in their operation
as heat and cold, moist and dry: But taking them to be free and entirely
our own, it is usual for us to set them in opposition to the other
principles of nature. should it, therefore, be demanded, whether the
sense of virtue be natural or artificial, I am of opinion, that it is
impossible for me at present to give any precise answer to this question.
Perhaps it will appear afterwards, that our sense of some virtues is
artificial, and that of others natural. The discussion of this question
will be more proper, when we enter upon an exact detail of each
particular vice and virtue.

[Footnote 14.  In the following discourse natural is also opposed
sometimes to civil, sometimes to moral. The opposition will always
discover the sense, in which it is taken.]

Mean while it may not be amiss to observe from these definitions of
natural and unnatural, that nothing can be more unphilosophical than
those systems, which assert, that virtue is the same with what is
natural, and vice with what is unnatural. For in the first sense of the
word, Nature, as opposed to miracles, both vice and virtue are equally
natural; and in the second sense, as opposed to what is unusual, perhaps
virtue will be found to be the most unnatural. At least it must be owned,
that heroic virtue, being as unusual, is as little natural as the most
brutal barbarity. As to the third sense of the word, it is certain, that
both vice and virtue are equally artificial, and out of nature. For
however it may be disputed, whether the notion of a merit or demerit in
certain actions be natural or artificial, it is evident, that the actions
themselves are artificial, and are performed with a certain design and
intention; otherwise they coued never be ranked under any of these
denominations. It is impossible, therefore, that the character of natural
and unnatural can ever, in any sense, mark the boundaries of vice and
virtue.

Thus we are still brought back to our first position, that virtue is
distinguished by the pleasure, and vice by the pain, that any action,
sentiment or character gives us by the mere view and contemplation. This
decision is very commodious; because it reduces us to this simple
question, Why any action or sentiment upon the general view or survey,
gives a certain satisfaction or uneasiness, in order to shew the origin
of its moral rectitude or depravity, without looking for any
incomprehensible relations and qualities, which never did exist in
nature, nor even in our imagination, by any clear and distinct
conception. I flatter myself I have executed a great part of my present
design by a state of the question, which appears to me so free from
ambiguity and obscurity.




PART II  OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE



SECT. I  JUSTICE, WHETHER A NATURAL OR ARTIFICIAL VIRTUE?


I have already hinted, that our sense of every kind of virtue is not
natural; but that there are some virtues, that produce pleasure and
approbation by means of an artifice or contrivance, which arises from the
circumstances and necessity of mankind. Of this kind I assert justice to
be; and shall endeavour to defend this opinion by a short, and, I hope,
convincing argument, before I examine the nature of the artifice, from
which the sense of that virtue is derived.

It is evident, that when we praise any actions, we regard only the motives
that produced them, and consider the actions as signs or indications of
certain principles in the mind and temper. The external performance has
no merit. We must look within to find the moral quality. This we cannot
do directly; and therefore fix our attention on actions, as on external
signs. But these actions are still considered as signs; and the ultimate
object of our praise and approbation is the motive, that produced them.

After the same manner, when we require any action, or blame a person for
not performing it, we always suppose, that one in that situation should
be influenced by the proper motive of that action, and we esteem it
vicious in him to be regardless of it. If we find, upon enquiry, that the
virtuous motive was still powerful over his breast, though checked in its
operation by some circumstances unknown to us, we retract our blame, and
have the same esteem for him, as if he had actually performed the action,
which we require of him.

It appears, therefore, that all virtuous actions derive their merit only
from virtuous motives, and are considered merely as signs of those
motives. From this principle I conclude, that the first virtuous motive,
which bestows a merit on any action, can never be a regard to the virtue
of that action. but must be some other natural motive or principle. To
suppose, that the mere regard to the virtue of the action. may be the
first motive, which produced the action, and rendered it virtuous, is to
reason in a circle. Before we can have such a regard, the action must be
really virtuous; and this virtue must be derived from some virtuous
motive: And consequently the virtuous motive must be different from the
regard to the virtue of the action. A virtuous motive is requisite to
render an action virtuous. An action must be virtuous, before we can have
a regard to its virtue. Some virtuous motive, therefore, must be
antecedent to that regard.

Nor is this merely a metaphysical subtilty; but enters into all our
reasonings in common life, though perhaps we may not be able to place it
in such distinct philosophical terms. We blame a father for neglecting his
child. Why? because it shews a want of natural affection, which is the
duty of every parent. Were not natural affection a duty, the care of
children coued not be a duty; and it were impossible we coued have the
duty in our eye in the attention we give to our offspring. In this case,
therefore, all men suppose a motive to the action distinct from a sense
of duty.

Here is a man, that does many benevolent actions; relieves the
distressed, comforts the afflicted, and extends his bounty even to the
greatest strangers. No character can be more amiable and virtuous. We
regard these actions as proofs of the greatest humanity. This humanity
bestows a merit on the actions. A regard to this merit is, therefore, a
secondary consideration, and derived from the antecedent principle of
humanity, which is meritorious and laudable.

In short, it may be established as an undoubted maxim, THAT NO ACTION CAN
BE VIRTUOUS, OR MORALLY GOOD, UNLESS THERE BE IN HUMAN NATURE SOME MOTIVE
TO PRODUCE IT, DISTINCT FROM THE SENSE OF ITS MORALITY.

But may not the sense of morality or duty produce an action, without any
other motive? I answer, It may: But this is no objection to the present
doctrine. When any virtuous motive or principle is common in human
nature, a person, who feels his heart devoid of that motive, may hate
himself upon that account, and may perform the action without the motive,
from a certain sense of duty, in order to acquire by practice, that
virtuous principle, or at least, to disguise to himself, as much as
possible, his want of it. A man that really feels no gratitude in his
temper, is still pleased to perform grateful actions, and thinks he has,
by that means, fulfilled his duty. Actions are at first only considered
as signs of motives: But it is usual, in this case, as in all others, to
fix our attention on the signs, and neglect, in some measure, the thing
signifyed. But though, on some occasions, a person may perform an action
merely out of regard to its moral obligation, yet still this supposes in
human nature some distinct principles, which are capable of producing the
action, and whose moral beauty renders the action meritorious.

Now to apply all this to the present case; I suppose a person to have
lent me a sum of money, on condition that it be restored in a few days;
and also suppose, that after the expiration of the term agreed on, he
demands the sum: I ask, What reason or motive have I to restore the
money? It will, perhaps, be said, that my regard to justice, and
abhorrence of villainy and knavery, are sufficient reasons for me, if I
have the least grain of honesty, or sense of duty and obligation. And
this answer, no doubt, is just and satisfactory to man in his civilized
state, and when trained up according to a certain discipline and
education. But in his rude and more natural condition, if you are pleased
to call such a condition natural, this answer would be rejected as
perfectly unintelligible and sophistical. For one in that situation would
immediately ask you, WHEREIN CONSISTS THIS HONESTY AND JUSTICE, WHICH YOU
FIND IN RESTORING A LOAN, AND ABSTAINING FROM THE PROPERTY OF OTHERS? It
does not surely lie in the external action. It must, therefore be placed
in the motive, from which the external action is derived. This motive can
never be a regard to the honesty of the action. For it is a plain fallacy
to say, that a virtuous motive is requisite to render an action honest,
and at the same time that a regard to the honesty is the motive of the
action. We can never have a regard to the virtue of an action, unless the
action be antecedently virtuous. No action can be virtuous, but so far as
it proceeds from a virtuous motive. A virtuous motive, therefore, must
precede the regard to the virtue, and it is impossible, that the virtuous
motive and the regard to the virtue can be the same.

It is requisite, then, to find some motive to acts of justice and honesty,
distinct from our regard to the honesty; and in this lies the great
difficulty. For should we say, that a concern for our private interest or
reputation is the legitimate motive to all honest actions; it would
follow, that wherever that concern ceases, honesty can no longer have
place. But it is certain, that self-love, when it acts at its liberty,
instead of engaging us to honest actions, is the source of all injustice
and violence; nor can a man ever correct those vices, without correcting
and restraining the natural movements of that appetite.

But should it be affirmed, that the reason or motive of such actions is
the regard to publick interest, to which nothing is more contrary than
examples of injustice and dishonesty; should this be said, I would
propose the three following considerations, as worthy of our attention.
First, public interest is not naturally attached to the observation of
the rules of justice; but is only connected with it, after an artificial
convention for the establishment of these rules, as shall be shewn more
at large hereafter. Secondly, if we suppose, that the loan was secret,
and that it is necessary for the interest of the person, that the money
be restored in the same manner (as when the lender would conceal his
riches) in that case the example ceases, and the public is no longer
interested in the actions of the borrower; though I suppose there is no
moralist, who will affirm, that the duty and obligation ceases. Thirdly,
experience sufficiently proves, that men, in the ordinary conduct of
life, look not so far as the public interest, when they pay their
creditors, perform their promises, and abstain from theft, and robbery,
and injustice of every kind. That is a motive too remote and too sublime
to affect the generality of mankind, and operate with any force in
actions so contrary to private interest as are frequently those of
justice and common honesty.

In general, it may be affirmed, that there is no such passion in human
minds, as the love of mankind, merely as such, independent of personal
qualities, of services, or of relation to ourseit It is true, there is no
human, and indeed no sensible, creature, whose happiness or misery does
not, in some measure, affect us when brought near to us, and represented
in lively colours: But this proceeds merely from sympathy, and is no
proof of such an universal affection to mankind, since this concern
extends itself beyond our own species. An affection betwixt the sexes is
a passion evidently implanted in human nature; and this passion not only
appears in its peculiar symptoms, but also in inflaming every other
principle of affection, and raising a stronger love from beauty, wit,
kindness, than what would otherwise flow from them. Were there an
universal love among all human creatures, it would appear after the same
manner. Any degree of a good quality would cause a stronger affection
than the same degree of a bad quality would cause hatred; contrary to
what we find by experience. Men's tempers are different, and some have a
propensity to the tender, and others to the rougher, affections: But in
the main, we may affirm, that man in general, or human nature, is nothing
but the object both of love and hatred, and requires some other cause,
which by a double relation of impressions and ideas, may excite these
passions. In vain would we endeavour to elude this hypothesis. There are
no phaenomena that point out any such kind affection to men, independent
of their merit, and every other circumstance. We love company in general;
but it is as we love any other amusement. An Englishman in Italy is a
friend: A Euro paean in China; and perhaps a man would be beloved as
such, were we to meet him in the moon. But this proceeds only from the
relation to ourselves; which in these cases gathers force by being
confined to a few persons.

If public benevolence, therefore, or a regard to the interests of
mankind, cannot be the original motive to justice, much less can private
benevolence, or a regard to the interests of the party concerned, be this
motive. For what if he be my enemy, and has given me just cause to hate
him? What if he be a vicious man, and deserves the hatred of all mankind?
What if he be a miser, and can make no use of what I would deprive him
of? What if he be a profligate debauchee, and would rather receive harm
than benefit from large possessions? What if I be in necessity, and have
urgent motives to acquire something to my family? In all these cases, the
original motive to justice would fail; and consequently the justice
itself, and along with it all property, tight, and obligation.

A rich man lies under a moral obligation to communicate to those in
necessity a share of his superfluities. Were private benevolence the
original motive to justice, a man would not be obliged to leave others in
the possession of more than he is obliged to give them. At least the
difference would be very inconsiderable. Men generally fix their
affections more on what they are possessed of, than on what they never
enjoyed: For this reason, it would be greater cruelty to dispossess a man
of any thing, than not to give it him. But who will assert, that this is
the only foundation of justice?

Besides, we must consider, that the chief reason, why men attach
themselves so much to their possessions is, that they consider them as
their property, and as secured to them inviolably by the laws of society.
But this is a secondary consideration, and dependent on the preceding
notions of justice and property.

A man's property is supposed to be fenced against every mortal, in every
possible case. But private benevolence is, and ought to be, weaker in
some persons, than in others: And in many, or indeed in most persons,
must absolutely fail. Private benevolence, therefore, is not the original
motive of justice.

From all this it follows, that we have no real or universal motive for
observing the laws of equity, but the very equity and merit of that
observance; and as no action can be equitable or meritorious, where it
cannot arise from some separate motive, there is here an evident
sophistry and reasoning in a circle. Unless, therefore, we will allow,
that nature has established a sophistry, and rendered it necessary and
unavoidable, we must allow, that the sense of justice and injustice is
not derived from nature, but arises artificially, though necessarily from
education, and human conventions.

I shall add, as a corollary to this reasoning, that since no action can
be laudable or blameable, without some motives or impelling passions,
distinct from the sense of morals, these distinct passions must have a
great influence on that sense. It is according to their general force in
human nature, that we blame or praise. In judging of the beauty of animal
bodies, we always carry in our eye the oeconomy of a certain species; and
where the limbs and features observe that proportion, which is common to
the species, we pronounce them handsome and beautiful. In like manner we
always consider the natural and usual force of the passions, when we
determine concerning vice and virtue; and if the passions depart very
much from the common measures on either side, they are always disapproved
as vicious. A man naturally loves his children better than his nephews,
his nephews better than his cousins, his cousins better than strangers,
where every thing else is equal. Hence arise our common measures of duty,
in preferring the one to the other. Our sense of duty always follows the
common and natural course of our passions.

To avoid giving offence, I must here observe, that when I deny justice to
be a natural virtue, I make use of the word, natural, only as opposed to
artificial. In another sense of the word; as no principle of the human
mind is more natural than a sense of virtue; so no virtue is more natural
than justice. Mankind is an inventive species; and where an invention is
obvious and absolutely necessary, it may as properly be said to be
natural as any thing that proceeds immediately from original principles,
without the intervention of thought or reflection. Though the rules of
justice be artificial, they are not arbitrary. Nor is the expression
improper to call them Laws of Nature; if by natural we understand what is
common to any species, or even if we confine it to mean what is
inseparable from the species.



SECT. II  OF THE ORIGIN OF JUSTICE AND PROPERTY


We now proceed to examine two questions, viz, CONCERNING THE MANNER, IN
WHICH THE RULES OF JUSTICE ARE ESTABLISHed BY THE ARTIFICE OF MEN; and
CONCERNING THE REASONS, WHICH DETERMINE US TO ATTRIBUTE TO THE OBSERVANCE
OR NEGLECT OF THESE RULES A MORAL BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY. These questions
will appear afterwards to be distinct. We shall begin with the former.

Of all the animals, with which this globe is peopled, there is none
towards whom nature seems, at first sight, to have exercised more cruelty
than towards man, in the numberless wants and necessities, with which she
has loaded him, and in the slender means, which she affords to the
relieving these necessities. In other creatures these two particulars
generally compensate each other. If we consider the lion as a voracious
and carnivorous animal, we shall easily discover him to be very
necessitous; but if we turn our eye to his make and temper, his agility,
his courage, his arms, and his force, we shall find, that his advantages
hold proportion with his wants. The sheep and ox are deprived of all
these advantages; but their appetites are moderate, and their food is of
easy purchase. In man alone, this unnatural conjunction of infirmity, and
of necessity, may be observed in its greatest perfection. Not only the
food, which is required for his sustenance, flies his search and
approach, or at least requires his labour to be produced, but he must be
possessed of cloaths and lodging, to defend him against the injuries of
the weather; though to consider him only in himself, he is provided
neither with arms, nor force, nor other natural abilities, which are in
any degree answerable to so many necessities.

It is by society alone he is able to supply his defects, and raise himself
up to an equality with his fellow-creatures, and even acquire a
superiority above them. By society all his infirmities are compensated;
and though in that situation his wants multiply every moment upon him, yet
his abilities are still more augmented, and leave him in every respect
more satisfied and happy, than it is possible for him, in his savage and
solitary condition, ever to become. When every individual person labours
a-part, and only for himself, his force is too small to execute any
considerable work; his labour being employed in supplying all his
different necessities, he never attains a perfection in any particular
art; and as his force and success are not at all times equal, the least
failure in either of these particulars must be attended with inevitable
ruin and misery. Society provides a remedy for these three
inconveniences. By the conjunction of forces, our power is augmented: By
the partition of employments, our ability encreases: And by mutual
succour we are less exposed to fortune and accidents. It is by this
additional force, ability, and security, that society becomes
advantageous.

But in order to form society, it is requisite not only that it be
advantageous, but also that men be sensible of these advantages; and it is
impossible, in their wild uncultivated state, that by study and
reflection alone, they should ever be able to attain this knowledge. Most
fortunately, therefore, there is conjoined to those necessities, whose
remedies are remote and obscure, another necessity, which having a
present and more obvious remedy, may justly be regarded as the first and
original principle of human society. This necessity is no other than that
natural appetite betwixt the sexes, which unites them together, and
preserves their union, till a new tye takes place in their concern for
their common offspring. This new concern becomes also a principle of
union betwixt the parents and offspring, and forms a more numerous
society; where the parents govern by the advantage of their superior
strength and wisdom, and at the same time are restrained in the exercise
of their authority by that natural affection, which they bear their
children. In a little time, custom and habit operating on the tender
minds of the children, makes them sensible of the advantages, which they
may reap from society, as well as fashions them by degrees for it, by
rubbing off those rough corners and untoward affections, which prevent
their coalition.

For it must be confest, that however the circumstances of human nature
may render an union necessary, and however those passions of lust and
natural affection may seem to render it unavoidable; yet there are other
particulars in our natural temper, and in our outward circumstances,
which are very incommodious, and are even contrary to the requisite
conjunction. Among the former, we may justly esteem our selfishness to be
the most considerable. I am sensible, that generally speaking, the
representations of this quality have been carried much too far; and that
the descriptions, which certain philosophers delight so much to form of
mankind in this particular, are as wide of nature as any accounts of
monsters, which we meet with in fables and romances. So far from
thinking, that men have no affection for any thing beyond themselves, I
am of opinion, that though it be rare to meet with one, who loves any
single person better than himself; yet it is as rare to meet with one, in
whom all the kind affections, taken together, do not overbalance all the
selfish. Consult common experience: Do you not see, that though the whole
expence of the family be generally under the direction of the master of
it, yet there are few that do not bestow the largest part of their
fortunes on the pleasures of their wives, and the education of their
children, reserving the smallest portion for their own proper use and
entertainment. This is what we may observe concerning such as have those
endearing ties; and may presume, that the case would be the same with
others, were they placed in a like situation.

But though this generosity must be acknowledged to the honour of human
nature, we may at the same time remark, that so noble an affection,
instead of fitting men for large societies, is almost as contrary to
them, as the most narrow selfishness. For while each person loves himself
better than any other single person, and in his love to others bears the
greatest affection to his relations and acquaintance, this must
necessarily produce an oppositon of passions, and a consequent opposition
of actions; which cannot but be dangerous to the new-established union.

It is however worth while to remark, that this contrariety of passions
would be attended with but small danger, did it not concur with a
peculiarity in our outward circumstances, which affords it an opportunity
of exerting itself. There are different species of goods, which we are
possessed of; the internal satisfaction of our minds, the external
advantages of our body, and the enjoyment of such possessions as we have
acquired by our industry and good fortune. We are perfectly secure in the
enjoyment of the first. The second may be ravished from us, but can be of
no advantage to him who deprives us of them. The last only are both
exposed to the violence of others, and may be transferred without
suffering any loss or alteration; while at the same time, there is not a
sufficient quantity of them to supply every one's desires and
necessities. As the improvement, therefore, of these goods is the chief
advantage of society, so the instability of their possession, along with
their scarcity, is the chief impediment.

In vain should we expect to find, in uncultivated nature, a remedy to
this inconvenience; or hope for any inartificial principle of the human
mind, which might controul those are remote and obscure, another
necessity, which having a present and more obvious remedy, may justly be
regarded as the first and original principle of human society. This
necessity is no other than that natural appetite betwixt the sexes, which
unites them together, and preserves their union, till a new tye takes
place in their concern for their common offspring. This new concern
becomes also a principle of union betwixt the parents and offspring, and
forms a more numerous society; where the parents govern by the advantage
of their superior strength and wisdom, and at the same time are
restrained in the exercise of their authority by that natural affection,
which they bear their children. In a little time, custom and habit
operating on the tender minds of the children, makes them sensible of the
advantages, which they may reap from society, as well as fashions them by
degrees for it, by rubbing off those rough corners and untoward
affections, which prevent their coalition.

For it must be confest, that however the circumstances of human nature
may render an union necessary, and however those passions of lust and
natural affection may seem to render it unavoidable; yet there are other
particulars in our natural temper, and in our outward circumstances,
which are very incommodious, and are even contrary to the requisite
conjunction. Among the former, we may justly esteem our selfishness to be
the most considerable. I am sensible, that generally speaking, the
representations of this quality have been carried much too far; and that
the descriptions, which certain philosophers delight so much to form of
mankind in this particular, are as wide of nature as any accounts of
monsters, which we meet with in fables and romances. So far from
thinking, that men have no affection for any thing beyond themselves, I
am of opinion, that though it be rare to meet with one, who loves any
single person better than himself; yet it is as rare to meet with one, in
whom all the kind affections, taken together, do not overbalance all the
selfish. Consult common experience: Do you not see, that though the whole
expence of the family be generally under the direction of the master of
it, yet there are few that do not bestow the largest part of their
fortunes on the pleasures of their wives, and the education of their
children, reserving the smallest portion for their own proper use and
entertainment This is what we may observe concerning such as have those
endearing ties; and may presume, that the case would be the same with
others, were they placed in a like situation.

But though this generosity must be acknowledged to the honour of human
nature, we may at the same time remark, that so noble an affection,
instead of fitting men for large societies, is almost as contrary to
them, as the most narrow selfishness. For while each person loves himself
better than any other single person, and in his love to others bears the
greatest affection to his relations and acquaintance, this must
necessarily produce an oppositon of passions, and a consequent opposition
of actions; which cannot but be dangerous to the new-established union.

It is however worth while to remark, that this contrariety of passions
would be attended with but small danger, did it not concur with a
peculiarity in our outward circumstances, which affords it an opportunity
of exerting itself. There are different species of goods, which we are
possessed of; the internal satisfaction of our minds, the external
advantages of our body, and the enjoyment of such possessions as we have
acquired by our industry and good fortune. We are perfectly secure in the
enjoyment of the first. The second may be ravished from us, but can be of
no advantage to him who deprives us of them. The last only are both
exposed to the violence of others, and may be transferred without
suffering any loss or alteration; while at the same time, there is not a
sufficient quantity of them to supply every one's desires and
necessities. As the improvement, therefore, of these goods is the chief
advantage of society, so the instability of their possession, along with
their scarcity, is the chief impediment.

In vain should we expect to find, in uncultivated nature, a remedy to
this inconvenience; or hope for any inartificial principle of the human
mind, which might controul those partial affections, and make us overcome
the temptations arising from our circumstances. The idea of justice can
never serve to this purpose, or be taken for a natural principle, capable
of inspiring men with an equitable conduct towards each other. That
virtue, as it is now understood. would never have been dreamed of among
rude and savage men. For the notion of injury or injustice implies an
immorality or vice committed against some other person: And as every
immorality is derived from some defect or unsoundness of the passions,
and as this defect must be judged of, in a great measure, from the
ordinary course of nature in the constitution of the mind; it will be easy
to know, whether we be guilty of any immorality, with regard to others,
by considering the natural, and usual force of those several affections,
which are directed towards them. Now it appears, that in the original
frame of our mind, our strongest attention is confined to ourselves; our
next is extended to our relations and acquaintance; and it is only the
weakest which reaches to strangers and indifferent persons. This
partiality, then, and unequal affection, must not only have an influence
on our behaviour and conduct in society, but even on our ideas of vice
and virtue; so as to make us regard any remarkable transgression of such
a degree of partiality, either by too great an enlargement, or
contraction of the affections, as vicious and immoral. This we may
observe in our common judgments concerning actions, where we blame a
person, who either centers all his affections in his family, or is so
regardless of them, as, in any opposition of interest, to give the
preference to a stranger, or mere chance acquaintance. From all which it
follows, that our natural uncultivated ideas of morality, instead of
providing a remedy for the partiality of our affections, do rather
conform themselves to that partiality, and give it an additional force
and influence.

The remedy, then, is not derived from nature, but from artifice; or more
e properly speaking, nature provides a remedy in the judgment and
understanding, for what is irregular and incommodious in the affections.
For when men, from their early education in society, have become sensible
of the infinite advantages that result from it, and have besides acquired
a new affection to company and conversation; and when they have observed,
that the principal disturbance in society arises from those goods, which
we call external, and from their looseness and easy transition from one
person to another; they must seek for a remedy by putting these goods, as
far as possible, on the same footing with the fixed and constant
advantages of the mind and body. This can be done after no other manner,
than by a convention entered into by all the members of the society to
bestow stability on the possession of those external goods, and leave
every one in the peaceable enjoyment of what he may acquire by his
fortune and industry. By this means, every one knows what he may safely
possess; and the passions ale restrained in their partial and
contradictory motions. Nor is such a 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 impetuous movement. Instead of
departing from our own interest, or from that of our nearest friends, by
abstaining from the possessions of others, we cannot better consult both
these interests, than by such a convention; because it is by that means
we maintain society, which is so necessary to their well-being and
subsistence, as well as to our own.

This convention is not of the nature of a promise: For even promises
themselves, as we shall see afterwards, arise from human conventions. It
is only a general sense of common interest; which sense all the members
of the society express to one another, and which induces them to regulate
their conduct by certain rules. I observe, that it will be for my
interest to leave another in the possession of his goods, provided he
will act in the same manner with regard to me. He is sensible of a like
interest in the regulation of his conduct. When this common sense of
interest is mutually expressed, and is known to both, it produces a
suitable resolution and behaviour. And this may properly enough be called
a convention or agreement betwixt us, though without the interposition of
a promise; since the actions of each of us have a reference to those of
the other, and are performed upon the supposition, that something is to be
performed on the other part. Two men, who pull the oars of a boat, do it
by an agreement or convention, though they have never given promises to
each other. Nor is the rule concerning the stability of possession the
less derived from human conventions, that it arises gradually, and
acquires force by a slow progression, and. by our repeated experience of
the inconveniences of transgressing it. On the contrary, this experience
assures us still more, that the sense of interest has become common to
all our fellows, and gives us a confidence of the future regularity of
their conduct: And it is only on the expectation of this, that our
moderation and abstinence are founded. In like manner are languages
gradually established by human conventions without any promise. In like
manner do gold and silver become the common measures of exchange, and are
esteemed sufficient payment for what is of a hundred times their value.

After this convention, concerning abstinence from the possessions of
others, is entered into, and every one has acquired a stability in his
possessions, there immediately arise the ideas of justice and injustice;
as also those of property, right, and obligation. The latter are
altogether unintelligible without first understanding the former. Our
property is nothing but those goods, whose constant possession is
established by the laws of society; that is, by the laws of justice.
Those, therefore, who make use of the words property, or right, or
obligation, before they have explained the origin of justice, or even
make use of them in that explication, are guilty of a very gross fallacy,
and can never reason upon any solid foundation. A man's property is some
object related to him. This relation is not natural, but moral, and
founded on justice. It is very preposterous, therefore, to imagine, that
we can have any idea of property, without fully comprehending the nature
of justice, and shewing its origin in the artifice and contrivance of man.
The origin of justice explains that of property. The same artifice gives
rise to both. As our first and most natural sentiment of morals is
founded on the nature of our passions, and gives the preference to
ourselves and friends, above strangers; it is impossible there can be
naturally any such thing as a fixed right or property, while the opposite
passions of men impel them in contrary directions, and are not restrained
by any convention or agreement.

No one can doubt, that the convention for the distinction of property,
and for the stability of possession, is of all circumstances the most
necessary to the establishment of human society, and that after the
agreement for the fixing and observing of this rule, there remains little
or nothing to be done towards settling a perfect harmony and concord. All
the other passions, besides this of interest, are either easily
restrained, or are not of such pernicious consequence, when indulged.
Vanity is rather to be esteemed a social passion, and a bond of union
among men. Pity and love are to be considered in the same light. And as
to envy and revenge, though pernicious, they operate only by intervals,
and are directed against particular persons, whom we consider as our
superiors or enemies. This avidity alone, of acquiring goods and
possessions for ourselves and our nearest friends, is insatiable,
perpetual, universal, and directly destructive of society. There scarce
is any one, who is not actuated by it; and there is no one, who has not
reason to fear from it, when it acts without any restraint, and gives way
to its first and most natural movements. So that upon the whole, we are
to esteem the difficulties in the establishment of society, to be greater
or less, according to those we encounter in regulating and restraining
this passion.

It is certain, that no affection of the human mind has. both a sufficient
force, and a proper direction to counterbalance the love of gain, and
render men fit members of society, by making them abstain from the
possessions of others. Benevolence to strangers is too weak for this
purpose; and as to the other passions, they rather inflame this avidity,
when we observe, that the larger our possessions are, the more ability we
have of gratifying all our appetites. There is no passion, therefore,
capable of controlling the interested affection, but the very affection
itself, by an alteration of its direction. Now this alteration must
necessarily take place upon the least reflection; since it is evident,
that the passion is much better satisfyed by its restraint, than by its
liberty, and that in preserving society, we make much greater advances in
the acquiring possessions, than in the solitary and forlorn condition,
which must follow upon violence and an universal licence. The question,
therefore, concerning the wickedness or goodness of human nature, enters
not in the least into that other question concerning the origin of
society; nor is there any thing to be considered but the degrees of men's
sagacity or folly. For whether the passion of self-interest be esteemed
vicious or virtuous, it is all a case; since itself alone restrains it: So
that if it be virtuous, men become social by their virtue; if vicious,
their vice has the same effect.

Now as it is by establishing the rule for the stability of possession,
that this passion restrains itself; if that rule be very abstruse, and of
difficult invention; society must be esteemed, in a manner, accidental,
and the effect of many ages. But if it be found, that nothing can be more
simple and obvious than that rule; that every parent, in order to
preserve peace among his children, must establish it; and that these
first rudiments of justice must every day be improved, as the society
enlarges: If all this appear evident, as it certainly must, we may
conclude, that it is utterly impossible for men to remain any considerable
time in that savage condition, which precedes society; but that his very
first state and situation may justly be esteemed social. This, however,
hinders not, but that philosophers may, if they please, extend their
reasoning to the supposed state of nature; provided they allow it to be a
mere philosophical fiction, which never had, and never coued have any
reality. Human nature being composed of two principal parts, which are
requisite in all its actions, the affections and understanding; it is
certain, that the blind motions of the former, without the direction of
the latter, incapacitate men for society: And it may be allowed us to
consider separately the effects, that result from the separate operations
of these two component parts of the mind. The same liberty may be
permitted to moral, which is allowed to natural philosophers; and it is
very usual with the latter to consider any motion as compounded and
consisting of two parts separate from each other, though at the same time
they acknowledge it to be in itself uncompounded and inseparable.

This state of nature, therefore, is to be regarded as a mere fiction, not
unlike that of the golden age, which poets have invented; only with this
difference, that the former is described as full of war, violence and
injustice; whereas the latter is pointed out to us, as the most charming
and most peaceable condition, that can possibly be imagined. The seasons,
in that first age of nature, were so temperate, if we may believe the
poets, that there was no necessity for men to provide themselves with
cloaths and houses as a security against the violence of heat and cold.
The rivers flowed with wine and milk: The oaks yielded honey; and nature
spontaneously produced her greatest delicacies. Nor were these the chief
advantages of that happy age. The storms and tempests were not alone
removed from nature; but those more furious tempests were unknown to
human breasts, which now cause such uproar, and engender such confusion.
Avarice, ambition, cruelty, selfishness, were never heard of: Cordial
affection, compassion, sympathy, were the only movements, with which the
human mind was yet acquainted. Even the distinction of mine and thine was
banished from that happy race of mortals, and carryed with them the very
notions of property and obligation, justice and injustice.

This, no doubt, is to be regarded as an idle fiction; but yet deserves
our attention, because nothing can more evidently shew the origin of
those virtues, which are the subjects of our present enquiry. I have
already observed, that justice takes its rise from human conventions; and
that these are intended as a remedy to some inconveniences, which proceed
from the concurrence of certain qualities of the human mind with the
situation of external objects. The qualities of the mind are selfishness
and limited generosity: And the situation of external objects is their
easy change, joined to their scarcity in comparison of the wants and
desires of men. But however philosophers may have been bewildered in
those speculations, poets have been guided more infallibly, by a certain
taste or common instinct, which in most kinds of reasoning goes farther
than any of that art and philosophy, with which we have been yet
acquainted. They easily perceived, if every man had a tender regard for
another, or if nature supplied abundantly all our wants and desires, that
the jealousy of interest, which justice supposes, could no longer have
place; nor would there be any occasion for those distinctions and limits
of property and possession, which at present are in use among mankind.
Encrease to a sufficient degree the benevolence of men, or the bounty of
nature, and you render justice useless, by supplying its place with much
nobler virtues, and more valuable blessings. The selfishness of men is
animated by the few possessions we have, in proportion to our wants; and
it is to restrain this selfishness, that men have been obliged to separate
themselves from the community, and to distinguish betwixt their own goods
and those of others.

Nor need we have recourse to the fictions of poets to learn this; but
beside the reason of the thing, may discover the same truth by common
experience and observation. It is easy to remark, that a cordial affection
renders all things common among friends; and that married people in
particular mutually lose their property, and are unacquainted with the
mine and thine, which are so necessary, and yet cause such disturbance in
human society. The same effect arises from any alteration in the
circumstances of mankind; as when there is such a plenty of any thing as
satisfies all the desires of men: In which case the distinction of
property is entirely lost, and every thing remains in common. This we may
observe with regard to air and water, though the most valuable of all
external objects; and may easily conclude, that if men were supplied with
every thing in the same abundance, or if every one had the same affection
and tender regard for every one as for himself; justice and injustice
would be equally unknown among mankind.

Here then is a proposition, which, I think, may be regarded as certain,
that it is only from the selfishness and confined generosity of men, along
with the scanty provision nature has made for his wants, that justice
derives its origin. If we look backward we shall find, that this
proposition bestows an additional force on some of those observations,
which we have already made on this subject.

First, we may conclude from it, that a regard to public interest, or a
strong extensive benevolence, is not our first and original motive for
the observation of the rules of justice; since it is allowed, that if men
were endowed with such a benevolence, these rules would never have been
dreamt of.

Secondly, we may conclude from the same principle, that the sense of
justice is not founded on reason, or on the discovery of certain
connexions and relations of ideas, which are eternal, immutable, and
universally obligatory. For since it is confest, that such an alteration
as that above-mentioned, in the temper and circumstances of mankind,
would entirely alter our duties and obligations, it is necessary upon the
common system, that the sense of virtue is derived from reason, to shew
the change which this must produce in the relations and ideas. But it is
evident, that the only cause, why the extensive generosity of man, and
the perfect abundance of every thing, would destroy the very idea of
justice, is because they render it useless; and that, on the other hand,
his confined benevolence, and his necessitous condition, give rise to
that virtue, only by making it requisite to the publick interest, and to
that of every individual. Twas therefore a concern for our own, and the
publick interest, which made us establish the laws of justice; and
nothing can be more certain, than that it is not any relation of ideas,
which gives us this concern, but our impressions and sentiments, without
which every thing in nature is perfectly indifferent to us, and can never
in the least affect us. The sense of justice, therefore, is not founded
on our ideas, but on our impressions.

Thirdly, we may farther confirm the foregoing proposition, THAT THOSE
IMPRESSIONS, WHICH GIVE RISE TO THIS SENSE OF JUSTICE, ARE NOT NATURAL TO
THE MIND OF MAN, BUT ARISE FROM ARTIFICE AND HUMAN CONVENTIONS. For since
any considerable alteration of temper and circumstances destroys equally
justice and injustice; and since such an alteration has an effect only by
changing our own and the publick interest; it follows, that the first
establishment of the rules of justice depends on these different
interests. But if men pursued the publick interest naturally, and with a
hearty affection, they would never have dreamed of restraining each other
by these rules; and if they pursued their own interest, without any
precaution, they would run head-long into every kind of injustice and
violence. These rules, therefore, are artificial, and seek their end in
an oblique and indirect manner; nor is the interest, which gives rise to
them, of a kind that coued be pursued by the natural and inartificial
passions of men.

To make this more evident, consider, that though the rules of justice are
established merely by interest, their connexion with interest is somewhat
singular, and is different from what may be observed on other occasions.
A single act of justice is frequently contrary to public interest; and
were it to stand alone, without being followed by other acts, may, in
itself, be very prejudicial to society. When a man of merit, of a
beneficent disposition, restores a great fortune to a miser, or a
seditious bigot, he has acted justly and laudably, but the public is a
real sufferer. Nor is every single act of justice, considered apart, more
conducive to private interest, than to public; and it is easily conceived
how a man may impoverish himself by a signal instance of integrity, and
have reason to wish, that with regard to that single act, the laws of
justice were for a moment suspended in the universe. But however single
acts of justice may be contrary, either to public or private interest,
it is certain, that the whole plan or scheme is highly conducive, or
indeed absolutely requisite, both to the support of society, and the
well-being of every individual. It is impossible to separate the good from
the ill. Property must be stable, and must be fixed by general rules.
Though in one instance the public be a sufferer, this momentary ill is
amply compensated by the steady prosecution of the rule, and by the peace
and order, which it establishes in society. And even every individual
person must find himself a gainer, on ballancing the account; since,
without justice. society must immediately dissolve, and every one must
fall into that savage and solitary condition, which is infinitely worse
than the worst situation that can possibly be supposed in society. When
therefore men have had experience enough to observe, that whatever may be
the consequence of any single act of justice, performed by a single
person, yet the whole system of actions, concurred in by the whole
society, is infinitely advantageous to the whole, and to every part; it
is not long before justice and property take place. Every member of
society is sen sible of this interest: Every one expresses this sense to
his fellows, along with the resolution he has taken of squaring his
actions by it, on condition that others will do the same. No more is
requisite to induce any one of them to perform an act of justice, who has
the first opportunity. This becomes an example to others. And thus
justice establishes itself by a kind of convention or agreement; that is,
by a sense of interest, supposed to be common to all, and where every
single act is performed in expectation that others are to perform the
like. Without such a convention, no one would ever have dreamed, that
there was such a virtue as justice, or have been induced to conform his
actions to it. Taking any single act, my justice may be pernicious in
every respect; and it is only upon the supposition. that others are to
imitate my example, that I can be induced to embrace that virtue; since
nothing but this combination can render justice advantageous, or afford
me any motives to conform my self to its rules.

We come now to the second question we proposed, viz. Why we annex the
idea of virtue to justice, and of vice to injustice. This question will
not detain us long after the principles, which we have already
established, All we can say of it at present will be dispatched in a few
words: And for farther satisfaction, the reader must wait till we come to
the third part of this book. The natural obligation to justice, viz,
interest, has been fully explained; but as to the moral obligation, or
the sentiment of right and wrong, it will first be requisite to examine
the natural virtues, before we can give a full and satisfactory account
of it. After men have found by experience, that their selfishness and
confined generosity, acting at their liberty, totally incapacitate them
for society; and at the same time have observed, that society is
necessary to the satisfaction of those very passions, they are naturally
induced to lay themselves under the restraint of such rules, as may
render their commerce more safe and commodious. To the imposition then,
and observance of these rules, both in general, and in every particular
instance, they are at first induced only by a regard to interest; and
this motive, on the first formation of society, is sufficiently strong
and forcible. But when society has become numerous, and has encreased to
a tribe or nation, this interest is more remote; nor do men so readily
perceive, that disorder and confusion follow upon every breach of these
rules, as in a more narrow and contracted society. But though in our own
actions we may frequently lose sight of that interest, which we have in
maintaining order, and may follow a lesser and more present interest, we
never fail to observe the prejudice we receive, either mediately or
immediately, from the injustice of others; as not being in that case
either blinded by passion, or byassed by any contrary temptation. Nay
when the injustice is so distant from us, as no way to affect our
interest, it still displeases us; because we consider it as prejudicial
to human society, and pernicious to every one that approaches the person
guilty of it. We partake of their uneasiness by sympathy; and as every
thing, which gives uneasiness in human actions, upon the general survey,
is called Vice, and whatever produces satisfaction, in the same manner,
is denominated Virtue; this is the reason why the sense of moral good and
evil follows upon justice and injustice. And though this sense, in the
present case, be derived only from contemplating the actions of others,
yet we fail not to extend it even to our own actions. The general rule
reaches beyond those instances, from which it arose; while at the same
time we naturally sympathize with others in the sentiments they entertain
of us. Thus self-interest is the original motive to the establishment of
justice: but a sympathy with public interest is the source of the moral
approbation, which attends that virtue.

Though this progress of the sentiments be natural, and even necessary, it
is certain, that it is here forwarded by the artifice of politicians, who,
in order to govern men more easily, and preserve peace in human society,
have endeavoured to produce an esteem for justice, and an abhorrence of
injustice. This, no doubt, must have its effect; but nothing can be more
evident, than that the matter has been carryed too far by certain writers
on morals, who seem to have employed their utmost efforts to extirpate
all sense of virtue from among mankind. Any artifice of politicians may
assist nature in the producing of those sentiments, which she suggests to
us, and may even on some occasions, produce alone an approbation or
esteem for any particular action; but it is impossible it should be the
sole cause of the distinction we make betwixt vice and virtue. For if
nature did not aid us in this particular, it would be in vain for
politicians to talk of honourable or dishonourable, praiseworthy or
blameable. These words would be perfectly unintelligible, and would no
more have any idea annexed to them, than if they were of a tongue
perfectly unknown to us. The utmost politicians can perform, is, to
extend the natural sentiments beyond their original bounds; but still
nature must furnish the materials, and give us some notion of moral
distinctions.

As publick praise and blame encrease our esteem for justice; so private
education and instruction contribute to the same effect. For as parents
easily observe, that a man is the more useful, both to himself and
others, the greater degree of probity and honour he is endowed with; and
that those principles have greater force, when custom and education
assist interest and reflection: For these reasons they are induced to
inculcate on their children, from their earliest infancy, the principles
of probity, and teach them to regard the observance of those rules, by
which society is maintained, as worthy and honourable, and their
violation as base and infamous. By this means the sentiments of honour
may take root in their tender minds, and acquire such firmness and
solidity, that they may fall little short of those principles, which are
the most essential to our natures, and the most deeply radicated in our
internal constitution.

What farther contributes to encrease their solidity, is the interest of
our reputation, after the opinion, that a merit or demerit attends
justice or injustice, is once firmly established among mankind. There is
nothing, which touches us more nearly than our reputation, and nothing on
which our reputation more depends than our conduct, with relation to the
property of others. For this reason, every one, who has any regard to his
character, or who intends to live on good terms with mankind, must fix an
inviolable law to himself, never, by any temptation, to be induced to
violate those principles, which are essential to a man of probity and
honour.

I shall make only one observation before I leave this subject, viz, that
though I assert, that in the state of nature, or that imaginary state,
which preceded society, there be neither justice nor injustice, yet I
assert not, that it was allowable, in such a state, to violate the
property of others. I only maintain, that there was no such thing as
property; and consequently coued be no such thing as justice or
injustice. I shall have occasion to make a similar reflection with regard
to promises, when I come to treat of them; and I hope this reflection,
when duly weighed, will suffice to remove all odium from the foregoing
opinions, with regard to justice and injustice.



SECT. III  OF THE RULES WHICH DETERMINE PROPERTY


Though the establishment of the rule, concerning the stability of
possession, be not only useful, but even absolutely necessary to human
society, it can never serve to any purpose, while it remains in such
general terms. Some method must be shewn, by which we may distinguish
what particular goods are to be assigned to each particular person, while
the rest of mankind are excluded from their possession and enjoyment. Our
next business, then, must be to discover the reasons which modify this
general rule, and fit it to the common use and practice of the world.

It is obvious, that those reasons are not derived from any utility or
advantage, which either the particular person or the public may reap from
his enjoyment of any particular goods, beyond what would result from the
possession of them by any other person. Twere better, no doubt, that
every one were possessed of what is most suitable to him, and proper for
his use: But besides, that this relation of fitness may be common to
several at once, it is liable to so many controversies, and men are so
partial and passionate in judging of these controversies, that such a
loose and uncertain rule would be absolutely incompatible with the peace
of human society. The convention concerning the stability of possession
is entered into, in order to cut off all occasions of discord and
contention; and this end would never be attained, were we allowed to
apply this rule differently in every particular case, according to every
particular utility, which might be discovered in such an application.
Justice, in her decisions, never regards the fitness or unfitness of
objects to particular persons, but conducts herself by more extensive
views. Whether a man be generous, or a miser, he is equally well received
by her, and obtains with the same facility a decision in his favours,
even for what is entirely useless to him.

It follows therefore, that the general rule, that possession must be
stable, is not applied by particular judgments, but by other general
rules, which must extend to the whole society, and be inflexible either
by spite or favour. To illustrate this, I propose the following instance.
I first consider men in their savage and solitary condition; and suppose,
that being sensible of the misery of that state, and foreseeing the
advantages that would result from society, they seek each other's
company, and make an offer of mutual protection and assistance. I also
suppose, that they are endowed with such sagacity as immediately to
perceive, that the chief impediment to this project of society and
partnership lies in the avidity and selfishness of their natural temper;
to remedy which, they enter into a convention for the stability of
possession, and for mutual restraint and forbearance. I am sensible, that
this method of proceeding is not altogether natural; but besides that I
here only suppose those reflections to be formed at once, which in fact
arise insensibly and by degrees; besides this, I say, it is very possible,
that several persons, being by different accidents separated from the
societies, to which they formerly belonged, may be obliged to form a new
society among themselves; in which case they are entirely in the
situation above-mentioned.

It is evident, then, that their first difficulty, in this situation, after
the general convention for the establishment of society, and for the
constancy of possession, is, how to separate their possessions, and
assign to each his particular portion, which he must for the future
inalterably enjoy. This difficulty will not detain them long; but it must
immediately occur to them, as the most natural expedient, that every one
continue to enjoy what he is at present master of, and that property or
constant possession be conjoined to the immediate possession. Such is the
effect of custom, that it not only reconciles us to any thing we have
long enjoyed. but even gives us an affection for it, and makes us prefer
it to other objects, which may be more valuable, but are less known to
us. What has long lain under our eye, and has often been employed to our
advantage, that we are always the most unwilling to part with; but can
easily live without possessions, which we never have enjoyed, and are not
accustomed to. It is evident, therefore, that men would easily acquiesce
in this expedient, that every one continue to enjoy what he is at present
possessed of; and this is the reason, why they would so naturally agree
in preferring it.


[Footnote 15.  No questions in philosophy are more difficult, than when a
number of causes present themselves for the same phaenomenon, to determine
which is the principal and predominant. There seldom is any very precise
argument to fix our choice, and men must be contented to be guided by a
kind of taste or fancy, arising from analogy, and a comparison of familiar
instances. Thus, in the present case, there are, no doubt, motives of
public interest for most of the rules, which determine property; but
still I suspect, that these rules are principally fixed by the
imagination, or the more frivolous properties of our thought and
conception. I shall continue to explain these causes, leaving it to the
reader's choice, whether he will prefer those derived from publick
utility, or those derived from the imagination. We shall begin with the
right of the present possessor.

It is a quality, which I have already observed in human nature, that when
two objects appear in a close relation to each other, the mind is apt to
ascribe to them any additional relation, in order to compleat the union;
and this inclination is so strong, as often to make us run into errors
(such as that of the conjunction of thought and matter) if we find that
they can serve to that purpose. Many of our impressions are incapable of
place or local position; and yet those very impressions we suppose to
have a local conjunction with the impressions of sight and touch, merely
because they are conjoined by causation, and are already united in the
imagination. Since, therefore, we can feign a new relation, and even an
absurd one, in order to compleat any union, it will easily be imagined,
that if there be any relations, which depend on the mind, it will readily
conjoin them to any preceding relation, and unite, by a new bond, such
objects as have already an union in the fancy. Thus for instance, we
never fail, in our arrangement of bodies, to place those which are
resembling in contiguity to each other, or at least in correspondent
points of view; because we feel a satisfaction in joining the relation of
contiguity to that of resemblance, or the resemblance of situation to
that of qualities. And this is easily accounted for from the known
properties of human nature. When the mind is determined to join certain
objects, but undetermined in its choice of the particular objects, It
naturally turns its eye to such as are related together. They are already
united in the mind: They present themselves at the same time to the
conception; and instead of requiring any new reason for their
conjunction, it would require a very powerful reason to make us over-look
this natural affinity. This we shall have occasion to explain more fully
afterwards, when we come to treat of beauty. In the mean time, we may
content ourselves with observing, that the same love of order and
uniformity, which arranges the books in a library, and the chairs in a
parlour, contribute to the formation of society, and to the well-being of
mankind, by modifying the general rule concerning the stability of
possession. And as property forms a relation betwixt a person and an
object, it is natural to found it on some preceding relation; and as
property Is nothing but a constant possession, secured by the laws of
society, it is natural to add it to the present possession, which is a
relation that resembles it. For this also has its influence. If it be
natural to conjoin all sorts of relations, it is more so, to conjoin such
relations as are resembling, and are related together.]


But we may observe, that though the rule of the assignment of property to
the present possessor be natural, and by that means useful, yet its
utility extends not beyond the first formation of society; nor would any
thing be more pernicious, than the constant observance of it; by which
restitution would be excluded, and every injustice would be authorized
and rewarded. We must, therefore, seek for some other circumstance, that
may give rise to property after society is once established; and of this
kind, I find four most considerable, viz. Occupation, Prescription,
Accession, and Succession. We shall briefly examine each of these,
beginning with Occupation.

The possession of all external goods is changeable and uncertain; which
is one of the most considerable impediments to the establishment of
society, and is the reason why, by universal agreement, express or
tacite, men restrain themselves by what we now call the rules of justice
and equity. The misery of the condition, which precedes this restraint,
is the cause why we submit to that remedy as quickly as possible; and
this affords us an easy reason, why we annex the idea of property to the
first possession, or to occupation. Men are unwilling to leave property
in suspense, even for the shortest time, or open the least door to
violence and disorder. To which we may add, that the first possession
always engages the attention most; and did we neglect it, there would be
no colour of reason for assigning property to any succeeding
possession.

[Footnote 16.  Some philosophers account for the right of occupation, by
saying, that every one has a property in his own labour; and when he joins
that labour to any thing, it gives him the property of the whole: But,
1. There are several kinds of occupation, where we cannot be said to join
our labour to the object we acquire: As when we possess a meadow by
grazing our cattle upon it. 2. This accounts for the matter by means of
accession; which is taking a needless circuit. 3. We cannot be said to
join our labour to any thing but in a figurative sense. Properly speaking,
we only make an alteration on it by our labour. This forms a relation
betwixt us and the object; and thence arises the property, according to
the preceding principles.]

There remains nothing, but to determine exactly, what is meant by
possession; and this is not so easy as may at first sight be imagined. We
are said to be in possession of any thing, not only when we immediately
touch it, but also when we are so situated with respect to it, as to have
it in our power to use it; and may move, alter, or destroy it, according
to our present pleasure or advantage. This relation, then, is a species
of cause and effect; and as property is nothing but a stable possession,
derived from the rules of justice, or the conventions of men, it is to be
considered as the same species of relation. But here we may observe, that
as the power of using any object becomes more or less certain, according
as the interruptions we may meet with are more or less probable; and as
this probability may increase by insensible degrees; it is in many cases
impossible to determine when possession begins or ends; nor is there any
certain standard, by which we can decide such controversies. A wild boar,
that falls into our snares, is deemed to be in our possession, if it be
impossible for him to escape. But what do we mean by impossible? How do
we separate this impossibility from an improbability? And how distinguish
that exactly from a probability? Mark the precise limits of the one and
the other, and shew the standard, by which we may decide all disputes
that may arise, and, as we find by experience, frequently do arise upon
this subject.


[Footnote 17. If we seek a solution of these difficulties in reason and
public interest, we never shall find satisfaction; and If we look for it
in the imagination, it is evident, that the qualities, which operate upon
that faculty, run so insensibly and gradually into each other, that it is
impossible to give them any precise bounds or termination. The
difficulties on this head must encrease, when we consider, that our
judgment alters very sensibly, according to the subject, and that the
same power and proximity will be deemed possession in one case, which is
not esteemed such in another. A person, who has hunted a hare to the last
degree of weariness, would look upon it as an injustice for another to
rush in before him, and seize his prey. But the same person advancing to
pluck an apple, that hangs within his reach, has no reason to complain,
if another, more alert, passes him, and takes possession. What is the
reason of this difference, but that immobility, not being natural to the
hare, but the effect of industry, forms in that case a strong relation
with the hunter, which is wanting in the other?

Here then it appears, that a certain and infallible power of enjoyment,
without touch or some other sensible relation, often produces not
property: And I farther observe, that a sensible relation, without any
present power, is sometimes sufficient to give a title to any object. The
sight of a thing is seldom a considerable relation, and is only regarded
as such, when the object is hidden, or very obscure; in which case we
find, that the view alone conveys a property; according to that maxim,
THAT EVEN A WHOLE CONTINENT BELONGS TO THE NATION, WHICH FIRST DISCOVERED
IT. It is however remarkable that both in the case of discovery and that
of possession, the first discoverer and possessor must join to the
relation an intention of rendering himself proprietor, otherwise the
relation will not have Its effect; and that because the connexion in our
fancy betwixt the property and the relation is not so great, but that it
requires to be helped by such an intention.

From all these circumstances, it is easy to see how perplexed many
questions may become concerning the acquisition of property by
occupation; and the least effort of thought may present us with
instances, which are not susceptible of any reasonable decision. If we
prefer examples, which are real, to such as are feigned, we may consider
the following one, which is to be met with In almost every writer, that
has treated of the laws of nature. Two Grecian colonies, leaving their
native country, in search of new feats, were informed that a city near
them was deserted by its inhabitants. To know the truth of this report,
they dispatched at once two messengers, one from each colony; who finding
on their approach, that their information was true, begun a race together
with an intention to take possession of the city, each of them for his
countrymen. One of these messengers, finding that he was not an equal
match for the other, launched his spear at the gates of the city, and was
so fortunate as to fix it there before the arrival of his companion. This
produced a dispute betwixt the two colonies, which of them was the
proprietor of the empty city and this dispute still subsists among
philosophers. For my part I find the dispute impossible to be decided,
and that because the whole question hangs upon the fancy, which in this
case is not possessed of any precise or determinate standard, upon which
it can give sentence. To make this evident, let us consider, that if
these two persons had been simply members of the colonies, and not
messengers or deputies, their actions would not have been of any
consequence; since in that case their relation to the colonies would have
been but feeble and imperfect. Add to this, that nothing determined them
to run to the gates rather than the walls, or any other part of the city,
but that the gates, being the most obvious and remarkable part, satisfy
the fancy best in taking them for the whole; as we find by the poets, who
frequently draw their images and metaphors from them. Besides we may
consider, that the touch or contact of the one messenger is not properly
possession, no more than the piercing the gates with a spear; but only
forms a relation; and there is a relation, in the other case, equally
obvious, tho' not, perhaps, of equal force. Which of these relations,
then, conveys a right and property, or whether any of them be sufficient
for that effect, I leave to the decision of such as are wiser than
myself.]


But such disputes may not only arise concerning the real existence of
property and possession, but also concerning their extent; and these
disputes are often susceptible of no decision, or can be decided by no
other faculty than the imagination. A person who lands on the shore of a
small island, that is desart and uncultivated, is deemed its possessor
from the very first moment, and acquires the property of the whole;
because the object is there bounded and circumscribed in the fancy, and
at the same time is proportioned to the new possessor. The same person
landing on a desart island, as large as Great Britain, extends his
property no farther than his immediate possession; though a numerous
colony are esteemed the proprietors of the whole from the instant of their
debarkment.

But it often happens, that the title of first possession becomes obscure
through time; and that it is impossible to determine many controversies,
which may arise concerning it. In that case long possession or
prescription naturally takes place, and gives a person a sufficient
property in any thing he enjoys. The nature of human society admits not
of any great accuracy; nor can we always remount to the first origin of
things, in order to determine their present condition. Any considerable
space of time sets objects at such a distance, that they seem, in a
manner, to lose their reality, and have as little influence on the mind,
as if they never had been in being. A man's title, that is clear and
certain at present, will seem obscure and doubtful fifty years hence,
even though the facts, on which it is founded, should be proved with the
greatest evidence and certainty. The same facts have not the same
influence after so long an interval of time. And this may be received as
a convincing argument for our preceding doctrine with regard to property
and justice. Possession during a long tract of time conveys a title to
any object. But as it is certain, that, however every thing be produced in
time, there is nothing real that is produced by time; it follows, that
property being produced by time, is not any thing real in the objects,
but is the off-spring of the sentiments, on which alone time is found to
have any influence.

[Footnote 18.  Present possession is plainly a relation betwixt a person
and an object; but is not sufficient to counter-ballance the relation of
first possession, unless the former be long and uninterrupted: In which
case the relation is encreased on the side of the present possession, by
the extent of time, and dlminished on that of first possession, by the
distance, This change in the relation produces a consequent change in the
property.]

We acquire the property of objects by accession, when they are connected
in an intimate manner with objects that are already our property, and at
the same time are inferior to them. Thus the fruits of our garden, the
offspring of our cattle, and the work of our slaves, are all of them
esteemed our property, even before possession. Where objects are
connected together in the imagination, they are apt to be put on the same
footing, and are commonly supposed to be endowed with the same qualities.
We readily pass from one to the other, and make no difference in our
judgments concerning them; especially if the latter be inferior to the
former.


[Footnote 19.  This source of property can never be explained but from the
imaginations; and one may affirm, that the causes are here unmixed. We
shall proceed to explain them more particularly, and illustrate them by
examples from common life and experience.

It has been observed above, that the mind has a natural propensity to
join relations, especially resembling ones, and finds a hind of fitness
and uniformity in such an union. From this propensity are derived these
laws of nature, that upon the first formation of society, property always
follows the present possession; and afterwards, that it arises from first
or from long possession. Now we may easily observe, that relation is not
confined merely to one degree; but that from an object, that is related
to us, we acquire a relation to every other object, which is related to
it, and so on, till the thought loses the chain by too long a progress,
However the relation may weaken by each remove, it is not immediately
destroyed; but frequently connects two objects by means of an
intermediate one, which is related to both. And this principle is of such
force as to give rise to the right of accession, and causes us to acquire
the property not only of such objects as we are immediately possessed of;
but also of such as are closely connected with them.

Suppose a German, a Frenchman, and a Spaniard to come into a room, where
there are placed upon the table three bottles of wine, Rhenish, Burgundy
and Port; and suppose they shoued fall a quarrelling about the division
of them; a person, who was chosen for umpire would naturally, to shew his
impartiality, give every one the product of his own country: And this
from a principle, which, in some measure, is the source of those laws of
nature, that ascribe property to occupation, prescription and accession.

In all these Cases, and particularly that of accession, there is first a
natural union betwixt the Idea of the person and that of the object, and
afterwards a new and moral union produced by that right or property,
which we ascribe to the person. But here there occurs a difficulty, which
merits our attention, and may afford us an opportunity of putting to
tryal that singular method of reasoning, which has been employed on the
present subject. I have already observed that the imagination passes with
greater facility from little to great, than from great to littie, and
that the transition of ideas is always easier and smoother in the former
case than in the latter. Now as the right of accession arises from the
easy transition of ideas, by which related objects are connected
together, it shoued naturally be imagined, that the right of accession
must encrease in strength, in proportion as the transition of ideas is
performed with greater facility. It may, therefore, be thought, that when
we have acquired the property of any small object, we shall readily
consider any great object related to it as an accession, and as belonging
to the proprietor of the small one; since the transition is in that case
very easy from the small object to the great one, and shoued connect them
together in the closest manner. But In fact the case is always found to
be otherwise, The empire of Great Britain seems to draw along with it the
dominion of the Orkneys, the Hebrides, the isle of Man, and the Isle of
Wight; but the authority over those lesser islands does not naturally
imply any title to Great Britain. In short, a small object naturally
follows a great one as its accession; but a great one Is never supposed
to belong to the proprietor of a small one related to it, merely on
account of that property and relation. Yet in this latter case the
transition of ideas is smoother from the proprietor to the small object,
which is his property, and from the small object to the great one, than
in the former case from the proprietor to the great object, and from the
great one to the small. It may therefore be thought, that these
phaenomena are objections to the foregoing hypothesis, THAT THE ASCRIBING
OF PROPERTY TO ACCESSION IS NOTHING BUT AN AFFECT OF THE RELATIONS OF
IDEAS, AND OF THE SMOOTH TRANSITION OF THE IMAGINATION.

It will be easy to solve this objection, if we consider the agility and
unsteadiness of the imagination, with the different views, in which it is
continually placing its objects. When we attribute to a person a property
in two objects, we do not always pass from the person to one object, and
from that to the other related to it. The objects being here to be
considered as the property of the person, we are apt to join them
together, and place them in the same light. Suppose, therefore, a great
and a small object to be related together; if a person be strongly
related to the great object, he will likewise be strongly related to both
the objects, considered together, because he Is related to the most
considerable part. On the contrary, if he be only related to the small
object, he will not be strongly related to both, considered together,
since his relation lies only with the most trivial part, which is not apt
to strike us in any great degree, when we consider the whole. And this Is
the reason, why small objects become accessions to great ones, and not
great to small.

It is the general opinion of philosophers and civilians, that the sea is
incapable of becoming the property of any nation; and that because it is
impossible to take possession of it, or form any such distinct relation
with it, as may be the foundation of property. Where this reason ceases,
property immediately takes place. Thus the most strenuous advocates for
the liberty of the seas universally allow, that friths and hays naturally
belong as an accession to the proprietors of the surrounding continent.
These have properly no more bond or union with the land, than the pacific
ocean would have; but having an union in the fancy, and being at the same
time inferior, they are of course regarded as an accession.

The property of rivers, by the laws of most nations, and by the natural
turn of our thought, Is attributed to the proprietors of their banks,
excepting such vast rivers as the Rhine or the Danube, which seem too
large to the imagination to follow as an accession the property of the
neighbouring fields. Yet even these rivers are considered as the property
of that nation, thro' whose dominions they run; the idea of a nation
being of a suitable bulk to correspond with them, and bear them such a
relation in the fancy.

The accessions, which are made to lands bordering upon rivers, follow the
land, say the civilians, provided it be made by what they call alluvion,
that is, Insensibly and Imperceptibly; which are circumstances that
mightily assist the imagination in the conjunction. Where there Is any
considerable portion torn at once from one bank, and joined to another,
it becomes not his property, whose land it falls on, till it unite with
the land, and till the trees or plants have spread their roots into both.
Before that, the imagination does not sufficiently join them.

There are other cases, which somewhat resemble this of accession, but
which, at the bottom, are considerably different, and merit our
attention. Of this kind Is the conjunction of the properties of different
persons, after such a manner as not to admit of separation. The question
is, to whom the united mass must belong.

Where this conjunction is of such a nature as to admit of division, but
not of separation, the decision is natural and easy. The whole mass must
be supposed to be common betwixt the proprietors of the several parts,
and afterwards must be divided according to the proportions of these
parts. But here I cannot forbear taking notice of a remarkable subtilty
of the Roman law, in distinguishing betwixt confusion and commixtion.
Confusion is an union of two bodies, such as different liquors, where the
parts become entirely undistinguishable. Commixtion is the blending of
two bodies, such as two bushels of corn, where the parts remain separate
in an obvious and visible manner. As in the latter case the imagination
discovers not so entire an union as in the former, but is able to trace
and preserve a distinct idea of the property of each; this is the reason,
why the civil law, tho' it established an entire community in the case of
confusion, and after that a proportional division, yet in the case of
commixtion, supposes each of the proprietors to maintain a distinct
right; however necessity may at last force them to submit to the same
division.

QUOD SI FRUMENTUM TITII FRUMENTO TUO MISTUM FUERIT: SIQUIDEM EX VOLUNTATE
VESTRA, COMMUNE EST: QUIA SINGULA CORPORA, ID EST, SINGULA GRANA, QUAE
CUJUSQUE PRO PRIA FUERUNT, EX CONSENSU VESTRO COMMUNICATA SUNT. QUOD SI
CASU ID MISTUM FUERIT, VEL TITIUS ID MISCUERIT SINE TUA VOLUNT ATE, NON
VIDETUR ID COMMUNE ESSE; QUIA SINGULA CORPORA IN SUA SUBSTANTIA DURANT.
SED NEC MAGIS ISTIS CASIBUS COMMUNE SIT FRUMENTUM QUAM GREX INTELLIGITUR
ESSE CORN MUNIS, SI PECORA TITII TUIS PECORIBUS MISTA FUERINT. SED SI AB
ALTERUTRO VESTRUM TOTUM ID FRUMENTUM RETINEATUR, IN REM QUIDEM ACTIO PRO
MODO FRUMENTI CUJUSQUE CORN PETIT. ARBITRIO AUTEM JUDICIS, UT IPSE
AESTIMET QUALE CUJUSQUE FRUMENTUM FUERIT. Inst. Lib. IL Tit. i. Sect 28.

(In the case that your grain was mixed with that of Titius, if it was
done voluntarily on the part of both of you, it is common property,
inasmuch as the individual items, i.e., the single grains, which were the
peculiar property of either of you, were combined with your joint
consent. If, however, the mixture was accidental, or if Titius mixed it
without your consent, it does not appear that it is common property,
Inasmuch as the several components retain their original identity.
Rather, in circumstances of this sort the grain does not become common
property, any more than a herd of cattle is regarded as common property,
If Titius beasts should have become mixed up with yours.

However, if all of the aforesaid corn is kept by either of you, this
gives rise to a suit to determine the ownership of property, in respect
of the amount of corn belonging to each. It is in the discretion of the
judge to determine which is the corn belonging to either party.]

Where the properties of two persons are united after such a manner as
neither to admit of division nor separation, as when one builds a house
on another's ground, in that case, the whole must belong to one of the
proprietors: And here I assert, that it naturally is conceived to belong
to the proprietor of the most considerable part. For however the compound
object may have a relation to two different persons, and carry our view
at once to both of them, yet as the most considerable part principally
engages our attention, and by the strict union draws the inferior along
it; for this reason, the whole bears a relation to the proprietor of that
part, and is regarded as his property. The only difficulty is, what we
shall be pleased to call the most considerable part, and most attractive
to the imagination.

This quality depends on several different circumstances, which have
little connexion with each other. One part of a compound object may
become more considerable than another, either because it is more constant
and durable; because it is of greater value; because it is more obvious
and remarkable; because it is of greater extent; or because its existence
is more separate and independent. It will be easy to conceive, that, as
these circumstances may be conjoined and opposed in all the different
ways, and according to all the different degrees, which can be imagined,
there will result many cases, where the reasons on both sides are so
equally balanced, that it is impossible for us to give any satisfactory
decision. Here then is the proper business of municipal laws, to fix what
the principles of human nature have left undetermined.

The superficies yields to the soil, says the civil law: The writing to
the paper: The canvas to the picture. These decisions do not well agree
together, and are a proof of the contrariety of those principles, from
which they are derived.

But of all the questions of this kind the most curious is that, which for
so many ages divided the disciples of Proculus and Sabinus. Suppose a
person shoued make a cup from the metal of another, or a ship from his
wood, and suppose the proprietor of the metal or wood shoued demand his
goods, the question is, whether he acquires a title to the cup or ship.
Sabinus maintained the affirmative, and asserted that the substance or
matter is the foundation of all the qualities; that it is incorruptible
and immortal, and therefore superior to the form, which is casual and
dependent. On the other hand, Proculus observed, that the form is the
most obvious and remarkable part, and that from it bodies are denominated
of this or that particular species. To which he might have added, that
the matter or substance is in most bodies so fluctuating and uncertain,
that it is utterly impossible to trace it in all its changes. For my part,
I know not from what principles such a controversy can be certainly
determined. I shall therefore content my self with observing, that the
decision of Trebonian seems to me pretty ingenious; that the cup belongs
to the proprietor of the metal, because it can be brought back to its
first form: But that the ship belongs to the author of its form for a
contrary reason. But however ingenious this reason may seem, it plainly
depends upon the fancy, which by the possibility of such a reduction,
finds a closer connexion and relation betwixt a cup and the proprietor of
its metal, than betwixt a ship and the proprietor of its wood, where the
substance is more fixed and unalterable.]


The right of succession is a very natural one, from the presumed consent
of the parent or near relation, and from the general interest of mankind,
which requires, that men's possessions should pass to those, who are
dearest to them, in order to render them more industrious and frugal.
Perhaps these causes are seconded by the influence of relation, or the
association of ideas, by which we are naturally directed to consider the
son after the parent's decease, and ascribe to him a title to his
father's possessions. Those goods must become the property of some body:
But of whom is the question. Here it is evident the persons children
naturally present themselves to the mind; and being already. connected to
those possessions by means of their deceased parent, we are apt to
connect them still farther by the relation of property. Of this there are
many parallel instances.

[Footnote 20  In examining the different titles to authority in
government, we shall meet with many reasons to convince us, that the right
of succession depends, in a great measure on the imagination. Mean while I
shall rest contented with observing one example, which belongs to the
present subject. Suppose that a person die without children, and that a
dispute arises among his relations concerning his inheritance; it is
evident, that if his riches be deriv'd partly from his father, partly from
his mother, the most natural way of determining such a dispute, is, to
divide his possessions, and assign each part to the family, from whence it
is deriv'd. Now as the person is suppos'd to have been once the full and
entire proprietor of those goods; I ask, what is it makes us find a
certain equity and natural reason in this partition, except it be the
imagination? His affection to these families does not depend upon his
possessions; for which reason his consent can never be presum'd precisely
for such a partition. And as to the public interest, it seems not to be
in the least concern'd on the one side or the other.]


SECT. IV  OF THE TRANSFERENCE OF PROPERTY BY CONSENT


However useful, or even necessary, the stability of possession may be to
human society, it is attended with very considerable inconveniences. The
relation of fitness or suitableness ought never to enter into
consideration, in distributing the properties of mankind; but we must
govern ourselves by rules, which are more general in their application,
and more free from doubt and uncertainty. Of this kind is present
possession upon the first establishment of society; and afterwards
occupation, prescription, accession, and succession. As these depend very
much on chance, they must frequently prove contradictory both to men's
wants and desires; and persons and possessions must often be very ill
adjusted. This is a grand inconvenience, which calls for a remedy. To
apply one directly, and allow every man to seize by violence what he
judges to be fit for him, would destroy society; and therefore the rules
of justice seek some medium betwixt a rigid stability, and this
changeable and uncertain adjustment. But there is no medium better than
that obvious one, that possession and property should always be stable,
except when the proprietor consents to bestow them on some other person.
This rule can have no ill consequence, in occasioning wars and
dissentions; since the proprietor's consent, who alone is concerned, is
taken along in the alienation: And it may serve to many good purposes in
adjusting property to persons. Different parts of the earth produce
different commodities; and not only so, but different men both are by
nature fitted for different employments, and attain to greater perfection
in any one, when they confine themselves to it alone. All this requires a
mutual exchange and commerce; for which reason the translation of
property by consent is founded on a law of nature, as well as its
stability without such a consent.

So far is determined by a plain utility and interest. But perhaps it is
from more trivial reasons, that delivery, or a sensible transference of
the object is commonly required by civil laws, and also by the laws of
nature, according to most authors, as a requisite circumstance in the
translation of property. The property of an object, when taken for
something real, without any reference to morality, or the sentiments of
the mind, is a quality perfectly insensible, and even inconceivable; nor
can we form any distinct notion, either of its stability or translation.
This imperfection of our ideas is less sensibly felt with regard to its
stability, as it engages less our attention, and is easily past over by
the mind, without any scrupulous examination. But as the translation of
property from one person to another is a more remarkable event, the
defect of our ideas becomes more sensible on that occasion, and obliges
us to turn ourselves on every side in search of some remedy. Now as
nothing more enlivens any idea than a present impression, and a relation
betwixt that impression and the idea; it is natural for us to seek some
false light from this quarter. In order to aid the imagination in
conceiving the transference of property, we take the sensible object, and
actually transfer its possession to the person, on whom we would bestow
the property. The supposed resemblance of the actions, and the presence
of this sensible delivery, deceive the mind, and make it fancy, that it
conceives the mysterious transition of the property. And that this
explication of the matter is just, appears hence, that men have invented
a symbolical delivery, to satisfy the fancy, where the real one is
impracticable. Thus the giving the keys of a granary is understood to be
the delivery of the corn contained in it: The giving of stone and earth
represents the delivery of a mannor. This is a kind of superstitious
practice in civil laws, and in the laws of nature, resembling the Roman
catholic superstitions in religion. As the Roman catholics represent the
inconceivable mysteries of the Christian religion, and render them more
present to the mind, by a taper, or habit, or grimace, which is supposed
to resemble them; so lawyers and moralists have run into like inventions
for the same reason, and have endeavoured by those means to satisfy
themselves concerning the transference of property by consent.



SECT. V  OF THE OBLIGATION OF PROMISES


That the rule of morality, which enjoins the performance of promises, is
not natural, will sufficiently appear from these two propositions, which
I proceed to prove, viz, that a promise would not be intelligible, before
human conventions had established it; and that even if it were
intelligible, it would not be attended with any moral obligation.

I say, first, that a promise is not intelligible naturally, nor
antecedent to human conventions; and that a man, unacquainted with
society, could never enter into any engagements with another, even though
they could perceive each other's thoughts by intuition. If promises be
natural and intelligible, there must be some act of the mind attending
these words, I promise; and on this act of the mind must the obligation
depend. Let us, therefore, run over all the faculties of the soul, and
see which of them is exerted in our promises.

The act of the mind, exprest by a promise, is not a resolution to perform
any thing: For that alone never imposes any obligation. Nor is it a
desire of such a performance: For we may bind ourselves without such a
desire, or even with an aversion, declared and avowed. Neither is it the
willing of that action, which we promise to perform: For a promise always
regards some future time, and the will has an influence only on present
actions. It follows, therefore, that since the act of the mind, which
enters into a promise, and produces its obligation, is neither the
resolving, desiring, nor willing any particular performance, it must
necessarily be the willing of that obligation, which arises from the
promise. Nor is this only a conclusion of philosophy; but is entirely
conformable to our common ways of thinking and of expressing ourselves,
when we say that we are bound by our own consent, and that the obligation
arises from our mere will and pleasure. The only question then is,
whether there be not a manifest absurdity in supposing this act of the
mind, and such an absurdity as no man coued fall into, whose ideas are
not confounded with prejudice and the fallacious use of language.

All morality depends upon our sentiments; and when any action, or quality
of the mind, pleases us after a certain manner, we say it is virtuous;
and when the neglect, or nonperformance of it, displeases us after a like
manner, we say that we lie under an obligation to perform it. A change of
the obligation supposes a change of the sentiment; and a creation of a
new obligation supposes some new sentiment to arise. But it is certain we
can naturally no more change our own sentiments, than the motions of the
heavens; nor by a single act of our will, that is, by a promise, render
any action agreeable or disagreeable, moral or immoral; which, without
that act, would have produced contrary impressions, or have been endowed
with different qualities. It would be absurd, therefore, to will any new
obligation, that is, any new sentiment of pain or pleasure; nor is it
possible, that men coued naturally fall into so gross an absurdity. A
promise, therefore, is naturally something altogether unintelligible, nor
is there any act of the mind belonging to it.

[Footnote 21  Were morality discoverable by reason, and not by sentiment,
it would be still more evident, that promises cou'd make no alteration
upon it. Morality is suppos'd to consist in relation. Every new imposition
of morality, therefore, must arise from some new relation of objects; and
consequently the will coud not produce immediately any change in morals,
but cou'd have that effect only by producing a change upon the objects.
But as the moral obligation of a promise is the pure effect of the will,
without the least change in any part of the universe; it follows, that
promises have no natural obligation.

Shou'd it be said, that this act of the will being in effect a new
object, produces new relations and new duties; I wou'd answer, that this
is a pure sophism, which may be detected by a very moderate share of
accuracy and exactness. To will a new obligation, is to will a new
relation of objects; and therefore, if this new relation of objects were
form'd by the volition itself, we should in effect will the volition;
which is plainly absurd and impossible. The will has here no object to
which it cou'd tend; but must return upon itself in infinitum. The new
obligation depends upon new relations. The new relations depend upon a
new volition. The new volition has for object a new obligation, and
consequently new relations, and consequently a new volition; which
volition again has in view a new obligation, relation and volition,
without any termination. It is impossible, therefore, we cou'd ever will a
new obligation; and consequently it is impossible the will cou'd ever
accompany a promise, or produce a new obligation of morality.]

But, secondly, if there was any act of the mind belonging to it, it could
not naturally produce any obligation. This appears evidently from the
foregoing reasoning. A promise creates a new obligation. A new obligation
supposes new sentiments to arise. The will never creates new sentiments.
There could not naturally, therefore, arise any obligation from a
promise, even supposing the mind could fall into the absurdity of willing
that obligation.

The same truth may be proved still more evidently by that reasoning,
which proved justice in general to be an artificial virtue. No action can
be required of us as our duty, unless there be implanted in human nature
some actuating passion or motive, capable of producing the action. This
motive cannot be the sense of duty. A sense of duty supposes an
antecedent obligation: And where an action is not required by any natural
passion, it cannot be required by any natural obligation; since it may be
omitted without proving any defect or imperfection in the mind and
temper, and consequently without any vice. Now it is evident we have no
motive leading us to the performance of promises, distinct from a sense
of duty. If we thought, that promises had no moral obligation, we never
should feel any inclination to observe them. This is not the case with
the natural virtues. Though there was no obligation to relieve the
miserable, our humanity would lead us to it; and when we omit that duty,
the immorality of the omission arises from its being a proof, that we
want the natural sentiments of humanity. A father knows it to be his duty
to take care of his children: But he has also a natural inclination to
it. And if no human creature had that indination, no one coued lie under
any such obligation. But as there is naturally no inclination to observe
promises, distinct from a sense of their obligation; it follows, that
fidelity is no natural virtue, and that promises have no force,
antecedent to human conventions,

If any one dissent from this, he must give a regular proof of these two
propositions, viz. THAT THERE IS A PECULIAR ACT OF THE MIND, ANNEXT TO
PROMISES; AND THAT CONSEQUENT TO THIS ACT OF THE MIND, THERE ARISES AN
INCLINATION TO PERFORM, DISTINCT FROM A SENSE OF DUTY. I presume, that it
is impossible to prove either of these two points; and therefore I
venture to conclude that promises are human inventions, founded on the
necessities and interests of society.

In order to discover these necessities and interests, we must consider
the same qualities of human nature, which we have already found to give
rise to the preceding laws of society. Men being naturally selfish, or
endowed only with a confined generosity, they are not easily induced to
perform any action for the interest of strangers, except with a view to
some reciprocal advantage, which they had no hope of obtaining but by
such a performance. Now as it frequently happens, that these mutual
performances cannot be finished at the same instant, it is necessary, that
one party be contented to remain in uncertainty, and depend upon the
gratitude of the other for a return of kindness. But so much corruption
is there among men, that, generally speaking, this becomes but a slender
security; and as the benefactor is here supposed to bestow his favours
with a view to self-interest, this both takes off from the obligation,
and sets an example to selfishness, which is the true mother of
ingratitude. Were we, therefore, to follow the natural course of our
passions and inclinations, we should perform but few actions for the
advantage of others, from distinterested views; because we are naturally
very limited in our kindness and affection: And we should perform as few
of that kind, out of a regard to interest; because we cannot depend upon
their gratitude. Here then is the mutual commerce of good offices in a
manner lost among mankind, and every one reduced to his own skill and
industry for his well-being and subsistence. The invention of the law of
nature, concerning the stability of possession, has already rendered men
tolerable to each other; that of the transference of property and
possession by consent has begun to render them mutually advantageous: But
still these laws of nature, however strictly observed, are not sufficient
to render them so serviceable to each other, as by nature they are fitted
to become. Though possession be stable, men may often reap but small
advantage from it, while they are possessed of a greater quantity of any
species of goods than they have occasion for, and at the same time suffer
by the want of others. The transference of property, which is the proper
remedy for this inconvenience, cannot remedy it entirely; because it can
only take place with regard to such objects as are present and
individual, but not to such as are absent or general. One cannot transfer
the property of a particular house, twenty leagues distant; because the
consent cannot be attended with delivery, which is a requisite
circumstance. Neither can one transfer the property of ten bushels of
corn, or five hogsheads of wine, by the mere expression and consent;
because these are only general terms, and have no direct relation to any
particular heap of corn, or barrels of wine. Besides, the commerce of
mankind is not confined to the barter of commodities, but may extend to
services and actions, which we may exchange to our mutual interest and
advantage. Your corn is ripe to-day; mine will be so tomorrow. It is
profitable for us both, that I should labour with you to-day, and that
you should aid me to-morrow. I have no kindness for you, and know you
have as little for me. I will not, therefore, take any pains upon your
account; and should I labour with you upon my own account, in expectation
of a return, I know I should be disappointed, and that I should in vain
depend upon your gratitude. Here then I leave you to labour alone: You
treat me in the same manner. The seasons change; and both of us lose our
harvests for want of mutual confidence and security.

All this is the effect of the natural and inherent principles and
passions of human nature; and as these passions and principles are
inalterable, it may be thought, that our conduct, which depends on them,
must be so too, and that it would be in vain, either for moralists or
politicians, to tamper with us, or attempt to change the usual course of
our actions, with a view to public interest. And indeed, did the success
of their designs depend upon their success in correcting the selfishness
and ingratitude of men, they would never make any progress, unless aided
by omnipotence, which is alone able to new-mould the human mind, and
change its character in such fundamental articles. All they can pretend
to, is, to give a new direction to those natural passions, and teach us
that we can better satisfy our appetites in an oblique and artificial
manner, than by their headlong and impetuous motion. Hence I learn to do
a service to another, without bearing him any real kindness; because I
forsee, that he will return my service, in expectation of another of the
same kind, and in order to maintain the same correspondence of good
offices with me or with others. And accordingly, after I have served him,
and he is in possession of the advantage arising from my action, he is
induced to perform his part, as foreseeing the consequences of his
refusal.

But though this self-interested commerce of man begins to take place, and
to predominate in society, it does not entirely abolish the more generous
and noble intercourse of friendship and good offices. I may still do
services to such persons as I love, and am more particularly acquainted
with, without any prospect of advantage; and they may make me a return in
the same manner, without any view but that of recompensing my past
services. In order, therefore, to distinguish those two different sorts
of commerce, the interested and the disinterested, there is a certain
form of words invented for the former, by which we bind ourselves to the
performance of any action. This form of words constitutes what we call a
promise, which is the sanction of the interested commerce of mankind.
When a man says he promises any thing, he in effect expresses a
resolution of performing it; and along with that, by making use of this
form of words, subjects himself to the penalty of never being trusted
again in case of failure. A resolution is the natural act of the mind,
which promises express: But were there no more than a resolution in the
case, promises would only declare our former motives, and would not
create any new motive or obligation. They are the conventions of men,
which create a new motive, when experience has taught us, that human
affairs would be conducted much more for mutual advantage, were there
certain symbols or signs instituted, by which we might give each, other
security of our conduct in any particular incident, After these signs are
instituted, whoever uses them is immediately bound by his interest to
execute his engagements, and must never expect to be trusted any more, if
he refuse to perform what he promised.

Nor is that knowledge, which is requisite to make mankind sensible of
this interest in the institution and observance of promises, to be
esteemed superior to the capacity of human nature, however savage and
uncultivated. There needs but a very little practice of the world, to
make us perceive all these consequences and advantages. The shortest
experience of society discovers them to every mortal; and when each
individual perceives the same sense of interest in all his fellows, he
immediately performs his part of any contract, as being assured, that
they will not be wanting in theirs. All of them, by concert, enter into a
scheme of actions, calculated for common benefit, and agree to be true to
their word; nor is there any thing requisite to form this concert or
convention, but that every one have a sense of interest in the faithful
fulfilling of engagements, and express that sense to other members of the
society. This immediately causes that interest to operate upon them; and
interest is the first obligation to the performance of promises.

Afterwards a sentiment of morals concurs with interest, and becomes a new
obligation upon mankind. This sentiment of morality, in the performance
of promises, arises from the same principles as that in the abstinence
from the property of others. Public interest, education, and the
artifices of politicians, have the same effect in both cases. The
difficulties, that occur to us, in supposing a moral obligation to attend
promises, we either surmount or elude. For instance; the expression of a
resolution is not commonly supposed to be obligatory; and we cannot
readily conceive how the making use of a certain form of words should be
able to cause any material difference. Here, therefore, we feign a new
act of the mind, which we call the willing an obligation; and on this we
suppose the morality to depend. But we have proved already, that there is
no such act of the mind, and consequently that promises impose no natural
obligation.

To confirm this, we may subjoin some other reflections concerning that
will, which is supposed to enter into a promise, and to cause its
obligation. It is evident, that the will alone is never supposed to cause
the obligation, but must be expressed by words or signs, in order to
impose a tye upon any man. The expression being once brought in as
subservient to the will, soon becomes the principal part of the promise;
nor will a man be less bound by his word, though he secretly give a
different direction to his intention, and with-hold himself both from a
resolution, and from willing an obligation. But though the expression
makes on most occasions the whole of the promise, yet it does not always
so; and one, who should make use of any expression, of which he knows not
the meaning, and which he uses without any intention of binding himself,
would not certainly be bound by it. Nay, though he knows its meaning, yet
if he uses it in jest only, and with such signs as shew evidently he has
no serious intention of binding himself, he would not lie under any
obligation of performance; but it is necessary, that the words be a
perfect expression of the will, without any contrary signs. Nay, even
this we must not carry so far as to imagine, that one, whom, by our
quickness of understanding, we conjecture, from certain signs, to have an
intention of deceiving us, is not bound by his expression or verbal
promise, if we accept of it; but must limit this conclusion to those
cases, where the signs are of a different kind from those of deceit. All
these contradictions are easily accounted for, if the obligation of
promises be merely a human invention for the convenience of society; but
will never be explained, if it be something real and natural, arising
from any action of the mind or body.

I shall farther observe, that since every new promise imposes a new
obligation of morality on the person who promises, and since this new
obligation arises from his will; it is one of the most mysterious and
incomprehensible operations that can possibly be imagined, and may even
be compared to TRANSUBSTANTIATION, or HOLY ORDERS [I mean so far, as holy
orders are suppos'd to produce the indelible character. In other respects
they are only a legal qualification.], where a certain form of
words, along with a certain intention, changes entirely the nature
of an external object, and even of a human nature. But though these
mysteries be so far alike, it is very remarkable, that they differ widely
in other particulars, and that this difference may be regarded as a
strong proof of the difference of their origins. As the obligation of
promises is an invention for the interest of society, it is warped into as
many different forms as that interest requires, and even runs into direct
contradictions, rather than lose sight of its object. But as those other
monstrous doctines are mere priestly inventions, and have no public
interest in view, they are less disturbed in their progress by new
obstacles; and it must be owned, that, after the first absurdity, they
follow more directly the current of reason and good sense. Theologians
clearly perceived, that the external form of words, being mere sound,
require an intention to make them have any efficacy; and that this
intention being once considered as a requisite circumstance, its absence
must equally prevent the effect, whether avowed or concealed, whether
sincere or deceitful. Accordingly they have commonly determined, that the
intention of the priest makes the sacrament, and that when he secretly
withdraws his intention, he is highly criminal in himself; but still
destroys the baptism, or communion, or holy orders. The terrible
consequences of this doctrine were not able to hinder its taking place;
as the inconvenience of a similar doctrine, with regard to promises, have
prevented that doctrine from establishing itself. Men are always more
concerned about the present life than the future; and are apt to think
the smallest evil, which regards the former, more important than the
greatest, which regards the latter.

We may draw the same conclusion, concerning the origin of promises, from
the force, which is supposed to invalidate all contracts, and to free us
from their obligation. Such a principle is a proof, that promises have no
natural obligation, and are mere artificial contrivances for the
convenience and advantage of society. If we consider aright of the
matter, force is not essentially different from any other motive of hope
or fear, which may induce us to engage our word, and lay ourselves under
any obligation. A man, dangerously wounded, who promises a competent sum
to a surgeon to cure him, would certainly be bound to performance; though
the case be not so much different from that of one, who promises a sum to
a robber, as to produce so great a difference in our sentiments of
morality, if these sentiments were not built entirely on public interest
and convenience.



SECT. VI  SOME FARTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE


We have now run over the three fundamental laws of nature, that of the
stability of possession, of its transference by consent, and of the
performance of promises. It is on the strict t observance of those three
laws, that the peace and security of human society entirely depend; nor
is there any possibility of establishing a good correspondence among men,
where these are neglected. Society is absolutely necessary for the
well-being of men; and these are as necessary to the support of society.
Whatever restraint they may impose on the passions of men, they are the
real offspring of those passions, and are only a more artful and more
refined way of satisfying them. Nothing is more vigilant and inventive
than our passions; and nothing is more obvious, than the convention for
the observance of these rules. Nature has, therefore, trusted this affair
entirely to the conduct of men, and has not placed in the mind any
peculiar original principles, to determine us to a set of actions, into
which the other principles of our frame and constitution were sufficient
to lead us. And to convince us the more fully of this truth, we may here
stop a moment, and from a review of the preceding reasonings may draw
some new arguments, to prove that those laws, however necessary, are
entirely artificial, and of human invention; and consequently that
justice is an artificial, and not a natural virtue.

(1) The first argument I shall make use of is derived from the vulgar
definition of justice. Justice is commonly defined to be a constant and
perpetual will of giving every one his due. In this definition it is
supposed, that there are such things as right and property, independent
of justice, and antecedent to it; and that they would have subsisted,
though men had never dreamt of practising such a virtue. I have already
observed, in a cursory manner, the fallacy of this opinion, and shall
here continue to open up a little more distinctly my sentiments on that
subject.

I shall begin with observing, that this quality, which we shall call
property, is like many of the imaginary qualities of the peripatetic
philosophy, and vanishes upon a more accurate inspection into the
subject, when considered a-part from our moral sentiments. It is evident
property does not consist in any of the sensible qualities of the object.
For these may continue invariably the same, while the property changes.
Property, therefore, must consist in some relation of the object. But
it is not in its relation with regard to other external and inanimate
objects. For these may also continue invariably the same, while the
property changes. This quality, therefore, consists in the relations of
objects to intelligent and rational beings. But it is not the external and
corporeal relation, which forms the essence of property. For that
relation may be the same betwixt inanimate objects, or with regard to
brute creatures; though in those cases it forms no property. It is,
therefore, in some internal relation, that the property consists; that
is, in some influence, which the external relations of the object have on
the mind and actions. Thus the external relation, which we call
occupation or first possession, is not of itself imagined to be the
property of the object, but only to cause its property. Now it is evident,
this external relation causes nothing in external objects, and has only
an influence on the mind, by giving us a sense of duty in abstaining from
that object, and in restoring it to the first possessor. These actions
are properly what we call justice; and consequently it is on that virtue
that the nature of property depends, and not the virtue on the property.

If any one, therefore, would assert, that justice is a natural virtue,
and injustice a natural vice, he must assert, that abstracting from the
nations of property, and right and obligation, a certain conduct and
train of actions, in certain external relations of objects, has naturally
a moral beauty or deformity, and causes an original pleasure or
uneasiness. Thus the restoring a man's goods to him is considered as
virtuous, not because nature has annexed a certain sentiment of pleasure
to such a conduct, with regard to the property of others, but because she
has annexed that sentiment to such a conduct, with regard to those
external objects, of which others have had the first or long possession,
or which they have received by the consent of those, who have had first
or long possession. If nature has given us no such sentiment, there is
not, naturally, nor antecedent to human conventions, any such thing as
property. Now, though it seems sufficiently evident, in this dry and
accurate consideration of the present subject, that nature has annexed no
pleasure or sentiment of approbation to such a conduct; yet that I may
leave as little room for doubt as possible, I shall subjoin a few more
arguments to confirm my opinion.

First, If nature had given us a pleasure of this kind, it would have been
as evident and discernible as on every other occasion; nor should we have
found any difficulty to perceive, that the consideration of such actions,
in such a situation, gives a certain pleasure and sentiment of
approbation. We should not have been obliged to have recourse to notions
of property in the definition of justice, and at the same time make use
of the notions of justice in the definition of property. This deceitful
method of reasoning is a plain proof, that there are contained in the
subject some obscurities and difficulties, which we are not able to
surmount, and which we desire to evade by this artifice.

Secondly, Those rules, by which properties, rights, and obligations are
determined, have in them no marks of a natural origin but many of
artifice and contrivance. They are too numerous to have proceeded from
nature: They are changeable by human laws: And have all of them a direct
and evident tendency to public good, and the support, of civil society.
This last circumstance is remarkable upon two accounts. First, because,
though the cause of the establishment of these laws had been a regard for
the public good, as much as the public good is their natural tendency,
they would still have been artificial, as being purposely contrived and
directed to a certain end. Secondly, because, if men had been endowed
with such a strong regard for public good, they would never have
restrained themselves by these rules; so that the laws of justice arise
from natural principles in a manner still more oblique and artificial.
It is self-love which is their real origin; and as the self-love of. one
person is naturally contrary to that of another, these several interested
passions are obliged to adjust themselves after such a manner as to
concur in some system of conduct and behaviour. This system, therefore,
comprehending the interest of each individual, is of course advantageous
to the public; though it be not intended for that purpose by die
inventors.

(2) In the second place we may observe, that all kinds of vice and virtue
run insensibly into each other, and may approach by such imperceptible
degrees as will make it very difficult, if not absolutely impossible, to
determine when the one ends, and the other begins; and from this
observation we may derive a new argument for the foregoing principle. For
whatever may be the case, with regard to all kinds of vice and virtue,
it is certain, that rights, and obligations, and property, admit of no
such insensible gradation, but that a man either has a full and perfect
property, or none at all; and is either entirely obliged to perform any
action, or lies under no manner of obligation. However civil laws may
talk of a perfect dominion, and of an imperfect, it is easy to observe,
that this arises from a fiction, which has no foundation in reason, and
can never enter into our notions of natural justice and equity. A man
that hires a horse, though but for a day, has as full a right to make use
of it for that time, as he whom we call its proprietor has to make use of
it any other day; and it was evident, that however the use may be bounded
in time or degree, the right itself is not susceptible of any such
gradation, but is absolute and entire, so far as it extends. Accordingly
we may observe, that this right both arises and perishes in an instant;
and that a man entirely acquires the property of any object by
occupation, or the consent of the proprietor; and loses it by his own
consent; without any of that insensible gradation, which is remarkable in
other qualities and relations, Since, therefore, this is die case with
regard to property, and rights, and obligations, I ask, how it stands
with regard to justice and injustice? After whatever manner you answer
this question, you run into inextricable difficulties. If you reply, that
justice and injustice admit of degree, and run insensibly into each
other, you expressly contradict the foregoing position, that obligation
and property are not susceptible of such a gradation. These depend
entirely upon justice and injustice, and follow them in all their
variations. Where the justice is entire, the property is also entire:
Where the justice is imperfect, the property must also be imperfect And
vice versa, if the property admit of no such variations, they must also
be incompatible with justice. If you assent, therefore, to this last
proposition, and assert, that justice and injustice are not susceptible
of degrees, you in effect assert, that they are not naturally either
vicious or virtuous; since vice and virtue, moral good and evil, and
indeed all natural qualities, run insensibly into each other, and are, on
many occasions, undistinguishable.

And here it may be worth while to observe, that though abstract reasoning,
and the general maxims of philosophy and law establish this position,
that property, and right, and obligation admit not of degrees, yet in our
common and negligent way of thinking, we find great difficulty to
entertain that opinion, and do even secretly embrace the contrary
principle. An object must either be in the possession of one person or
another. An action must either be performed or not The necessity there is
of choosing one side in these dilemmas, and the impossibility there often
is of finding any just medium, oblige us, when we reflect on the matter,
to acknowledge, that all property and obligations are entire. But on the
other hand, when we consider the origin of property and obligation, and
find that they depend on public utility, and sometimes on the
propensities of the imagination, which are seldom entire on any side; we
are naturally inclined to imagine, that these moral relations admit of an
insensible gradation. Hence it is, that in references, where the consent
of the parties leave the referees entire masters of the subject, they
commonly discover so much equity and justice on both sides, as induces
them to strike a medium, and divide the difference betwixt the parties.
Civil judges, who have not this liberty, but are obliged to give a
decisive sentence on some one side, are often at a loss how to determine,
and are necessitated to proceed on the most frivolous reasons in the
world. Half rights and obligations, which seem so natural in common life,
are perfect absurdities in their tribunal; for which reason they are
often obliged to take half arguments for whole ones, in order to
terminate the affair one way or other.

(3) The third argument of this kind I shall make use of may be explained
thus. If we consider the ordinary course of human actions, we shall find,
that the mind restrains not itself by any general and universal rules;
but acts on most occasions as it is determined by its present motives and
inclination. As each action is a particular individual event, it must
proceed from particular principles, and from our immediate situation
within ourselves, and with respect to the rest of the universe. If on
some occasions we extend our motives beyond those very circumstances,
which gave rise to them, and form something like general rules for our
conduct, it is easy to observe, that these rules are not perfectly
inflexible, but allow of many exceptions. Since, therefore, this is the
ordinary course of human actions, we may conclude, that the laws of
justice, being universal and perfectly inflexible, can never be derived
from nature, nor be the immediate offspring of any natural motive or
inclination. No action can be either morally good or evil, unless there
be some natural passion or motive to impel us to it, or deter us from it;
and it is evident, that die morality must be susceptible of all the same
variations, which are natural to the passion. Here are two persons, who
dispute for an estate; of whom one is rich, a fool, and a batchelor; the
other poor, a man of sense, and has a numerous family: The first is my
enemy; the second my friend. Whether I be actuated in this affair by a
view to public or private interest, by friendship or enmity, I must be
induced to do my utmost to procure the estate to the latter. Nor would
any consideration of the right and property of the persons be able to
restrain me, were I actuated only by natural motives, without any
combination or convention with others. For as all property depends on
morality; and as all morality depends on the ordinary course of our
passions and actions; and as these again are only directed by particular
motives; it is evident, such a partial conduct must be suitable to the
strictest morality, and coued never be a violation of property. Were men,
therefore, to take the liberty of acting with regard to the laws of
society, as they do in every other affair, they would conduct themselves,
on most occasions, by particular judgments, and would take into
consideration the characters and circumstances of the persons, as well as
the general nature of the question. But it is easy to observe, that this
would produce an infinite confusion in human society, and that the
avidity and partiality of men would quickly bring disorder into the
world, if not restrained by some general and inflexible principles. Twas,
therefore, with a view to this inconvenience, that men have established
those principles, and have agreed to restrain themselves by general
rules, which are unchangeable by spite and favour, and by particular
views of private or public interest. These rules, then, are artificially
invented for a certain purpose, and are contrary to the common principles
of human nature, which accommodate themselves to circumstances, and have
no stated invariable method of operation.

Nor do I perceive how I can easily be mistaken in this matter. I see
evidently, that when any man imposes on himself general inflexible rules
in his conduct with others, he considers certain objects as their
property, which he supposes to be sacred and inviolable. But no
proposition can be more evident, than that property is perfectly
unintelligible without first supposing justice and injustice; and that
these virtues and vices are as unintelligible, unless we have motives,
independent of the morality, to impel us to just actions, and deter us
from unjust ones. Let those motives, therefore, be what they will, they
must accommodate themselves to circumstances, and must admit of all the
variations, which human affairs, in their incessant revolutions, are
susceptible of. They are consequently a very improper foundation for such
rigid inflexible rules as the laws of nature; and it is evident these laws
can only be derived from human conventions, when men have perceived the
disorders that result from following their natural and variable
principles.

Upon the whole, then, we are to consider this distinction betwixt justice
and injustice, as having two different foundations, viz, that of
interest, when men observe, that it is impossible to live in society
without restraining themselves by certain rules; and that of morality,
when this interest is once observed and men receive a pleasure from the
view of such actions as tend to the peace of society, and an uneasiness
from such as are contrary to it. It is the voluntary convention and
artifice of men, which makes the first interest take place; and therefore
those laws of justice are so far to be considered as artifrial. After
that interest is once established and acknowledged, the sense of morality
in the observance of these rules follows naturally, and of itself; though
it is certain, that it is also augmented by a new artifice, and that the
public instructions of politicians, and the private education of parents,
contribute to the giving us a sense of honour and duty in the strict
regulation of our actions with regard to the properties of others.



SECT. VII  OF THE ORIGIN OF GOVERNMENT


Nothing is more certain, than that men are, in a great measure, governed
by interest, and that even when they extend their concern beyond
themselves, it is not to any great distance; nor is it usual for them, in
common life, to look farther than their nearest friends and acquaintance.
It is no less certain, that it is impossible for men to consult, their
interest in so effectual a manner, as by an universal and inflexible
observance of the rules of justice, by which alone they can preserve
society, and keep themselves from falling into that wretched and savage
condition, which is commonly represented as the state of nature. And as
this interest, which all men have in the upholding of society, and the
observation of the rules of justice, is great, so is it palpable and
evident, even to the most rude and uncultivated of human race; and it is
almost impossible for any one, who has had experience of society, to be
mistaken in this particular. Since, therefore, men are so sincerely
attached to their interest, and their interest is so much concerned in
the observance of justice, and this interest is so certain and avowed; it
may be asked, how any disorder can. ever arise in society, and what
principle there is in human nature so powerful as to overcome so strong a
passion, or so violent as to obscure so clear a knowledge?

It has been observed, in treating of the passions, that men are mightily
governed by the imagination, and proportion their affections more to the
light, under which any object appears to them, than to its real and
intrinsic value. What strikes upon them with a strong and lively idea
commonly prevails above what lies in a more obscure light; and it must be
a great superiority of value, that is able to compensate this advantage.
Now as every thing, that is contiguous to us, either in space or time,
strikes upon us with such an idea, it has a proportional effect on the
will and passions, and commonly operates with more force than any object,
that lies in a more distant and obscure light. Though we may be fully
convinced, that the latter object excels the former, we are not able to
regulate our actions by this judgment; but yield to the sollicitations of
our passions, which always plead in favour of whatever is near and
contiguous.

This is the reason why men so often act in contradiction to their known
interest; and in particular why they prefer any trivial advantage, that
is present, to the maintenance of order in society, which so much depends
on the observance of justice. The consequences of every breach of equity
seem to lie very remote, and are not able to counter-ballance any
immediate advantage, that may be reaped from it. They are, however, never
the less real for being remote; and as all men are, in some degree,
subject to the same weakness, it necessarily happens, that the violations
of equity must become very frequent in society, and the commerce of men,
by that means, be rendered very dangerous and uncertain. You have the
same propension, that I have, in favour of what is contiguous above what
is remote. You are, therefore, naturally carried to commit acts of
injustice as well as me. Your example both pushes me forward in this way
by imitation, and also affords me a new reason for any breach of equity,
by shewing me, that I should be the cully of my integrity, if I alone
should impose on myself a severe restraint amidst the licentiousness of
others.

This quality, therefore, of human nature, not only is very dangerous to
society, but also seems, on a cursory view, to be incapable of any
remedy. The remedy can only come from the consent of men; and if men be
incapable of themselves to prefer remote to contiguous, they will never
consent to any thing, which would oblige them to such a choice, and
contradict, in so sensible a manner, their natural principles and
propensities. Whoever chuses the means, chuses also the end; and if it be
impossible for us to prefer what is remote, it is equally impossible for
us to submit to any necessity, which would oblige us to such a method of
acting.

But here it is observable, that this infirmity of human nature becomes a
remedy to itself, and that we provide against our negligence about remote
objects, merely because we are naturally inclined to that negligence.
When we consider any objects at a distance, all their minute distinctions
vanish, and we always give the preference to whatever is in itself
preferable, without considering its situation and circumstances. This
gives rise to what in an improper sense we call reason, which is a
principle, that is often contradictory to those propensities that display
themselves upon the approach of the object. In reflecting on any action,
which I am to perform a twelve-month hence, I always resolve to prefer
the greater good, whether at that time it will be more contiguous or
remote; nor does any difference in that particular make a difference in
my present intentions and resolutions. My distance from the final
determination makes all those minute differences vanish, nor am I
affected by any thing, but the general and more discernible qualities of
good and evil. But on my nearer approach, those circumstances, which I at
first over-looked, begin to appear, and have an influence on my conduct
and affections. A new inclination to the present good springs up, and
makes it difficult for me to adhere inflexibly to my first purpose and
resolution. This natural infirmity I may very much regret, and I may
endeavour, by all possible means, to free my self from it. I may have
recourse to study and reflection within myself; to the advice of friends;
to frequent meditation, and repeated resolution: And having experienced
how ineffectual all these are, I may embrace with pleasure any other
expedient, by which I may impose a restraint upon myself, and guard
against this weakness.

The only difficulty, therefore, is to find out this expedient, by which
men cure their natural weakness, and lay themselves under the necessity
of observing the laws of justice and equity, notwithstanding their
violent propension to prefer contiguous to remote. It is evident such a
remedy can never be effectual without correcting this propensity; and as
it is impossible to change or correct any thing material in our nature,
the utmost we can do is to change our circumstances and situation, and
render the observance of the laws of justice our nearest interest, and
their violation our most remote. But this being impracticable with
respect to all mankind, it can only take place with respect to a few,
whom we thus immediately interest in the execution of justice. There are
the persons, whom we call civil magistrates, kings and their ministers,
our governors and rulers, who being indifferent persons to the greatest
part of the state, have no interest, or but a remote one, in any act of
injustice; and being satisfied with their present condition, and with
their part in society, have an immediate interest in every execution of
justice, which is so necessary to the upholding of society. Here then is
the origin of civil government and society. Men are not able radically to
cure, either in themselves or others, that narrowness of soul, which
makes them prefer the present to the remote. They cannot change their
natures. All they can do is to change their situation, and render the
observance of justice the immediate interest of some particular persons,
and its violation their more remote. These persons, then, are not only
induced to observe those rules in their own conduct, but also to
constrain others to a like regularity, and inforce the dictates of equity
through the whole society. And if it be necessary, they may also interest
others more immediately in the execution of justice, and create a number
of officers, civil and military, to assist them in their government.

But this execution of justice, though the principal, is not the only
advantage of government. As violent passion hinder men from seeing
distinctly the interest they have in an equitable behaviour towards
others; so it hinders them from seeing that equity itself, and gives them
a remarkable partiality in their own favours. This inconvenience is
corrected in the same manner as that above-mentioned. The same persons,
who execute the laws of justice, will also decide all controversies
concerning them; and being indifferent to the greatest part of the
society, will decide them more equitably than every one would in his
own case.

By means of these two advantages, in the execution and decision of
justice, men acquire a security against each others weakness and passion,
as well as against their own, and under the shelter of their governors,
begin to taste at ease the sweets of society and mutual assistance. But
government extends farther its beneficial influence; and not contented to
protect men in those conventions they make for their mutual interest, it
often obliges them to make such conventions, and forces them to seek
their own advantage, by a concurrence in some common end or purpose.
There is no quality in human nature, which causes more fatal errors in
our conduct, than that which leads us to prefer whatever is present to
the distant and remote, and makes us desire objects more according to
their situation than their intrinsic value. Two neighbours may agree to
drain a meadow, which they possess in common; because it is easy for them
to know each others mind; and each must perceive, that the immediate
consequence of his failing in his part, is, the abandoning the whole
project. But it is very difficult, and indeed impossible, that a thousand
persons should agree in any such action; it being difficult for them to
concert so complicated a design, and still more difficult for them to
execute it; while each seeks a pretext to free himself of the trouble and
expence, and would lay the whole burden on others. Political society
easily remedies both these inconveniences. Magistrates find an immediate
interest in the interest of any considerable part of their subjects. They
need consult no body but themselves to form any scheme for the promoting
of that interest. And as the failure of any one piece in the execution is
connected, though not immediately, with the failure of the whole, they
prevent that failure, because they find no interest in it, either
immediate or remote. Thus bridges are built; harbours opened; ramparts
raised; canals formed; fleets equiped; and armies disciplined every
where, by the care of government, which, though composed of men subject to
all human infirmities, becomes, by one of the finest and most subtle
inventions imaginable, a composition, which is, in some measure, exempted
from all these infirmities.



SECT. VIII  OF THE SOURCE OF ALLEGIANCE


Though government be an invention very advantageous, and even in some
circumstances absolutely necessary to mankind; it is not necessary in all
circumstances, nor is it impossible for men to preserve society for some
time, without having recourse to such an invention. Men, it is true, are
always much inclined to prefer present interest to distant and remote;
nor is it easy for them to resist the temptation of any advantage, that
they may immediately enjoy, in apprehension of an evil that lies at a
distance from them: But still this weakness is less conspicuous where the
possessions, and the pleasures of life are few, and of little value, as
they always are in the infancy of society. An Indian is but little
tempted to dispossess another of his hut, or to steal his bow, as being
already provided of the same advantages; and as to any superior fortune,
which may attend one above another in hunting and fishing, it is only
casual and temporary, and will have but small tendency to disturb
society. And so far am I from thinking with some philosophers, that men
are utterly incapable of society without government, that I assert the
first rudiments of government to arise from quarrels, not among men of
the same society, but among those of different societies. A less degree
of riches will suffice to this latter effect, than is requisite for the
former. Men fear nothing from public war and violence but the resistance
they meet with, which, because they share it in common, seems less
terrible; and because it comes from strangers, seems less pernicious in
its consequences, than when they are exposed singly against one whose
commerce is advantageous to them, and without whose society it is
impossible they can subsist. Now foreign war to a society without
government necessarily produces civil war. Throw any considerable goods
among men, they instantly fall a quarrelling, while each strives to get
possession of what pleases him, without regard to the consequences. In a
foreign war the most considerable of all goods, life and limbs, are at
stake; and as every one shuns dangerous ports, seizes the best arms,
seeks excuse for the slightest wounds, the laws, which may be well enough
observed while men were calm, can now no longer take place, when they are
in such commotion.

This we find verified in the American tribes, where men live in concord
and amity among themselves without any established government and never
pay submission to any of their fellows, except in time of war, when their
captain enjoys a shadow of authority, which he loses after their return
from the field, and the establishment of peace with the neighbouring
tribes. This authority, however, instructs them in the advantages of
government, and teaches them to have recourse to it, when either by the
pillage of war, by commerce, or by any fortuitous inventions, their
riches and possessions have become so considerable as to make them
forget, on every emergence, the interest they have in the preservation of
peace and justice. Hence we may give a plausible reason, among others,
why all governments are at first monarchical, without any mixture and
variety; and why republics arise only from the abuses of monarchy and
despotic power. Camps are the true mothers of cities; and as war cannot
be administered, by reason of the suddenness of every exigency, without
some authority in a single person, the same kind of authority naturally
takes place in that civil government, which succeeds the military. And
this reason I take to be more natural, than the common one derived from
patriarchal government, or the authority of a father, which is said first
to take place in one family, and to accustom the members of it to the
government of a single person. The state of society without government is
one of the most natural states of men, and must submit with the
conjunction of many families, and long after the first generation.
Nothing but an encrease of riches and possessions coued oblige men to
quit it; and so barbarous and uninstructed are all societies on their
first formation, that many years must elapse before these can encrease to
such a degree, as to disturb men in the enjoyment of peace and concord.
But though it be possible for men to maintain a small uncultivated society
without government, it is impossible they should maintain a society of any
kind without justice, and the observance of those three fundamental laws
concerning the stability of possession, its translation by consent, and
the performance of promises. These are, therefore, antecedent to
government, and are supposed to impose an obligation before the duty of
allegiance to civil magistrates has once been thought of. Nay, I shall go
farther, and assert, that government, upon its first establishment, would
naturally be supposed. to derive its obligation from those laws of
nature, and, in particular, from that concerning the performance of
promises. When men have once perceived the necessity of government to
maintain peace, and execute justice, they would naturally assemble
together, would chuse magistrates, determine power, and promise them
obedience. As a promise is supposed to be a bond or security already in
use, and attended with a moral obligation, it is to be considered as the
original sanction of government, and as the source of the first
obligation to obedience. This reasoning appears so natural, that it has
become the foundation of our fashionable system of politics, and is in a
manner the creed of a party amongst us, who pride themselves, with
reason, on the soundness of their philosophy, and their liberty of
thought. All men, say they, are born free and equal: Government and
superiority can only be established by consent: The consent of men, in
establishing government, imposes on them a new obligation, unknown to the
laws of nature. Men, therefore, are bound to obey their magistrates, only
because they promise it; and if they had not given their word, either
expressly or tacitly, to preserve allegiance, it would never have become
a part of their moral duty. This conclusion, however, when carried so far
as to comprehend government in all its ages and situations, is entirely
erroneous; and I maintain, that though the duty of allegiance be at first
grafted on the obligation of promises, and be for some time supported by
that obligation, yet it quickly takes root of itself, and has an original
obligation and authority, independent of all contracts. This is a
principle of moment, which we must examine with care and attention,
before we proceed any farther.

It is reasonable for those philosophers, who assert justice to be a
natural virtue, and antecedent to human conventions, to resolve all civil
allegiance into the obligation of a promise, and assert that it is our own
consent alone, which binds us to any submission to magistracy. For as all
government is plainly an invention of men, and the origin of most
governments is known in history, it is necessary to mount higher, in order
to find the source of our political duties, if we would assert them to
have any natural obligation of morality. These philosophers, therefore,
quickly observe, that society is as antient as the human species, and
those three fundamental laws of nature as antient as society: So that
taking advantage of the antiquity, and obscure origin of these laws, they
first deny them to be artificial and voluntary inventions of men, and
then seek to ingraft on them those other duties, which are more plainly
artificial. But being once undeceived in this particular, and having
found that natural, as well as civil justice, derives its origin from
human conventions, we shall quickly perceive, how fruitless it is to
resolve the one into the other, and seek, in the laws of nature, a
stronger foundation for our political duties than interest, and human
conventions; while these laws themselves are built on the very same
foundation. On which ever side we turn this subject, we shall find, that
these two kinds of duty are exactly on the same footing, and have the
same source both of their first invention and moral obligation. They are
contrived to remedy like inconveniences, and acquire their moral sanction
in the same manner, from their remedying those inconveniences. These are
two points, which we shall endeavour to prove as distinctly as possible.

We have already shewn, that men invented the three fundamental laws of
nature, when they observed the necessity of society to their mutual
subsistance, and found, that it was impossible to maintain any
correspondence together, without some restraint on their natural
appetites. The same self-love, therefore, which renders men so
incommodious to each other, taking a new and more convenient direction,
produces the rules of justice, and is the first motive of their
observance. But when men have observed, that though the rules of justice be
sufficient to maintain any society, yet it is impossible for them, of
themselves, to observe those rules, in large and polished societies; they
establish government, as a new invention to attain their ends, and
preserve the old, or procure new advantages, by a more strict execution
of justice. So far, therefore, our civil duties are connected with our
natural, that the former are invented chiefly for the sake of the latter;
and that the principal object of government is to constrain men to
observe the laws of nature. In this respect, however, that law of nature,
concerning the performance of promises, is only comprized along with the
rest; and its exact observance is to be considered as an effect of the
institution of government, and not the obedience to government as an
effect of the obligation of a promise. Though the object of our civil
duties be the enforcing of our natural, yet the first [First in time, not
in dignity or force.] motive of the invention, as well as performance of
both, is nothing but self-interest: and since there is a separate interest
in the obedience to government, from that in the performance of promises,
we must also allow of a separate obligation. To obey the civil magistrate
is requisite to preserve order and concord in society. To perform promises
is requisite to beget mutual trust and confidence in the common offices of
life. The ends, as well as the means, are perfectly distinct; nor is the
one subordinate to the other.

To make this more evident, let us consider, that men will often bind
themselves by promises to the performance of what it would have been
their interest to perform, independent of these promises; as when they
would give others a fuller security, by super-adding a new obligation of
interest to that which they formerly lay under. The interest in the
performance of promises, besides its moral obligation, is general,
avowed, and of the last consequence in life. Other interests may be more
particular and doubtful; and we are apt to entertain a greater suspicion,
that men may indulge their humour, or passion, in acting contrary to
them. Here, therefore, promises come naturally in play, and are often
required for fuller satisfaction and security. But supposing those other
interests to be as general and avowed as the interest in the performance
of a promise, they will be regarded as on the same footing, and men will
begin to repose the same confidence in them. Now this is exactly the case
with regard to our civil duties, or obedience to the magistrate; without
which no government coued subsist, nor any peace or order be maintained
in large societies, where there are so many possessions on the one hand,
and so many wants, real or imaginary, on the other. Our civil duties,
therefore, must soon detach themselves from our promises, and acquire a
separate force and influence. The interest in both is of the very same
kind: It is general, avowed, and prevails in all times and places. There
is, then, no pretext of reason for founding the one upon the other; while
each of them has a foundation peculiar to itself. We might as well
resolve the obligation to abstain from the possessions of others, into
the obligation of a promise, as that of allegiance. The interests are not
more distinct in the one case than the other. A regard to property is not
more necessary to natural society, than obedience is to civil society or
government; nor is the former society more necessary to the being of
mankind, than the latter to their well-being and happiness. In short, if
the performance of promises be advantageous, so is obedience to
government: If the former interest be general, so is the latter: If the
one interest be obvious and avowed, so is the other. And as these two
rules are founded on like obligations of interest, each of them must have
a peculiar authority, independent of the other.

But it is not only the natural obligations of interest, which are distinct
in promises and allegiance; but also the moral obligations of honour and
conscience: Nor does the merit or demerit of the one depend in the least
upon that of the other. And indeed, if we consider the close connexion
there is betwixt the natural and moral obligations, we shall find this
conclusion to be entirely unavoidable. Our interest is always engaged on
the side of obedience to magistracy; and there is nothing but a great
present advantage, that can lead us to rebellion, by making us over-look
the remote interest, which we have in the preserving of peace and order
in society. But though a present interest may thus blind us with regard to
our own actions, it takes not place with regard to those of others; nor
hinders them from appearing in their true colours, as highly prejudicial
to public interest, and to our own in particular. This naturally gives us
an uneasiness, in considering such seditious and disloyal actions, and
makes us attach to them the idea of vice and moral deformity. It is the
same principle, which causes us to disapprove of all kinds of private
injustice, and in particular of the breach of promises. We blame all
treachery and breach of faith; because we consider, that the freedom and
extent of human commerce depend entirely on a fidelity with regard to
promises. We blame all disloyalty to magistrates; because we perceive,
that the execution of justice, in the stability of possession, its
translation by consent, and the performance of promises, is impossible,
without submission to government. As there are here two interests
entirely distinct from each other, they must give rise to two moral
obligations, equally separate and independent. Though there was no such
thing as a promise in the world, government would still be necessary in
all large and civilized societies; and if promises had only their own
proper obligation, without the separate sanction of government, they
would have but little efficacy in such societies. This separates the
boundaries of our public and private duties, and shews that the latter
are more dependant on the former, than the former on the latter.
Education, and the artifice of politicians, concur to bestow a farther
morality on loyalty, and to brand all rebellion with a greater degree of
guilt and infamy. Nor is it a wonder, that politicians should be very
industrious in inculcating such notions, where their interest is so
particularly concerned.

Lest those arguments should not appear entirely conclusive (as I think
they are) I shall have recourse to authority, and shall prove, from the
universal consent of mankind, that the obligation of submission to
government is not derived from any promise of the subjects. Nor need any
one wonder, that though I have all along endeavoured to establish my
system on pure reason, and have scarce ever cited the judgment even of
philosophers or historians on any article, I should now appeal to popular
authority, and oppose the sentiments of the rabble to any philosophical
reasoning. For it must be observed, that the opinions of men, in this
case, carry with them a peculiar authority, and are, in a great measure,
infallible. The distinction of moral good and evil is founded on the
pleasure or pain, which results from the view of any sentiment, or
character; and as that pleasure or pain cannot be unknown to the person
who feels it, it follows [Footnote 22], that there is just so much vice or
virtue in any character, as every one places in it, and that it is
impossible in this particular we can ever be mistaken. And though our
judgments concerning the origin of any vice or virtue, be not so certain
as those concerning their degrees; yet, since the question in this case
regards not any philosophical origin of an obligation, but a plain matter
of fact, it is not easily conceived how we can fall into an error. A man,
who acknowledges himself to be bound to another, for a certain sum, must
certainly know whether it be by his own bond, or that of his father;
whether it be of his mere good-will, or for money lent him; and under
what conditions, and for what purposes he has bound himself. In like
manner, it being certain, that there is a moral obligation to submit to
government, because every one thinks so; it must be as certain, that this
obligation arises not from a promise; since no one, whose judgment has
not been led astray by too strict adherence to a system of philosophy,
has ever yet dreamt of ascribing it to that origin. Neither magistrates
nor subjects have formed this idea of our civil duties.

[Footnote 22  This proposition must hold strictly true, with regard to
every quality, that is determin'd merely by sentiment. In what sense we
can talk either of a right or a wrong taste in morals, eloquence, or
beauty, shall be considerd afterwards. In the mean time, it may be
observ'd, that there is such an uniformity in the GENERAL sentiments of
mankind, as to render such questions of but small importance.]

We find, that magistrates are so far from deriving their authority, and
the obligation to obedience in their subjects, from the foundation of a
promise or original contract, that they conceal, as far as possible, from
their people, especially from the vulgar, that they have their origin
from thence. Were this the sanction of government, our rulers would never
receive it tacitly, which is the utmost that can be pretended; since what
is given tacitly and insensibly can never have such influence on mankind,
as what is performed expressly and openly. A tacit promise is, where the
will is signified by other more diffuse signs than those of speech; but a
will there must certainly be in the case, and that can never escape the
person's notice, who exerted it, however silent or tacit. But were you to
ask the far greatest part of the nation, whether they had ever consented
to the authority of their rulers, or promised to obey them, they would be
inclined to think very strangely of you; and would certainly reply, that
the affair depended not on their consent, but that they were born to such
an obedience. In consequence of this opinion, we frequently see them
imagine such persons to be their natural rulers, as are at that time
deprived of all power and authority, and whom no man, however foolish,
would voluntarily chuse; and this merely because they are in that line,
which ruled before, and in that degree of it, which used to succeed;
though perhaps in so distant a period, that scarce any man alive coued
ever have given any promise of obedience. Has a government, then, no
authority over such as these, because they never consented to it, and
would esteem the very attempt of such a free choice a piece of arrogance
and impiety? We find by experience, that it punishes them very freely
for what it calls treason and rebellion, which, it seems, according to
this system, reduces itself to common injustice. If you say, that by
dwelling in its dominions, they in effect consented to the established
government; I answer, that this can only be, where they think the affair
depends on their choice, which few or none, beside those philosophers,
have ever yet imagined. It never was pleaded as an excuse for a rebel,
that the first act he perform d, after he came to years of discretion, was
to levy war against the sovereign of the state; and that while he was a
child he coued not bind himself by his own consent, and having become a
man, showed plainly, by the first act he performed, that he had no design
to impose on himself any obligation to obedience. We find, on the
contrary, that civil laws punish this crime at the same age as any other,
which is criminal, of itself, without our consent; that is, when the
person is come to the full use of reason: Whereas to this crime they ought
in justice to allow some intermediate time, in which a tacit consent at
least might be supposed. To which we may add, that a man living under an
absolute government, would owe it no allegiance; since, by its very
nature, it depends not on consent. But as that is as natural and common a
government as any, it must certainly occasion some obligation; and it is
plain from experience, that men, who are subjected to it, do always think
so. This is a clear proof, that we do not commonly esteem our allegiance
to be derived from our consent or promise; and a farther proof is, that
when our promise is upon any account expressly engaged, we always
distinguish exactly betwixt the two obligations, and believe the one to
add more force to the other, than in a repetition of the same promise.
Where no promise is given, a man looks not on his faith as broken in
private matters, upon account of rebellion; but keeps those two duties of
honour and allegiance perfectly distinct and separate. As the uniting of
them was thought by these philosophers a very subtile invention, this is
a convincing proof, that it is not a true one; since no man can either
give a promise, or be restrained by its sanction and obligation unknown
to himself,



SECT. IX  OF THE MEASURES OF ALLEGIANCE


Those political writers, who have had recourse to a promise, or original
contract, as the source of our allegiance to government, intended to
establish a principle, which is perfectly just and reasonable; though the
reasoning, upon which they endeavoured to establish it, was fallacious
and sophistical. They would prove, that our submission to government
admits of exceptions, and that an egregious tyranny in the rulers is
sufficient to free the subjects from all ties of allegiance. Since men
enter into society, say they, and submit themselves to government, by
their free and voluntary consent, they must have in view certain
advantages, which they propose to reap from it, and for which they are
contented to resign their native liberty. There is, therefore, something
mutual engaged on the part of the magistrate, viz, protection and
security; and it is only by the hopes he affords of these advantages, that
he can ever persuade men to submit to him. But when instead of protection
and security, they meet with tyranny and oppression, they are freeed from
their promises, (as happens in all conditional contracts) and return to
that state of liberty, which preceded the institution of government. Men
would never be so foolish as to enter into such engagements as should
turn entirely to the advantage of others, without any view of bettering
their own condition. Whoever proposes to draw any profit from our
submission, must engage himself, either expressly or tacitly, to make us
reap some advantage from his authority; nor ought he to expect, that
without the performance of his part we will ever continue in obedience.

I repeat it: This conclusion is just, though the principles be erroneous;
and I flatter myself, that I can establish the same conclusion on more
reasonable principles. I shall not take such a compass, in establishing
our political duties, as to assert, that men perceive the advantages of
government; that they institute government with a view to those
advantages; that this institution requires a promise of obedience; which
imposes a moral obligation to a certain degree, but being conditional,
ceases to be binding, whenever the other contracting party performs not
his part of the engagement. I perceive, that a promise itself arises
entirely from human conventions, and is invented with a view to a certain
interest. I seek, therefore, some such interest more immediately
connected with government, and which may be at once the original motive
to its institution, and the source of our obedience to it. This interest
I find to consist in the security and protection, which we enjoy in
political society, and which we can never attain, when perfectly free and
independent. As interest, therefore, is the immediate sanction of
government, the one can have no longer being than the other; and whenever
the civil magistrate carries his oppression so far as to render his
authority perfectly intolerable, we are no longer bound to submit to it.
The cause ceases; the effect must cease also.

So far the conclusion is immediate and direct, concerning the natural
obligation which we have to allegiance. As to the moral obligation, we
may observe, that the maxim would here be false, that when the cause
ceases, the effect must cease also. For there is a principle of human
nature, which we have frequently taken notice of, that men are mightily
addicted to general rules, and that we often carry our maxims beyond
those reasons, which first induced us to establish them. Where cases are
similar in many circumstances, we are apt to put them on the same
footing, without considering, that they differ in the most material
circumstances, and that the resemblance is more apparent than real. It
may, therefore, be thought, that in the case of allegiance our moral
obligation of duty will not cease, even though the natural obligation of
interest, which is its cause, has ceased; and that men may be bound by
conscience to submit to a tyrannical government against their own and the
public interest. And indeed, to the force of this argument I so far
submit, as to acknowledge, that general rules commonly extend beyond the
principles, on which they are founded; and that we seldom make any
exception to them, unless that exception have the qualities of a general
rule, and be founded on very numerous and common instances. Now this I
assert to be entirely the present case. When men submit to the authority
of others, it is to procure themselves some security against the
wickedness and injustice of men, who are perpetually carried, by their
unruly passions, and by their present and immediate interest, to the
violation of all the laws of society. But as this imperfection is
inherent in human nature, we know that it must attend men in all their
states and conditions; and that these, whom we chuse for rulers, do not
immediately become of a superior nature to the rest of mankind, upon
account of their superior power and authority. What we expect from them
depends not on a change of their nature but of their situation, when they
acquire a more immediate interest in the preservation of order and the
execution of justice. But besides that this interest is only more
immediate in the execution of justice among their subjects; besides this,
I say, we may often expect, from the irregularity of human nature, that
they will neglect even this immediate interest, and be transported by
their passions into all the excesses of cruelty and ambition.. Our
general knowledge of human nature, our observation of the past history of
mankind, our experience of present times; all these causes must induce us
to open the door to exceptions, and must make us conclude, that we may
resist the more violent effects of supreme power, without any crime or
injustice.

Accordingly we may observe, that this is both the general practice and
principle of mankind, and that no nation, that coued find any remedy,
ever yet suffered the cruel ravages of a tyrant, or were blamed for their
resistance. Those who took up arms against Dionysius or Nero, or Philip
the second, have the favour of every reader in the perusal of their
history: and nothing but the most violent perversion of common sense can
ever lead us to condemn them. It is certain, therefore, that in all our
notions of morals we never entertain such an absurdity as that of passive
obedience, but make allowances for resistance in the more flagrant
instances of tyranny and oppression. The general opinion of mankind has
some authority in all cases; but in this of morals it is perfectly
infallible. Nor is it less infallible, because men cannot distinctly
explain the principles, on which it is founded. Few persons can carry on
this train of reasoning:

Government is a mere human invention for the interest of society. Where
the tyranny of the governor removes this interest, it also removes the
natural obligation to obedience. The moral obligation is founded on the
natural, and therefore must cease where that ceases; especially where the
subject is such as makes us foresee very many occasions wherein the
natural obligation may cease, and causes us to form a kind of general
rule for the regulation of our conduct in such occurrences.

But though this train of reasoning be too subtile for the vulgar, it is
certain, that all men have an implicit notion of it, and are sensible,
that they owe obedience to government merely on account of the public
interest; and at the same time, that human nature is so subject to
frailties and passions, as may easily pervert this institution, and
change their governors into tyrants and public enemies. If the sense of
common interest were not our original motive to obedience, I would fain
ask, what other principle is there in human nature capable of subduing
the natural ambition of men, and forcing them to such a submission?
Imitation and custom are not sufficient. For the question still recurs,
what motive first produces those instances of submission, which we
imitate, and that train of actions, which produces the custom? There
evidently is no other principle than public interest; and if interest
first produces obedience to government, the obligation to obedience must
cease, whenever the interest ceases, in any great degree, and in a
considerable number of instances.



SECT. X  OF THE OBJECTS OF ALLEGIANCE


But though, on some occasions, it may be justifiable, both in sound
politics and morality, to resist supreme power, it is certain, that in the
ordinary course of human affairs nothing can be more pernicious and
criminal; and that besides the convulsions, which always attend
revolutions, such a practice tends directly to the subversion of all
government, and the causing an universal anarchy and confusion among
mankind. As numerous and civilized societies cannot subsist without
government, so government is entirely useless without an exact obedience.
We ought always to weigh the advantages, which we reap from authority,
against the disadvantages; and by this means we shall become more
scrupulous of putting in practice the doctrine of resistance. The common
rule requires submission; and it is only in cases of grievous tyranny and
oppression, that the exception can take place.

Since then such a blind submission is commonly due to magistracy, the
next question is, to whom it is due, and whom we are to regard as our
lawful magistrates? In order to answer this question, let us recollect
what we have already established concerning the origin of government and
political society. When men have once experienced the impossibility of
preserving any steady order in society, while every one is his own
master, and violates or observes the laws of society, according to his
present interest or pleasure, they naturally run into the invention of
government, and put it out of their own power, as far as possible, to
transgress the laws of society. Government, therefore, arises from the
same voluntary conversation of men; and it is evident, that the same
convention, which establishes government, will also determine the persons
who are to govern, and will remove all doubt and ambiguity in this
particular. And the voluntary consent of men must here have the greater
efficacy, that the authority of the magistrate does at first stand upon
the foundation of a promise of the subjects, by which they bind
themselves to obedience; as in every other contract or engagement. The
same promise, then, which binds them to obedience, ties them down to a
particular person, and makes him the object of their allegiance.

But when government has been established on this footing for some
considerable time, and the separate interest, which we have in
submission, has produced a separate sentiment of morality, the case is
entirely altered, and a promise is no longer able to determine the
particular magistrate since it is no longer considered as the foundation
of government. We naturally suppose ourselves born to submission; and
imagine, that such particular persons have a right to command, as we on
our part are bound to obey. These notions of right and obligation are
derived from nothing but the advantage we reap from government, which
gives us a repugnance to practise resistance ourselves, and makes us
displeased with any instance of it in others. But here it is remarkable,
that in this new state of affairs, the original sanction of government,
which is interest, is not admitted to determine the persons, whom we are
to obey, as the original sanction did at first, when affairs were on the
footing of a promise. A promise fixes and determines the persons, without
any uncertainty: But it is evident, that if men were to regulate their
conduct in this particular, by the view of a peculiar interest, either
public or private, they would involve themselves in endless confusion,
and would render all government, in a great measure, ineffectual. The
private interest of every one is different; and though the public interest
in itself be always one and the same, yet it becomes the source of as
great dissentions, by reason of the different opinions of particular
persons concerning it. The same interest, therefore, which causes us to
submit to magistracy, makes us renounce itself in the choice of our
magistrates, and binds us down to a certain form of government, and to
particular persons, without allowing us to aspire to the utmost
perfection in either. The case is here the same as in that law of nature
concerning the stability of possession. It is highly advantageous, and
even absolutely necessary to society, that possession should be stable;
and this leads us to the establishment of such a rule: But we find, that
were we to follow the same advantage, in assigning particular possessions
to particular persons, we should disappoint our end, and perpetuate the
confusion, which that rule is intended to prevent. We must, therefore,
proceed by general rules, and regulate ourselves by general interests, in
modifying the law of nature concerning the stability of possession. Nor
need we fear, that our attachment to this law will diminish upon account
of the seeming frivolousness of those interests, by which it is
determined. The impulse of the mind is derived from a very strong
interest; and those other more minute interests serve only to direct the
motion, without adding any thing to it, or diminishing from it. It is the
same case with government. Nothing is more advantageous to society than
such an invention; and this interest is sufficient to make us embrace it
with ardour and alacrity; though we are obliged afterwards to regulate and
direct our devotion to government by several considerations, which are
not of the same importance, and to chuse our magistrates without having
in view any particular advantage from the choice.

The first of those principles I shall take notice of, as a foundation of
the right of magistracy, is that which gives authority to all the most
established governments of the world without exception: I mean, long
possession in any one form of government, or succession of princes. It is
certain, that if we remount to the first origin of every nation, we shall
find, that there scarce is any race of kings, or form of a commonwealth,
that is not primarily founded on usurpation and rebellion, and whose
title is not at first worse than doubtful and uncertain. Time alone gives
solidity to their right; and operating gradually on the minds of men,
reconciles them to any authority, and makes it seem just and reasonable.
Nothing causes any sentiment to have a greater influence upon us than
custom, or turns our imagination more strongly to any object. When we
have been long accustomed to obey any set of men, that general instinct
or tendency, which we have to suppose a moral obligation attending
loyalty, takes easily this direction, and chuses that set of men for its
objects. It is interest which gives the general instinct; but it is custom
which gives the particular direction.

And here it is observable, that the same length of time has a different
influence on our sentiments of morality, according to its different
influence on the mind. We naturally judge of every thing by comparison;
and since in considering the fate of kingdoms and republics, we embrace a
long extent of time, a small duration has not in this case a like
influence on our sentiments, as when we consider any other object. One
thinks he acquires a right to a horse, or a suit of cloaths, in a very
short time; but a century is scarce sufficient to establish any new
government, or remove all scruples in the minds of the subjects
concerning it. Add to this, that a shorter period of time will suffice to
give a prince a title to any additional power he may usurp, than will
serve to fix his right, where the whole is an usurpation. The kings of
France have not been possessed of absolute power for above two reigns;
and yet nothing will appear more extravagant to Frenchmen than to talk of
their liberties. If we consider what has been said concerning accession,
we shall easily account for this phaenomenon.

When there is no form of government established by long possession, the
present possession is sufficient to supply its place, and may be regarded
as the second source of all public authority. Right to authority is
nothing but the constant possession of authority, maintained by the laws
of society and the interests of mankind; and nothing can be more natural
than to join this constant possession to the present one, according to
the principles above-mentioned. If the same principles did not take place
with regard to the property of private persons, it was because these
principles were counter-ballanced by very strong considerations of
interest; when we observed, that all restitution would by that means be
prevented, and every violence be authorized and protected. And though the
same motives may seem to have force, with regard to public authority, yet
they are opposed by a contrary interest; which consists in the
preservation of peace, and the avoiding of all changes, which, however
they may be easily produced in private affairs, are unavoidably attended
with bloodshed and confusion, where the public is interested.

Any one, who finding the impossibility of accounting for the right of the
present possessor, by any received system of ethics, should resolve to
deny absolutely that right, and assert, that it is not authorized by
morality, would be justly thought to maintain a very extravagant paradox,
and to shock the common sense and judgment of mankind. No maxim is more
conformable, both to prudence and morals, than to submit quietly to the
government, which we find established in the country where we happen to
live, without enquiring too curiously into its origin and first
establishment. Few governments will bear being examined so rigorously.
How many kingdoms are there at present in the world, and how many more do
we find in history, whose governors have no better foundation for their
authority than that of present possession? To confine ourselves to the
Roman and Grecian empire; is it not evident, that the long succession of
emperors, from the dissolution of the Roman liberty, to the final
extinction of that empire by the Turks, coued not so much as pretend to
any other title to the empire? The election of the senate was a mere
form, which always followed the choice of the legions; and these were
almost always divided in the different provinces, and nothing but the
sword was able to terminate the difference. It was by the sword,
therefore, that every emperor acquired, as well as defended his right;
and we must either say, that all the known world, for so many ages, had
no government, and owed no allegiance to any one, or must allow, that the
right of the stronger, in public affairs, is to be received as
legitimate, and authorized by morality, when not opposed by any other
title.

The right of conquest may be considered as a third source of the title of
sovereigns. This right resembles very much that of present possession;
but has rather a superior force, being seconded by the notions of glory
and honour, which we ascribe to conquerors, instead of the sentiments of
hatred and detestation, which attend usurpers. Men naturally favour those
they love; and therefore are more apt to ascribe a right to successful
violence, betwixt one sovereign and another, than to the successful
rebellion of a subject against his sovereign.

[Footnote 23  It is not here asserted, that present possession or conquest
are sufficient to give a title against long possession and positive laws
but only that they have some force, and will be able to call the ballance
where the titles are otherwise equal, and will even be sufficient
sometimes to sanctify the weaker title. What degree of force they have is
difficult to determine. I believe all moderate men will allow, that they
have great force in all disputes concerning the rights of princes.]

When neither long possession, nor present possession, nor conquest take
place, as when the first sovereign, who founded any monarchy, dies; in
that case, the right of succession naturally prevails in their stead, and
men are commonly induced to place the son of their late monarch on the
throne, and suppose him to inherit his father's authority. The presumed
consent of the father, the imitation of the succession to private
families, the interest, which the state has in chusing the person, who is
most powerful, and has the most numerous followers; all these reasons
lead men to prefer the son of their late monarch to any other person.

[Footnote 24  To prevent mistakes I must observe, that this case of
succession is not the same with that of hereditary monarchies, where
custom has fix'd the right of succession. These depend upon the principle
of long possession above explain'd.]

These reasons have some weight; but I am persuaded, that to one, who
considers impartially of the matter, it will appear, that there concur
some principles of the imagination, along with those views of interest.
The royal authority seems to be connected with the young prince even in
his father's life-time, by the natural transition of the thought; and
still more after his death: So that nothing is more natural than to
compleat this union by a new relation, and by putting him actually in
possession of what seems so naturally to belong to him.

To confirm this we may weigh the following phaenomena, which are pretty
curious in their kind. In elective monarchies the right of succession has
no place by the laws and settled custom; and yet its influence is so
natural, that it is impossible entirely to exclude it from the
imagination, and render the subjects indifferent to the son of their
deceased monarch. Hence in some governments of this kind, the choice
commonly falls on one or other of the royal family; and in some
governments they are all excluded. Those contrary phaenomena proceed from
the same principle. Where the royal family is excluded, it is from a
refinement in politics, which makes people sensible of their propensity
to chuse a sovereign in that family, and gives them a jealousy of their
liberty, lest their new monarch, aided by this propensity, should
establish his family, and destroy the freedom of elections for the
future.

The history of Artaxerxes, and the younger Cyrus, may furnish us with
some reflections to the same purpose. Cyrus pretended a right to the
throne above his elder brother, because he was born after his father's
accession. I do not pretend, that this reason was valid. I would only
infer from it, that he would never have made use of such a pretext, were
it not for the qualities of the imagination above-mentioned, by which we
are naturally inclined to unite by a new relation whatever objects we
find already united. Artaxerxes had an advantage above his brother, as
being the eldest son, and the first in succession: But Cyrus was more
closely related to the royal authority, as being begot after his father
was invested with it.

Should it here be pretended, that the view of convenience may be the
source of all the right of succession, and that men gladly take advantage
of any rule, by which they can fix the successor of their late sovereign,
and prevent that anarchy and confusion, which attends all new elections?
To this I would answer, that I readily allow, that this motive may
contribute something to the effect; but at the same time I assert, that
without another principle, it is impossible such a motive should take
place. The interest of a nation requires, that the succession to the
crown should be fixed one way or other; but it is the same thing to its
interest in what way it be fixed: So that if the relation of blood had
not an effect independent of public interest, it would never have been
regarded, without a positive law; and it would have been impossible, that
so many positive laws of different nations coued ever have concured
precisely in the same views and intentions.

This leads us to consider the fifth source of authority, viz. positive
laws; when the legislature establishes a certain form of government and
succession of princes. At first sight it may be thought, that this must
resolve into some of the preceding titles of authority. The legislative
power, whence the positive law is derived, must either be established by
original contract, long possession, present possession, conquest, or
succession; and consequently the positive law must derive its force from
some of those principles. But here it is remarkable, that though a positive
law can only derive its force from these principles, yet it acquires not
all the force of the principle from whence it is derived, but loses
considerably in the transition; as it is natural to imagine. For
instance; a government is established for many centuries on a certain
system of laws, forms, and methods of succession. The legislative power,
established by this long succession, changes all on a sudden the whole
system of government, and introduces a new constitution in its stead. I
believe few of the subjects will think themselves bound to comply with
this alteration, unless it have an evident tendency to the public good:
But men think themselves still at liberty to return to the antient
government. Hence the notion of fundamental laws; which are supposed to
be inalterable by the will of the sovereign: And of this nature the Salic
law is understood to be in France. How far these fundamental laws extend
is not determined in any government; nor is it possible it ever should.
There is such an indefensible gradation from the most material laws to
the most trivial, and from the most antient laws to the most modem, that
it will be impossible to set bounds to the legislative power, and
determine how far it may innovate in the principles of government. That
is the work more of imagination and passion than of reason.

Whoever considers the history of the several nations of the world; their
revolutions, conquests, increase, and diminution; the manner in which
their particular governments are established, and the successive right
transmitted from one person to another, will soon learn to treat very
lightly all disputes concerning the rights of princes, and will be
convinced, that a strict adherence to any general rules, and the rigid
loyalty to particular persons and families, on which some people set so
high a value, are virtues that hold less of reason, than of bigotry and
superstition. In this particular, the study of history confirms the
reasonings of true philosophy; which, shewing us the original qualities
of human nature, teaches us to regard the controversies in politics as
incapable of any decision in most cases, and as entirely subordinate to
the interests of peace and liberty. Where the public good does not
evidently demand a change; it is certain, that the concurrence of all
those titles, original contract, long possession, present possession,
succession, and positive laws, forms the strongest title to sovereignty,
and is justly regarded as sacred and inviolable. But when these titles
are mingled and opposed in different degrees, they often occasion
perplexity; and are less capable of solution from the arguments of
lawyers and philosophers, than from the swords of the soldiery. Who shall
tell me, for instance, whether Germanicus, or Drufus, ought to have
succeeded Tiberius, had he died while they were both alive, without
naming any of them for his successor? Ought the right of adoption to be
received as equivalent to that of blood in a nation, where it had the
same effect in private families, and had already, in two instances, taken
place in the public? Ought Germanicus to be esteemed the eldest son,
because he was born before Drufus; or the younger, because he was adopted
after the birth of his brother? Ought the right of the elder to be
regarded in a nation, where the eldest brother had no advantage in the
succession to private families? Ought the Roman empire at that time to be
esteemed hereditary, because of two examples; or ought it, even so early,
to be regarded as belonging to the stronger, or the present possessor, as
being founded on so recent an usurpation? Upon whatever principles we may
pretend to answer these and such like questions, I am afraid we shall
never be able to satisfy an impartial enquirer, who adopts no party in
political controversies, and will be satisfied with nothing but sound
reason and philosophy.

But here an English reader will be apt to enquire concerning that famous
revolution, which has had such a happy influence on our constitution, and
has been attended with such mighty consequences. We have already
remarked, that in the case of enormous tyranny and oppression, it is
lawful to take arms even against supreme power; and that as government is
a mere human invention for mutual advantage and security, it no longer
imposes any obligation, either natural or moral, when once it ceases to
have that tendency. But though this general principle be authorized by
common sense, and the practice of all ages, it is certainly impossible for
the laws, or even for philosophy, to establish any particular rules, by
which we may know when resistance is lawful; and decide all
controversies, which may arise on that subject. This may not only happen
with regard to supreme power; but it is possible, even in some
constitutions, where the legislative authority is not lodged in one
person, that there may be a magistrate so eminent and powerful, as to
oblige the laws to keep silence in this particular. Nor would this
silence be an effect only of their respect, but also of their prudence;
since it is certain, that in the vast variety of circumstances, which
occur in all governments, an exercise of power, in so great a magistrate,
may at one time be beneficial to the public, which at another time would
be pernicious and tyrannical. But notwithstanding this silence of the
laws in limited monarchies, it is certain, that the people still retain
the right of resistance; since it is impossible, even in the most despotic
governments, to deprive them of it. The same necessity of
self-preservation, and the same motive of public good, give them the same
liberty in the one case as in the other. And we may farther observe, that
in such mixed governments, the cases, wherein resistance is lawful, must
occur much oftener, and greater indulgence be given to the subjects to
defend themselves by force of arms, than in arbitrary governments. Not
only where the chief magistrate enters into measures, in themselves,
extremely pernicious to the public, but even when he would encroach on
the other parts of the constitution, and extend his power beyond the
legal bounds, it is allowable to resist and dethrone him; though such
resistance and violence may, in the general tenor of the laws, be deemed
unlawful and rebellious. For besides that nothing is more essential to
public interest, than the preservation of public liberty; it is evident,
that if such a mixed government be once supposed to be established, every
part or member of the constitution must have a right of self-defence, and
of maintaining its antient bounds against the enaoachment of every other
authority. As matter would have been created in vain, were it deprived of
a power of resistance, without which no part of it coued preserve a
distinct existence, and the whole might be crowded up into a single
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 with the
people, without allowing, that it is lawful for them to defend their share
against every invader. Those, therefore, who would seem to respect our
free government, and yet deny the right of resistance, have renounced all
pretensions to common sense, and do not merit a serious answer.

It does not belong to my present purpose to shew, that these general
principles are applicable to the late revolution; and that all the rights
and privileges, which ought to be sacred to a free nation, were at that
time threatened with the utmost danger. I am better pleased to leave this
controverted subject, if it really admits of controversy; and to indulge
myself in some philosophical reflections, which naturally arise from that
important event.

First, We may observe, that should the lords and commons in our
constitution, without any reason from public interest, either depose the
king in being, or after his death exclude the prince, who, by laws and
settled custom, ought to succeed, no one would esteem their proceedings
legal, or think themselves bound to comply with them. But should the
king, by his unjust practices, or his attempts for a tyrannical and
despotic power, justly forfeit his legal, it then not only becomes
morally lawful and suitable to the nature of political society to
dethrone him; but what is more, we are apt likewise to think, that the
remaining members of the constitution acquire a right of excluding his
next heir, and of chusing whom they please for his successor. This is
founded on a very singular quality of our thought and imagination. When a
king forfeits his authority, his heir ought naturally to remain in the
same situation, as if the king were removed by death; unless by mixing
himself in the tyranny, he forfeit it for himself. But though this may seem
reasonable, we easily comply with the contrary opinion. The deposition of
a king, in such a government as ours, is certainly an act beyond all
common authority, and an illegal assuming a power for public good, which,
in the ordinary course of government, can belong to no member of the
constitution. When the public good is so great and so evident as to
justify the action, the commendable use of this licence causes us
naturally to attribute to the parliament a right of using farther
licences; and the antient bounds of the laws being once transgressed with
approbation, we are not apt to be so strict in confining ourselves
precisely within their limits. The mind naturally runs on with any train
of action, which it has begun; nor do we commonly make any scruple
concerning our duty, after the first action of any kind, which we
perform. Thus at the revolution, no one who thought the deposition of the
father justifiable, esteemed themselves to be confined to his infant son;
though had that unhappy monarch died innocent at that time, and had his
son, by any accident, been conveyed beyond seas, there is no doubt but a
regency would have been appointed till he should come to age, and coued
be restored to his dominions. As the slightest properties of the
imagination have an effect on the judgments of the people, it shews the
wisdom of the laws and of the parliament to take advantage of such
properties, and to chuse the magistrates either in or out of a line,
according as the vulgar will most naturally attribute authority and right
to them.

Secondly, Though the accession of the Prince of Orange to the throne might
at first give occasion to many disputes, and his title be contested, it
ought not now to appear doubtful, but must have acquired a sufficient
authority from those three princes, who have succeeded him upon the same
title. Nothing is more usual, though nothing may, at first sight, appear
more unreasonable, than this way of thinking. Princes often seem to
acquire a right from their successors, as well as from their ancestors;
and a king, who during his life-time might justly be deemed an usurper,
will be regarded by posterity as a lawful prince, because he has had the
good fortune to settle his family on the throne, and entirely change the
antient form of government. Julius Caesar is regarded as the first Roman
emperor; while Sylla and Marius, whose titles were really the same as
his, are treated as tyrants and usurpers. Time and custom give authority
to all forms of government, and all successions of princes; and that
power, which at first was founded only on injustice and violence, becomes
in time legal and obligatory. Nor does the mind rest there; but returning
back upon its footsteps, transfers to their predecessors and ancestors
that right, which it naturally ascribes to the posterity, as being
related together, and united in the imagination. The present king of
France makes Hugh Capet a more lawful prince than Cromwell; as the
established liberty of the Dutch is no inconsiderable apology for their
obstinate resistance to Philip the second.



SECT. XI  OF THE LAWS OF NATIONS


When civil government has been established over the greatest part of
mankind, and different societies have been formed contiguous to each
other, there arises a new set of duties among the neighbouring states,
suitable to the nature of that commerce, which they carry on with each
other. Political writers tell us, that in every kind of intercourse, a
body politic is to be considered as one person; and indeed this assertion
is so far just, that different nations, as well as private persons,
require mutual assistance; at the same time that their selfishness and
ambition are perpetual sources of war and discord. But though nations in
this particular resemble individuals, yet as they are very different in
other respects, no wonder they regulate themselves by different maxims,
and give rise to a new set of rules, which we call the laws of nations.
Under this head we may comprize the sacredness of the persons of
ambassadors, the declaration of war, the abstaining from poisoned arms,
with other duties of that kind, which are evidently calculated for the
commerce, that is peculiar to different societies.

But though these rules be super-added to the laws of nature, the former do
not entirely abolish the latter; and one may safely affirm, that the
three fundamental rules of justice, the stability of possession, its
transference by consent, and the performance of promises, are duties of
princes, as well as of subjects. The same interest produces the same
effect in both cases. Where possession has no stability, there must be
perpetual war. Where property is not transferred by consent, there can be
no commerce. Where promises are not observed, there can be no leagues nor
alliances. The advantages, therefore, of peace, commerce, and mutual
succour, make us extend to different kingdoms the same notions of
justice, which take place among individuals.

There is a maxim very current in the world, which few politicians are
willing to avow, but which has been authorized by the practice of all
ages, that there is a system of morals cakulated for princes, much more
free than that which ought to govern private parsons. It is evident this is
not to be understood of the lesser extent of public duties and
obligations; nor will any one be so extravagant as to assert, that the
most solemn treaties ought to have no force among princes. For as princes
do actually form treaties among themselves, they must propose some
advantage from the execution of them; and the prospect of such advantage
for the future must engage them to perform their part, and must establish
that law of nature. The meaning, therefore, of this political maxim is,
that though the morality of princes has the same extent, yet it has not the
same force as that of private persons, and may lawfully be trangressed
from a more trivial motive. However shocking such a proposition may
appear to certain philosophers, it will be easy to defend it upon those
principles, by which we have accounted for the origin of justice and
equity.

When men have found by experience, that it is impossible to subsist
without society, and that it is impossible to maintain society, while they
give free course to their appetites; so urgent an interest quickly
restrains their actions, and imposes an obligation to observe those
rules, which we call the laws of justice. This obligation of interest
rests nor here; but by the necessary course of the passions and
sentiments, gives rise to the moral obligation of duty; while we approve
of such actions as tend to the peace of society, and disapprove of such
as tend to its disturbance. The same natural obligation of interest takes
place among independent kingdoms, and gives rise to the same morality; so
that no one of ever so corrupt morals will approve of a prince, who
voluntarily, and of his own accord, breaks his word, or violates any
treaty. But here we may observe, that though the intercourse of different
states be advantageous, and even sometimes necessary, yet it is nor so
necessary nor advantageous as that among individuals, without which it is
utterly impossible for human nature ever to subsist. Since, therefore,
the natural obligation to justice, among different states, is not so
strong as among individuals, the moral obligation, which arises from it,
must partake of its weakness; and we must necessarily give a greater
indulgence to a prince or minister, who deceives another; than to a
private gentleman, who breaks his word of honour.

Should it be asked, what proportion these two species of morality bear to
each other? I would answer, that this is a question, to which we can
never give any precise answer; nor is it possible to reduce to numbers
the proportion, which we ought to fix betwixt them. One may safely
affirm, that this proportion finds itself, without any art or study of
men; as we may observe on many other occasions. The practice of the world
goes farther in teaching us the degrees of our duty, than the most
subtile philosophy, which was ever yet invented. And this may serve as a
convincing proof, that all men have an implicit notion of the foundation
of those moral rules concerning natural and civil justice, and are
sensible, that they arise merely from human conventions, and from the
interest, which we have in the preservation of peace and order. For
otherwise the diminution of the interest would never produce a relaxation
of the morality, and reconcile us more easily to any transgression of
justice among princes and republics, than in the private commerce of one
subject with another.



SECT. XII  OF CHASTITY AND MODESTY


If any difficulty attend this system concerning the laws of nature and
nations, it will be with regard to the universal approbation or blame,
which follows their observance or transgression, and which some may not
think sufficiently explained from the general interests of society. To
remove, as far as possible, all scruples of this kind, I shall here
consider another set of duties, viz, the modesty and chastity which
belong to the fair sex: And I doubt not but these virtues will be found
to be still more conspicuous instances of the operation of those
principles, which I have insisted on.

There are some philosophers, who attack the female virtues with great
vehemence, and fancy they have gone very far in detecting popular errors,
when they can show, that there is no foundation in nature for all that
exterior modesty, which we require in the expressions, and dress, and
behaviour of the fair sex. I believe I may spare myself the trouble of
insisting on so obvious a subject, and may proceed, without farther
preparation, to examine after what manner such notions arise from
education, from the voluntary conventions of men, and from the interest
of society.

Whoever considers the length and feebleness of human infancy, with the
concern which both sexes naturally have for their offspring, will easily
perceive, that there must be an union of male and female for the
education of the young, and that this union must be of considerable
duration. But in order to induce the men to impose on themselves this
restraint, and undergo chearfully all the fatigues and expences, to which
it subjects them, they must believe, that the children are their own, and
that their natural instinct is not directed to a wrong object, when they
give a loose to love and tenderness. Now if we examine the structure of
the human body, we shall find, that this security is very difficult to be
attained on our part; and that since, in the copulation of the sexes, the
principle of generation goes from the man to the woman, an error may
easily take place on the side of the former, though it be utterly
impossible with regard to the latter. From this trivial and anatomical
observation is derived that vast difference betwixt the education and
duties of the two sexes.

Were a philosopher to examine the matter a priori, he would reason after
the following manner. Men are induced to labour for the maintenance and
education of their children, by the persuasion that they are really their
own; and therefore it is reasonable, and even necessary, to give them some
security in this particular. This security cannot consist entirely in the
imposing of severe punishments on any transgressions of conjugal fidelity
on the part of the wife; since these public punishments cannot be
inflicted without legal proof, which it is difficult to meet with in this
subject. What restraint, therefore, shall we impose on women, in order to
counter-balance so strong a temptation as they have to infidelity? There
seems to be no restraint possible, but in the punishment of bad fame or
reputation; a punishment, which has a mighty influence on the human mind,
and at the same time is inflicted by the world upon surmizes, and
conjectures, and proofs, that would never be received in any court of
judicature. In order, therefore, to impose a due restraint on the female
sex, we must attach a peculiar degree of shame to their infidelity, above
what arises merely from its injustice, and must bestow proportionable
praises on their chastity.

But though this be a very strong motive to fidelity, our philosopher would
quickly discover, that it would not alone be sufficient to that purpose.
All human creatures, especially of the female sex, are apt to over-look
remote motives in favour of any present temptation: The temptation is
here the strongest imaginable: Its approaches are insensible and
seducing: And a woman easily finds, or flatters herself she shall find,
certain means of securing her reputation, and preventing all the
pernicious consequences of her pleasures. It is necessary, therefore, that,
beside the infamy attending such licences, there should be some preceding
backwardness or dread, which may prevent their first approaches, and may
give the female sex a repugnance to all expressions, and postures, and
liberties, that have an immediate relation to that enjoyment.

Such would be the reasonings of our speculative philosopher: But I am
persuaded, that if he had not a perfect knowledge of human nature, he
would be apt to regard them as mere chimerical speculations, and would
consider the infamy attending infidelity, and backwardness to all its
approaches, as principles that were rather to be wished than hoped for in
the world. For what means, would he say, of persuading mankind, that the
transgressions of conjugal duty are more infamous than any other kind of
injustice, when it is evident they are more excusable, upon account of the
greatness of the temptation? And what possibility of giving a
backwardness to the approaches of a pleasure, to which nature has
inspired so strong a propensity; and a propensity that it is absolutely
necessary in the end to comply with, for the support of the species?

But speculative reasonings, which cost so much pains to philosophers, are
often formed by the world naturally, and without reflection: As
difficulties, which seem unsurmountable in theory, are easily got over in
practice. Those, who have an interest in the fidelity of women, naturally
disapprove of their infidelity, and all the approaches to it. Those, who
have no interest, are carried along with the stream. Education takes
possession of the ductile minds of the fair sex in their infancy. And
when a general rule of this kind is once established, men are apt to
extend it beyond those principles, from which it first arose. Thus
batchelors, however debauched, cannot chuse but be shocked with any
instance of lewdness or impudence in women. And though all these maxims
have a plain reference to generation, yet women past child-bearing have
no more privilege in this respect, than those who are in the flower of
their youth and beauty. Men have undoubtedly an implicit notion, that all
those ideas of modesty and decency have a regard to generation; since
they impose not the same laws, with the same force, on the male sex,
where that reason takes nor place. The exception is there obvious and
extensive, and founded on a remarkable difference, which produces a clear
separation and disjunction of ideas. But as the case is not the same with
regard to the different ages of women, for this reason, though men know,
that these notions are founded on the public interest, yet the general
rule carries us beyond the original principle, and makes us extend the
notions of modesty over the whole sex, from their earliest infancy to
their extremest old-age and infirmity.

Courage, which is the point of honour among men, derives its merit, in a
great measure, from artifice, as well as the chastity of women; though it
has also some foundation in nature, as we shall see afterwards.

As to the obligations which the male sex lie under, with regard to
chastity, we may observe, that according to the general notions of the
world, they bear nearly the same proportion to the obligations of women,
as the obligations of the law of nations do to those of the law of
nature. It is contrary to the interest of civil society, that men should
have an entire liberty of indulging their appetites in venereal
enjoyment: But as this interest is weaker than in the case of the female
sex, the moral obligation, arising from it, must be proportionably
weaker. And to prove this we need only appeal to the practice and
sentiments of all nations and ages.




PART III  OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES



SECT. I  OF THE ORIGIN OF THE NATURAL VIRTUES AND VICES


We come now to the examination of such virtues and vices as are entirely
natural, and have no dependance on the artifice and contrivance of men.
The examination of these will conclude this system of morals.

The chief spring or actuating principle of the human mind is pleasure or
pain; and when these sensations are removed, both from our thought and
feeling, we are, in a great measure, incapable of passion or action, of
desire or volition. The most immediate effects of pleasure and pain are
the propense and averse motions of the mind; which are diversified into
volition, into desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear,
according as the pleasure or pain changes its situation, and becomes
probable or improbable, certain or uncertain, or is considered as out of
our power for the present moment. But when along with this, the objects,
that cause pleasure or pain, acquire a relation to ourselves or others;
they still continue to excite desire and aversion, grief and joy: But
cause, at the same time, the indirect passions of pride or humility, love
or hatred, which in this case have a double relation of impressions and
ideas to the pain or pleasure.

We have already observed, that moral distinctions depend entirely on
certain peculiar sentiments of pain and pleasure, and that whatever
mental quality in ourselves or others gives us a satisfaction, by the
survey or reflection, is of course virtuous; as every thing of this
nature, that gives uneasiness, is vicious. Now since every quality in
ourselves or others, which gives pleasure, always causes pride or love;
as every one, that produces uneasiness, excites humility or hatred: It
follows, that these two particulars are to be considered as equivalent,
with regard to our mental qualities, virtue and the power of producing
love or pride, vice and the power of producing humility or hatred. In
every case, therefore, we must judge of the one by the other; and may
pronounce any quality of the mind virtuous, which causes love or pride;
and any one vicious, which causes hatred or humility.

If any action be either virtuous or vicious, it is only as a sign of some
quality or character. It must depend upon durable principles of the mind,
which extend over the whole conduct, and enter into the personal
character. Actions themselves, not proceeding from any constant
principle, have no influence on love or hatred, pride or humility; and
consequently are never considered in morality.

This reflection is self-evident, and deserves to be attended to, as being
of the utmost importance in the present subject. We are never to consider
any single action in our enquiries concerning the origin of morals; but
only the quality or character from which the action proceeded. These
alone are durable enough to affect our sentiments concerning the person.
Actions are, indeed, better indications of a character than words, or
even wishes and sentiments; but it is only so far as they are such
indications, that they are attended with love or hatred, praise or blame.

To discover the true origin of morals, and of that love or hatred, which
arises from mental qualities, we must take the matter pretty deep, and
compare some principles, which have been already examined and explained.

We may begin with considering a-new the nature and force of sympathy. The
minds of all men are similar in their feelings and operations; nor can
any one be actuated by any affection, of which all others are not, in
some degree, susceptible. As in strings equally wound up, the motion of
one communicates itself to the rest; so all the affections readily pass
from one person to another, and beget correspondent movements in every
human creature. When I see the effects of passion in the voice and
gesture of any person, my mind immediately passes from these effects to
their causes, and forms such a lively idea of the passion, as is
presently converted into the passion itself. In like manner, when I
perceive the causes of any emotion, my mind is conveyed to the effects,
and is actuated with a like emotion. Were I present at any of the more
terrible operations of surgery, it is certain, that even before it begun,
the preparation of the instruments, the laying of the bandages in order,
the heating of the irons, with all the signs of anxiety and concern in
the patient and assistants, would have a great effect upon my mind, and
excite the strongest sentiments of pity and terror. No passion of another
discovers itself immediately to the mind. We are only sensible of its
causes or effects. From these we infer the passion: And consequently
these give rise to our sympathy.

Our sense of beauty depends very much on this principle; and where any
object has atendency to produce pleasure in its possessor, it is always
regarded as beautiful; as every object, that has a tendency to produce
pain, is disagreeable and deformed. Thus the conveniency of a house, the
fertility of a field, the strength of a horse, the capacity, security,
and swift-sailing of a vessel, form the principal beauty of these several
objects. Here the object, which is denominated beautiful, pleases only by
its tendency to produce a certain effect. That effect is the pleasure or
advantage of some other person. Now the pleasure of a stranger, for whom
we have no friendship, pleases us only by sympathy. To this principle,
therefore, is owing the beauty, which we find in every thing that is
useful. How considerable a part this is of beauty can easily appear upon
reflection. Wherever an object has a tendency to produce pleasure in the
possessor, or in other words, is the proper cause of pleasure, it is sure
to please the spectator, by a delicate sympathy with the possessor. Most
of the works of art are esteemed beautiful, in proportion to their
fitness for the use of man, and even many of the productions of nature
derive their beauty from that source. Handsome and beautiful, on most
occasions, is nor an absolute but a relative quality, and pleases us by
nothing but its tendency to produce an end that is agreeable.

[Footnote 25  Decentior equus cujus astricta sunt ilia; sed idem velocior.
Pulcher aspectu sit athieta, cujus lacertos exercitatio expressit; idem
certamini paratior. Nunquam vero species ab utilitate dividitur. Sed hoc
quidem discernere, modici judicii est. Quinct. lib. 8.
(A horse with narrow flanks looks more comely; It also moves faster. An
athlete whose muscles have been developed by training presents a handsome
appearance; he is also better prepared for the contest. Attractive
appearance is invariably associated with efficient functioning. Yet it
takes no outstanding powers of judgement to wake this distinction.)]

The same principle produces, in many instances, our sentiments of morals,
as well as those of beauty. No virtue is more esteemed than justice, and
no vice more detested than injustice; nor are there any qualities, which
go farther to the fixing the character, either as amiable or odious. Now
justice is a moral virtue, merely because it has that tendency to the
good of mankind; and, indeed, is nothing but an artificial invention to
that purpose. The same may be said of allegiance, of the laws of nations,
of modesty, and of good-manners. All these are mere human contrivances
for the interest of society. And since there is a very strong sentiment
of morals, which in all nations, and all ages, has attended them, we must
allow, that the reflecting on the tendency of characters and mental
qualities, is sufficient to give us the sentiments of approbation and
blame. Now as the means to an end can only be agreeable, where the end is
agreeable; and as the good of society, where our own interest is not
concerned, or that of our friends, pleases only by sympathy: It follows,
that sympathy is the source of the esteem, which we pay to all the
artificial virtues.

Thus it appears, that sympathy is a very powerful principle in human
nature, that it has a great influence on our taste of beauty, and that it
produces our sentiment of morals in all the artificial virtues. From
thence we may presume, that it also gives rise to many of the other
virtues; and that qualities acquire our approbation, because of their
tendency to the good of mankind. This presumption must become a
certainty, when we find that most of those qualities, which we naturally
approve of, have actually that tendency, and render a man a proper member
of society: While the qualities, which we naturally disapprove of, have a
contrary tendency, and render any intercourse with the person dangerous
or disagreeable. For having found, that such tendencies have force enough
to produce the strongest sentiment of morals, we can never reasonably, in
these cases, look for any other cause of approbation or blame; it being
an inviolable maxim in philosophy, that where any particular cause is
sufficient for an effect, we ought to rest satisfied with it, and ought
not to multiply causes without necessity. We have happily attained
experiments in the artificial virtues, where the tendency of qualities to
the good of society, is the sole cause of our approbation, without any
suspicion of the concurrence of another principle. From thence we learn
the force of that principle. And where that principle may take place, and
the quality approved of is really beneficial to society, a true
philosopher will never require any other principle to account for the
strongest approbation and esteem.

That many of the natural virtues have this tendency to the good of
society, no one can doubt of. Meekness, beneficence, charity, generosity,
clemency, moderation, equity bear the greatest figure among the moral
qualities, and are commonly denominated the social virtues, to mark their
tendency to the good of society. This goes so far, that some philosophers
have represented all moral distinctions as the effect of artifice and
education, when skilful politicians endeavoured to restrain the turbulent
passions of men, and make them operate to the public good, by the notions
of honour and shame. This system, however, is nor consistent with
experience. For, first, there are other virtues and vices beside those
which have this tendency to the public advantage and loss. Secondly, had
not men a natural sentiment of approbation and blame, it coued never be
excited by politicians; nor would the words laudable and praise-worthy,
blameable and odious be any more intelligible, than if they were a
language perfectly known to us, as we have already observed. But though
this system be erroneous, it may teach us, that moral distinctions arise,
in a great measure, from the tendency of qualities and characters to the
interests of society, and that it is our concern for that interest, which
makes us approve or disapprove of them. Now we have no such extensive
concern for society but from sympathy; and consequently it is that
principle, which takes us so far out of ourselves, as to give us the same
pleasure or uneasiness in the characters of others, as if they had a
tendency to our own advantage or loss.

The only difference betwixt the natural virtues and justice lies in this,
that the good, which results from the former, arises from every single
act, and is the object of some natural passion: Whereas a single act of
justice, considered in itself, may often be contrary to the public good;
and it is only the concurrence of mankind, in a general scheme or system
of action, which is advantageous. When I relieve persons in distress, my
natural humanity is my motive; and so far as my succour extends, so far
have I promoted the happiness of my fellow-creatures. But if we examine
all the questions, that come before any tribunal of justice, we shall
find, that, considering each case apart, it would as often be an instance
of humanity to decide contrary to the laws of justice as conformable
them. Judges take from a poor man to give to a rich; they bestow on the
dissolute the labour of the industrious; and put into the hands of the
vicious the means of harming both themselves and others. The whole
scheme, however, of law and justice is advantageous to the society; and
it was with a view to this advantage, that men, by their voluntary
conventions, established it. After it is once established by these
conventions, it is naturally attended with a strong sentiment of morals;
which can proceed from nothing but our sympathy with the interests of
society. We need no other explication of that esteem, which attends such
of the natural virtues, as have a tendency to the public good. I must
farther add, that there are several circumstances, which render this
hypothesis much more probable with regard to the natural than the
artificial virtues. It is certain that the imagination is more affected by
what is particular, than by what is general; and that the sentiments are
always moved with difficulty, where their objects are, in any degree,
loose and undetermined: Now every particular act of justice is not
beneficial to society, but the whole scheme or system: And it may not,
perhaps, be any individual person. for whom we are concerned, who
receives benefit from justice, but the whole society alike. On the
contrary, every particular act of generosity, or relief of the
industrious and indigent, is beneficial; and is beneficial to a
particular person, who is not undeserving of it. It is more natural,
therefore, to think, that the tendencies of the latter virtue will affect
our sentiments, and command our approbation, than those of the former;
and therefore, since we find, that the approbation of the former arises
from their tendencies, we may ascribe, with better reason, the same cause
to the approbation of the latter. In any number of similar effects, if a
cause can be discovered for one, we ought to extend that cause to all the
other effects, which can be accounted for by it: But much more, if these
other effects be attended with peculiar circumstances, which facilitate
the operation of that cause.

Before I proceed farther, I must observe two remarkable circumstances in
this affair, which may seem objections to the present system. The first
may be thus explained. When any quality, or character, has a tendency to
the good of mankind, we are pleased with it, and approve of it; because
it presents the lively idea of pleasure; which idea affects us by
sympathy, and is itself a kind of pleasure. But as this sympathy is very
variable, it may be thought. that our sentiments of morals must admit of
all the same variations. We sympathize more with persons contiguous to
us, than with persons remote from us: With our acquaintance, than with
strangers: With our countrymen, than with foreigners. But notwithstanding
this variation of our sympathy, we give the same approbation to the same
moral qualities in China as in England. They appear equally virtuous, and
recommend themselves equally to the esteem of a judicious spectator. The
sympathy varies without a variation in our esteem. Our esteem, therefore,
proceeds not from sympathy.

To this I answer: The approbation of moral qualities most certainly is
not derived from reason, or any comparison of ideas; but proceeds
entirely from a moral taste, and from certain sentiments of pleasure or
disgust, which arise upon the contemplation and view of particular
qualities or characters. Now it is evident, that those sentiments,
whence-ever they are derived, must vary according to the distance or
contiguity of the objects; nor can I feel the same lively pleasure from
the virtues of a person, who lived in Greece two thousand years ago, that
I feel from the virtues of a familiar friend and acquaintance. Yet I do
not say, that I esteem the one more than the other: And therefore, if the
variation of the sentiment, without a variation of the esteem, be an
objection, it must have equal force against every other system, as
against that of sympathy. But to consider the matter a-right, it has no
force at all; and it is the easiest matter in the world to account for it.
Our situation, with regard both to persons and things, is in continual
fluctuation; and a man, that lies at a distance from us, may, in a little
time, become a familiar acquaintance. Besides, every particular man has a
peculiar position with regard to others; and it is impossible we coued
ever converse together on any reasonable terms, were each of us to
consider characters and persons, only as they appear from his peculiar
point of view. In order, therefore, to prevent those continual
contradictions, and arrive at a more stable judgment of things, we fix on
some steady and general points of view; and always, in our thoughts,
place ourselves in them, whatever may be our present situation. In like
manner, external beauty is determined merely by pleasure; and it is
evident, a beautiful countenance cannot give so much pleasure, when seen
at the distance of twenty paces, as when it is brought nearer us. We say
not, however, that it appears to us less beautiful: Because we know what
effect it will have in such a position, and by that reflection we correct
its momentary appearance.

In general, all sentiments of blame or praise are variable, according to
our situation of nearness or remoteness, with regard to the person blamed
or praised, and according to the present disposition of our mind. But
these variations we regard not in our general decision, but still apply
the terms expressive of our liking or dislike, in the same manner, as if
we remained in one point of view. Experience soon teaches us this method
of correcting our sentiments, or at least, of correcting our language,
where the sentiments are more stubborn and inalterable. Our servant, if
diligent and faithful, may excite stronger sentiments of love and
kindness than Marcus Brutus, as represented in history; but we say not
upon that account, that the former character is more laudable than the
latter. We know, that were we to approach equally near to that renowned
patriot, he would command a much higher degree of affection and
admiration. Such corrections are common with regard to all the senses;
and indeed it were impossible we could ever make use of language, or
communicate our sentiments to one another, did we not correct the
momentary appearances of things, and overlook our present situation.

It is therefore from the influence of characters and qualities, upon those
who have an intercourse with any person, that we blame or praise him. We
consider not whether the persons, affected by the qualities, be our
acquaintance or strangers, countrymen or foreigners. Nay, we over-look
our own interest in those general judgments; and blame not a man for
opposing us in any of our pretensions, when his own interest is
particularly concerned. We make allowance for a certain degree of
selfishness in men; because we know it to be inseparable from human
nature, and inherent in our frame and constitution. By this reflection we
correct those sentiments of blame, which so naturally arise upon any
opposition.

But however the general principle of our blame or praise may be corrected
by those other principles, it is certain, they are not altogether
efficacious, nor do our passions often correspond entirely to the present
theory. It is seldom men heartily love what lies at a distance from them,
and what no way redounds to their particular benefit; as it is no less
rare to meet with persons, who can pardon another any opposition he makes
to their interest, however justifiable that opposition may be by the
general rules of morality. Here we are contented with saying, that reason
requires such an Impartial conduct, but that it is seldom we can bring
ourselves to it, and that our passions do not readily follow the
determination of our judgment. This language will be easily understood,
if we consider what we formerly said concerning that reason, which is
able to oppose our passion; and which we have found to be nothing but a
general calm determination of the passions, founded on some distant view
or reflection. When we form our judgments of persons, merely from the
tendency of their characters to our own benefit, or to that of our
friends, we find so many contradictions to our sentiments in society and
conversation, and such an uncertainty from the incessant changes of our
situation, that we seek some other standard of merit and demerit, which
may not admit of so great variation. Being thus loosened from our first
station, we cannot afterwards fix ourselves so commodiously by any means
as by a sympathy with those, who have any commerce with the person we
consider. This is far from being as lively as when our own interest is
concerned, or that of our particular friends; nor has it such an
influence on our love and hatred: But being equally conformable to our
calm and general principles, it is said to have an equal authority over
our reason, and to command our judgment and opinion. We blame equally a
bad action, which we read of in history, with one performed in our
neighbourhood the other day: The meaning of which is, that we know from
reflection, that the former action would excite as strong sentiments of
disapprobation as the latter, were it placed in the same position.

I now proceed to the second remarkable circumstance, which I proposed to
take notice of. Where a person is possessed of a character, that in its
natural tendency is beneficial to society, we esteem him virtuous, and
are delighted with the view of his character, even though particular
accidents prevent its operation, and incapacitate him from being
serviceable to his friends and country. Virtue in rags is still virtue;
and the love, which it procures, attends a man into a dungeon or desart,
where the virtue can no longer be exerted in action, and is lost to all
the world. Now this may be esteemed an objection to the present system.
Sympathy interests us in the good of mankind; and if sympathy were the
source of our esteem for virtue, that sentiment of approbation coued only
take place, where the virtue actually attained its end, and was
beneficial to mankind. Where it fails of its end, it is only an imperfect
means; and therefore can never acquire any merit from that end. The
goodness of an end can bestow a merit on such means alone as are
compleat, and actually produce the end.

To this we may reply, that where any object, in all its parts, is fitted
to attain any agreeable end, it naturally gives us pleasure, and is
esteemed beautiful, even though some external circumstances be wanting to
render it altogether effectual. It is sufficient if every thing be
compleat in the object itself. A house, that is contrived with great
judgment for all the commodities of life, pleases us upon that account;
though perhaps we are sensible, that noone will ever dwell in it. A fertile
soil, and a happy climate, delight us by a reflection on the happiness
which they would afford the inhabitants, though at present the country be
desart and uninhabited. A man, whose limbs and shape promise strength and
activity, is esteemed handsome, though condemned to perpetual imprisonment.
The imagination has a set of passions belonging to it, upon which our
sentiments of beauty much depend. These passions are moved by degrees of
liveliness and strength, which are inferior to belief, and independent of
the real existence of their objects. Where a character is, in every
respect, fitted to be beneficial to society, the imagination passes
easily from the cause to the effect, without considering that there are
some circumstances wanting to render the cause a complete one.
General rules create a species of probability, which sometimes influences
the judgment, and always the imagination.

It is true, when the cause is compleat, and a good disposition is attended
with good fortune, which renders it really beneficial to society, it
gives a stronger pleasure to the spectator, and is attended with a more
lively sympathy. We are more affected by it; and yet we do not say that
it is more virtuous, or that we esteem it more. We know, that an
alteration of fortune may render the benevolent disposition entirely
impotent; and therefore we separate, as much as possible, the fortune
from the disposition. The case is the same, as when we correct the
different sentiments of virtue, which proceed from its different
distances from ourselves. The passions do not always follow our
corrections; but these corrections serve sufficiently to regulate our
abstract notions, and are alone regarded, when we pronounce in general
concerning the degrees of vice and virtue.

It is observed by critics, that all words or sentences, which are
difficult to the pronunciation, are disagreeable to the ear. There is no
difference, whether a man hear them pronounced, or read them silently to
himself. When I run over a book with my eye, I Imagine I hear it all; and
also, by the force of imagination, enter into the uneasiness, which the
delivery of it would give the speaker. The uneasiness is not real; but as
such a composition of words has a natural tendency to produce it, this is
sufficient to affect the mind with a painful sentiment, and render the
discourse harsh and disagreeable. It is a similar case, where any real
quality is, by accidental circumstances, rendered impotent, and is
deprived of its natural influence on society.

Upon these principles we may easily remove any contradiction, which may
appear to be betwixt the extensive sympathy, on which our sentiments of
virtue depend, and that limited generosity which I have frequently
observed to be natural to men, and which justice and property suppose,
according to the precedent reasoning. My sympathy with another may give
me the sentiment of pain and disapprobation, when any object is
presented, that has a tendency to give him uneasiness; though I may not be
willing to sacrifice any thing of my own interest, or cross any of my
passions, for his satisfaction. A house may displease me by being
ill-contrived for the convenience of the owner; and yet I may refuse to
give a shilling towards the rebuilding of it. Sentiments must touch the
heart, to make them controul our passions: But they need not extend
beyond the imagination, to make them influence our taste. When a building
seems clumsy and tottering to the eye, it is ugly and disagreeable; though
we be fully assured of the solidity of the workmanship. It is a kind of
fear, which causes this sentiment of disapprobation; but the passion is
not the same with that which we feel, when obliged to stand under a wall,
that we really think tottering and insecure. The seeming tendencies of
objects affect the mind: And the emotions they excite are of a like
species with those, which proceed from the real consequences of objects,
but their feeling is different. Nay, these emotions are so different in
their feeling, that they may often be contrary, without destroying each
other; as when the fortifications of a city belonging to an enemy are
esteemed beautiful upon account of their strength, though we coued wish
that they were entirely destroyed. The imagination adheres to the general
views of things, and distinguishes the feelings they produce, from those
which arise from our particular and momentary situation.

If we examine the panegyrics that are commonly made of great men, we
shall find, that most of the qualities, which are attributed to them, may
be divided into two kinds, viz. such as make them perform their part in
society; and such as render them serviceable to themselves, and enable
them to promote their own interest. Their prudence, temperance,
frugality, industry, assiduity, enterprize, dexterity, are celebrated, as
well as their generosity and humanity. If we ever give an indulgence to
any quality, that disables a man from making a figure in life, it is to
that of indolence, which is not supposed to deprive one of his parts and
capacity, but only suspends their exercise; and that without any
inconvenience to the person himself, since it is, in some measure, from
his own choice. Yet indolence is always allowed to be a fault, and a very
great one, if extreme: Nor do a man's friends ever acknowledge him to be
subject to it, but in order to save his character in more material
articles. He coued make a figure, say they, if he pleased to give
application: His understanding is sound, his conception quick, and his
memory tenacious; but he hates business, and is indifferent about his
fortune. And this a man sometimes may make even a subject of vanity; though
with the air of confessing a fault: Because he may think, that his
incapacity for business implies much more noble qualities; such as a
philosophical spirit, a fine taste, a delicate wit, or a relish for
pleasure and society. But take any other case: Suppose a quality, that
without being an indication of any other good qualities, incapacitates a
man always for business, and is destructive to his interest; such as a
blundering understanding, and a wrong judgment of every thing in life;
inconstancy and irresolution; or a want of address in the management of
men and business: These are all allowed to be imperfections in a
character; and many men would rather acknowledge the greatest crimes,
than have it suspected, that they are, in any degree, subject to them.

It is very happy, in our philosophical researches, when we find the same
phaenomenon diversified by a variety of circumstances; and by discovering
what is common among them, can the better assure ourselves of the truth
of any hypothesis we may make use of to explain it. Were nothing esteemed
virtue but what were beneficial to society, I am persuaded, that the
foregoing explication of the moral sense ought still to be received, and
that upon sufficient evidence: But this evidence must grow upon us, when
we find other kinds of virtue, which will not admit of any explication
except from that hypothesis. Here is a man, who is not remarkably
defective in his social qualities; but what principally recommends him is
his dexterity in business, by which he has extricated himself from the
greatest difficulties, and conducted the most delicate affairs with a
singular address and prudence. I find an esteem for him immediately to
arise in me: His company is a satisfaction to me; and before I have any
farther acquaintance with him, I would rather do him a service than
another, whose character is in every other respect equal, but is
deficient in that particular. In this case, the qualities that please me
are all considered as useful to the person, and as having a tendency to
promote his interest and satisfaction. They are only regarded as means to
an end, and please me in proportion to their fitness for that end. The
end, therefore, must be agreeable to me. But what makes the end
agreeable? The person is a stranger: I am no way interested in him, nor
lie under any obligation to him: His happiness concerns not me, farther
than the happiness of every human, and indeed of every sensible creature:
That is, it affects me only by sympathy. From that principle, whenever I
discover his happiness and good, whether in its causes or effects, I
enter so deeply into it, that it gives me a sensible emotion. The
appearance of qualities, that have a tendency to promote it, have an
agreeable effect upon my imagination, and command my love and esteem.

This theory may serve to explain, why the same qualities, in all cases,
produce both pride and love, humility and hatred; and the same man is
always virtuous or vicious, accomplished or despicable to others, who is
so to himself. A person, in whom we discover any passion or habit, which
originally is only incommodious to himself, becomes always disagreeable
to us, merely on its account; as on the other hand, one whose character
is only dangerous and disagreeable to others, can never be satisfied with
himself, as long as he is sensible of that disadvantage. Nor is this
observable only with regard to characters and manners, but may be
remarked even in the most minute circumstances. A violent cough in
another gives us uneasiness; though in itself it does not in the least
affect us. A man will be mortified, if you tell him he has a stinking
breath; though it is evidently no annoyance to himself. Our fancy easily
changes its situation; and either surveying ourselves as we appear to
others, or considering others as they feel themselves, we enter, by that
means, into sentiments, which no way belong to us, and in which nothing
but sympathy is able to interest us. And this sympathy we sometimes carry
so far, as even to be displeased with a quality commodious to us, merely
because it displeases others, and makes us disagreeable in their eyes;
though perhaps we never can have any interest in rendering ourselves
agreeable to them.

There have been many systems of morality advanced by philosophers in all
ages; but if they are strictly examined, they may be reduced to two,
which alone merit our attention. Moral good and evil are certainly
distinguished by our sentiments, not by reason: But these sentiments may
arise either from the mere species or appearance of characters and
passions, or from reflections on their tendency to the happiness of
mankind, and of particular persons. My opinion is, that both these causes
are intermixed in our judgments of morals; after the same manner as they
are in our decisions concerning most kinds of external beauty: Though I am
also of opinion, that reflections on the tendencies of actions have by
far the greatest influence, and determine all the great lines of our
duty. There are, however, instances, in cases of less moment, wherein
this immediate taste or sentiment produces our approbation. Wit, and a
certain easy and disengaged behaviour, are qualities immediately
agreeable to others, and command their love and esteem. Some of these
qualities produce satisfaction in others by particular original
principles of human nature, which cannot be accounted for: Others may be
resolved into principles, which are more general. This will best appear
upon a particular enquiry.

As some qualities acquire their merit from their being immediately
agreeable to others, without any tendency to public interest; so some are
denominated virtuous from their being immediately agreeable to the person
himself, who possesses them. Each of the passions and operations of the
mind has a particular feeling, which must be either agreeable or
disagreeable. The first is virtuous, the second vicious. This particular
feeling constitutes the very nature of the passion; and therefore needs
not be accounted for.

But however directly the distinction of vice and virtue may seem to flow
from the immediate pleasure or uneasiness, which particular qualities
cause to ourselves or others; it is easy to observe, that it has also a
considerable dependence on the principle of sympathy so often insisted
on. We approve of a person, who is possessed of qualities immediately
agreeable to those, with whom he has any commerce; though perhaps we
ourselves never reaped any pleasure from them. We also approve of one,
who is possessed of qualities, that are immediately agreeable to himself;
though they be of no service to any mortal. To account for this we must
have recourse to the foregoing principles.

Thus, to take a general review of the present hypothesis: Every quality
of the mind is denominated virtuous, which gives pleasure by the mere
survey; as every quality, which produces pain, is called vicious. This
pleasure and this pain may arise from four different sources. For we reap
a pleasure from the view of a character, which is naturally fitted to be
useful to others, or to the person himself, or which is agreeable to
others, or to the person himself. One may, perhaps, be surprized. that
amidst all these interests and pleasures, we should forget our own, which
touch us so nearly on every other occasion. But we shall easily satisfy
ourselves on this head, when we consider, that every particular person s
pleasure and interest being different, it is impossible men coued ever
agree in their sentiments and judgments, unless they chose some common
point of view, from which they might survey their object, and which might
cause it to appear the same to all of them. Now in judging of characters,
the only interest or pleasure, which appears the same to every spectator,
is that of the person himself, whose character is examined; or that of
persons, who have a connexion with him. And though such interests and
pleasures touch us more faintly than our own, yet being more constant and
universal, they counter-ballance the latter even in practice, and are
alone admitted in speculation as the standard of virtue and morality.
They alone produce that particular feeling or sentiment, on which moral
distinctions depend.

As to the good or ill desert of virtue or vice, it is an evident
consequence of the sentiments of pleasure or uneasiness. These sentiments
produce love or hatred; and love or hatred, by the original constitution
of human passion, is attended with benevolence or anger; that is, with a
desire of making happy the person we love, and miserable the person we
hate. We have treated of this more fully on another occasion.



SECT. II  OF GREATNESS OF MIND


It may now be proper to illustrate this general system of morals, by
applying it to particular instances of virtue and vice, and shewing how
their merit or demerit arises from the four sources here explained. We
shall begin with examining the passions of pride and humility, and shall
consider the vice or virtue that lies in their excesses or just
proportion. An excessive pride or overweaning conceit of ourselves is
always esteemed vicious, and is universally hated; as modesty, or a just
sense of our weakness, is esteemed virtuous, and procures the good-will
of every-one. Of the four sources of moral distinctions, this is to be
ascribed to the third; viz, the immediate agreeableness and
disagreeableness of a quality to others, without any reflections on the
tendency of that quality.

In order to prove this, we must have recourse to two principles, which
are very conspicuous in human nature. The first of these is the sympathy,
and communication of sentiments and passions above-mentioned. So close
and intimate is the correspondence of human souls, that no sooner any
person approaches me, than he diffuses on me all his opinions, and draws
along my judgment in a greater or lesser degree. And though, on many
occasions, my sympathy with him goes not so far as entirely to change my
sentiments, and way of thinking; yet it seldom is so weak as not to
disturb the easy course of my thought, and give an authority to that
opinion, which is recommended to me by his assent and approbation. Nor is
it any way material upon what subject he and I employ our thoughts.
Whether we judge of an indifferent person, or of my own character, my
sympathy gives equal force to his decision: And even his sentiments of
his own merit make me consider him in the same light, in which he regards
himself.

This principle of sympathy is of so powerful and insinuating a nature,
that it enters into most of our sentiments and passions, and often takes
place under the appearance of its contrary. For it is remarkable, that
when a person opposes me in any thing, which I am strongly bent upon, and
rouzes up my passion by contradiction, I have always a degree of sympathy
with him, nor does my commotion proceed from any other origin. We may
here observe an evident conflict or rencounter of opposite principles and
passions. On the one side there is that passion or sentiment, which is
natural to me; and it is observable, that the stronger this passion is,
the greater is the commotion. There must also be some passion or
sentiment on the other side; and this passion can proceed from nothing
but sympathy. The sentiments of others can never affect us, but by
becoming, in some measure, our own; in which case they operate upon us,
by opposing and encreasing our passions, in the very same manner, as if
they had been originally derived from our own temper and disposition.
While they remain concealed in the minds of others, they can never have
an influence upon us: And even when they are known, if they went no
farther than the imagination, or conception; that faculty is so
accustomed to objects of every different kind, that a mere idea, though
contrary to our sentiments and inclinations, would never alone be able to
affect us.

The second principle I shall take notice of is that of comparison, or the
variation of our judgments concerning ob jects, according to the
proportion they bear to those with which we compare them. We judge more,
of objects by comparison, than by their intrinsic worth and value; and
regard every thing as mean, when set in opposition to what is superior of
the same kind. But no comparison is more obvious than that with
ourselves; and hence it is that on all occasions it takes place, and
mixes with most of our passions. This kind of comparison is directly
contrary to sympathy in its operation, as we have observed in treating of
com passion and malice. [Book II. Part II. Sect. VIII.] IN ALL KINDS OF
COMPARISON AN OBJECT MAKES US ALWAYS RECEIVE FROM ANOTHER, TO WHICH IT IS
COMPARED, A SENSATION CONTRARY TO WHAT ARISES FROM ITSELF IN ITS DIRECT
AND IMMEDIATE SURVEY. THE DIRECT SURVEY OF ANOTHER'S PLEASURE NATURALLY
GIVES US PLEASURE; AND THEREFORE PRODUCES PAIN, WHEN COMPARed WITH OUR
OWN. HIS PAIN, CONSIDERED IN ITSELF, IS PAIN FUL; BUT AUGMENTS THE IDEA OF
OUR OWN HAPPINESS, AND GIVES US PLEASURE.

Since then those principles of sympathy, and a comparison with ourselves,
are directly contrary, it may be worth while to consider, what general
rules can be formed, beside the particular temper of the person, for the
prevalence of the one or the other. Suppose I am now in safety at land,
and would willingly reap some pleasure from this consideration: I must
think on the miserable condition of those who are at sea in a storm, and
must endeavour to render this idea as strong and lively as possible, in
order to make me more sensible of my own happiness. But whatever pains I
may take, the comparison will never have an equal efficacy, as if I were
really on the shore [Footnote 26], and saw a ship at a distance tossed by
a tempest, and in danger every moment of perishing on a rock or
sand-bank. But suppose this idea to become still more lively. Suppose the
ship to be driven so near me, that I can perceive distinctly the horror,
painted on the countenance of the seamen and passengers, hear their
lamentable cries, see the dearest friends give their last adieu, or
embrace with a resolution to perish in each others arms: No man has so
savage a heart as to reap any pleasure from such a spectacle, or
withstand the motions of the tenderest compassion and sympathy. It is
evident, therefore, there is a medium in this case; and that if the idea
be too feint, it has no influence by comparison; and on the other hand,
if it be too strong, it operates on us entirely by sympathy, which is the
contrary to comparison. Sympathy being the conversion of an idea into an
impression, demands a greater force and vivacity in the idea than is
requisite to comparison.

[Footnote 26
Suave mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis
E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem;
Non quia vexari quenquam eat jucunda voluptas,
Sed quibus ipse malls caress qula cernere sauv' est. LUCRET.

(There is something pleasant in watching, from dry land, the great
difficulties another man is undergoing out on the high sea, with the
winds lashing the waters. This is not because one derives delight from
any man's distress, but because it is pleasurable to perceive from what
troubles one is oneself free.)]

All this is easily applied to the present subject. We sink very much in
our own eyes, when in the presence of a great man, or one of a superior
genius; and this humility makes a considerable ingredient in that respect,
which we pay our superiors, according to our foregoing reasonings on that
passion [Book II. Part II. Sect. X.]. Sometimes even envy and hatred
arise from the comparison; but in the greatest part of men, it rests
at respect and esteem. As sympathy has such a powerful influence on
the human mind, it causes pride to have, in some measure, the same effect
as merit; and by making us enter into those elevated sentiments, which the
proud man entertains of himself, presents that comparison, which is so
mortifying and disagreeable. Our judgment does not entirely accompany him
in the flattering conceit, in which he pleases himself; but still is so
shaken as to receive the idea it presents, and to give it an influence
above the loose conceptions of the imagination. A man, who, in an idle
humour, would form a notion of a person of a merit very much superior to
his own, would not be mortified by that fiction: But when a man, whom we
are really persuaded to be of inferior merit, is presented to us; if we
observe in him any extraordinary degree of pride and self-conceit; the
firm persuasion he has of his own merit, takes hold of the imagination,
and diminishes us in our own eyes, in the same manner, as if he were
really possessed of all the good qualities which he so liberally
attributes to himself. Our idea is here precisely in that medium, which
is requisite to make it operate on us by comparison. Were it accompanied
with belief, and did the person appear to have the same merit, which he
assumes to himself, it would have a contrary effect, and would operate on
us by sympathy. The influence of that principle would then be superior to
that of comparison, contrary to what happens where the person's merit
seems below his pretensions.

The necessary consequence of these principles is, that pride, or an
over-weaning conceit of ourselves, must be vicious; since it causes
uneasiness in all men, and presents them every moment with a disagreeable
comparison. It is a trite observation in philosophy, and even in common
life and conversation, that it is our own pride, which makes us so much
displeased with the pride of other people; and that vanity becomes
insupportable to us merely because we are vain. The gay naturally
associate themselves with the gay, and the amorous with the amorous: But
the proud never can endure the proud, and rather seek the company of
those who are of an opposite disposition. As we are, all of us, proud in
some degree, pride is universally blamed and condemned by all mankind; as
having a natural tendency to cause uneasiness in others by means of
comparison. And this effect must follow the more naturally, that those,
who have an ill-grounded conceit of themselves, are for ever making those
comparisons, nor have they any other method of supporting their vanity. A
man of sense and merit is pleased with himself, independent of all
foreign considerations: But a fool must always find some person, that is
more foolish, in order to keep himself in good humour with his own parts
and understanding.

But though an over-weaning conceit of our own merit be vicious and
disagreeable, nothing can be more laudable, than to have a value for
ourselves, where we really have qualities that are valuable. The utility
and advantage of any quality to ourselves is a source of virtue, as well
as its agreeableness to others; and it is certain, that nothing is more
useful to us in the conduct of life, than a due degree of pride, which
makes us sensible of our own merit, and gives us a confidence and
assurance in all our projects and enterprizes. Whatever capacity any one
may be endowed with, it is entirely useless to him, if he be not
acquainted with it, and form not designs suitable to it. It is requisite
on all occasions to know our own force; and were it allowable to err on
either side, it would be more advantageous to over-rate our merit, than to
form ideas of it, below its just standard. Fortune commonly favours the
bold and enterprizing; and nothing inspires us with more boldness than a
good opinion of ourselves.

Add to this, that though pride, or self-applause, be sometimes disagreeable
to others, it is always agreeable to ourselves; as on the other hand,
modesty, though it gives pleasure to every one, who observes it, produces
often uneasiness in the person endowed with it. Now it has been observed,
that our own sensations determine the vice and virtue of any quality, as
well as those sensations, which it may excite in others.

Thus self-satisfaction and vanity may not only be allowable, but
requisite in a character. It is, however, certain, that good-breeding and
decency require that we should avoid all signs and expressions, which
tend directly to show that passion. We have, all of us, a wonderful
partiality for ourselves, and were we always to give vent to our
sentiments in this particular, we should mutually cause the greatest
indignation in each other, not only by the immediate presence of so
disagreeable a subject of comparison, but also by the contrariety of our
judgments. In like manner, therefore, as we establish the laws of nature,
in order to secure property in society, and prevent the opposition of
self-interest; we establish the rules of good-breeding, in order to
prevent the opposition of men's pride, and render conversation agreeable
and inoffensive. Nothing is more disagreeable than a man's over-weaning
conceit of himself: Every one almost has a strong propensity to this
vice: No one can well distinguish in himself betwixt the vice and virtue,
or be certain, that his esteem of his own merit is well-founded: For
these reasons, all direct expressions of this passion are condemned; nor
do we make any exception to this rule in favour of men of sense and
merit. They are not allowed to do themselves justice openly, in words, no
more than other people; and even if they show a reserve and secret doubt
in doing themselves justice in their own thoughts, they will be more
applauded. That impertinent, and almost universal propensity of men, to
over-value themselves, has given us such a prejudice against
self-applause, that we are apt to condemn it, by a general rule, wherever
we meet with it; and it is with some difficulty we give a privilege to men
of sense, even in their most secret thoughts. At least, it must be owned,
that some disguise in this particular is absolutely requisite; and that
if we harbour pride in our breasts, we must carry a fair outside, and
have the appearance of modesty and mutual deference in all our conduct
and behaviour. We must, on every occasion, be ready to prefer others to
ourselves; to treat them with a kind of deference, even though they be our
equals; to seem always the lowest and least in the company, where we are
not very much distinguished above them: And if we observe these rules in
our conduct, men will have more indulgence for our secret sentiments,
when we discover them in an oblique manner.

I believe no one, who has any practice of the world, and can penetrate
into the inward sentiments of men, will assert, that the humility, which
good-breeding and decency require of us, goes beyond the outside, or that
a thorough sincerity in this particular is esteemed a real part of our
duty. On the contrary, we may observe, that a genuine and hearty pride,
or self-esteem, if well concealed and well founded, is essential to the
character of a man of honour, and that there is no quality of the mind,
which is more indispensibly requisite to procure the esteem and
approbation of mankind. There are certain deferences and mutual
submissions, which custom requires of the different ranks of men towards
each other; and whoever exceeds in this particular, if through interest, is
accused of meanness; if through ignorance, of simplicity. It is necessary,
therefore, to know our rank and station in the world, whether it be fixed
by our birth, fortune, employments, talents or reputation. It is necessary
to feel the sentiment and passion of pride in conformity to it, and to
regulate our actions accordingly. And should it be said, that prudence
may suffice to regulate our actions in this particular, without any real
pride, I would observe, that here the object of prudence is to conform
our actions to the general usage and custom; and, that it is impossible
those tacit airs of superiority should ever have been established and
authorized by custom, unless men were generally proud, and unless that
passion were generally approved, when well-grounded.

If we pass from common life and conversation to history, this reasoning
acquires new force, when we observe, that all those great actions and
sentiments, which have become the admiration of mankind, are founded on
nothing but pride and self-esteem. Go, says Alexander the Great to his
soldiers, when they refused to follow him to the Indies, go tell your
countrymen, that you left Alexander corn pleating the conquest of the
world. This passage was always particularly admired by the prince of
Conde, as we learn from St Evremond.

"ALEXANDER," said that prince, "abandoned by his soldiers, among
barbarians, not yet fully subdued, felt in himself such a dignity of
right and of empire, that he coued not believe it possible any one coued
refuse to obey him. Whether in Europe or in Asia, among Greeks or
Persians, all was indifferent to him: Wherever he found men, he fancied
he found subjects."

In general we may observe, that whatever we call heroic virtue, and
admire under the character of greatness and elevation of mind, is either
nothing but a steady and wellestablished pride and self-esteem, or
partakes largely of that passion. Courage, intrepidity, ambition, love of
glory, magnanimity, and all the other shining virtues of that kind, have
plainly a strong mixture of self-esteem in them, and derive a great part
of their merit from that origin. Accordingly we find, that many religious
declaimers decry those virtues as purely pagan and natural, and represent
to us the excellency of the Christian religion, which places humility in
the rank of virtues, and corrects the judgment of the world, and even of
philosophers, who so generally admire all the efforts of pride and
ambition. Whether this virtue of humility has been rightly understood, I
shall not pretend to determine. I am content with the concession, that
the world naturally esteems a well-regulated pride, which secretly
animates our conduct, without breaking out into such indecent expressions
of vanity, as many offend the vanity of others.

The merit of pride or self-esteem is derived from two circumstances, viz,
its utility and its agreeableness to ourselves; by which it capacitates
us for business, and, at the same time, gives us an immediate
satisfaction. When it goes beyond its just bounds, it loses the first
advantage, and even becomes prejudicial; which is the reason why we
condemn an extravagant pride and ambition, however regulated by the
decorums of good-breeding and politeness. But as such a passion is still
agreeable, and conveys an elevated and sublime sensation to the person,
who is actuated by it, the sympathy with that satisfaction diminishes
considerably the blame, which naturally attends its dangerous influence
on his conduct and behaviour. Accordingly we may observe, that an
excessive courage and magnanimity, especially when it displays itself
under the frowns of fortune, contributes in a great measure, to the
character of a hero, and will render a person the admiration of
posterity; at the same time, that it ruins his affairs, and leads him
into dangers and difficulties, with which otherwise he would never have
been acquainted.

Heroism, or military glory, is much admired by the generality of mankind.
They consider it as the most sublime kind of merit. Men of cool
reflection are not so sanguine in their praises of it. The infinite
confusions and disorder, which it has caused in the world, diminish much
of its merit in their eyes. When they would oppose the popular notions on
this head, they always paint out the evils, which this supposed virtue
has produced in human society; the subversion of empires, the devastation
of provinces, the sack of cities. As long as these are present to us, we
are more inclined to hate than admire the ambition of heroes. But when we
fix our view on the person himself, who is the author of all this
mischief, there is something so dazzling in his character, the mere
contemplation of it so elevates the mind, that we cannot refuse it our
admiration. The pain, which we receive from its tendency to the prejudice
of society, is over-powered by a stronger and more immediate sympathy.

Thus our explication of the merit or demerit, which attends the degrees
of pride or self-esteem, may serve as a strong argument for the preceding
hypothesis, by shewing the effects of those principles above explained in
all the variations of our judgments concerning that passion. Nor will
this reasoning be advantageous to us only by shewing, that the
distinction of vice and virtue arises from the four principles of the
advantage and of the pleasure of the person himself, and of others: But
may also afford us a strong proof of some under-parts of that hypothesis.

No one, who duly considers of this matter, will make any scruple of
allowing, that any piece of in-breeding, or any expression of pride and
haughtiness, is displeasing to us, merely because it shocks our own
pride, and leads us by sympathy into a comparison, which causes the
disagreeable passion of humility. Now as an insolence of this kind is
blamed even in a person who has always been civil to ourselves in
particular; nay, in one, whose name is only known to us in history; it
follows, that our disapprobation proceeds from a sympathy with others,
and from the reflection, that such a character is highly displeasing and
odious to every one, who converses or has any intercourse with the person
possest of it. We sympathize with those people in their uneasiness; and
as their uneasiness proceeds in part from a sympathy with the person
who insults them, we may here observe a double rebound of the
sympathy; which is a principle very similar to what we have observed.
[Book II. Part II. Sect. V.]


SECT. III  OF GOODNESS AND BENEVOLENCE


Having thus explained the origin of that praise and approbation, which
attends every thing we call great in human affections; we now proceed to
give an account of their goodness, and shew whence its merit is derived.

When experience has once given us a competent know. ledge of human
affairs, and has taught us the proportion they bear to human passion, we
perceive, that the generosity of men is very limited, and that it seldom
extends beyond their friends and family, or, at most, beyond their native
country. Being thus acquainted with the nature of man, we expect not any
impossibilities from him; but confine our view to that narrow circle, in
which any person moves, in order to form a judgment of his moral
character. When the natural tendency of his passions leads him to be
serviceable and useful within his sphere, we approve of his character,
and love his person, by a sympathy with the sentiments of those, who have
a more particular connexion with him. We are quickly obliged to forget
our own interest in our judgments of this kind, by reason of the
perpetual contradictions, we meet with in society and conversation, from
persons that are not placed in the same situation, and have not the same
interest with ourselves. The only point of view, in which our sentiments
concur with those of others, is, when we consider the tendency of any
passion to the advantage or harm of those, who have any immediate
connexion or intercourse with the person possessed of it. And though this
advantage or harm be often very remote from ourselves, yet sometimes it is
very near us, and interests us strongly by sympathy. This concern we
readily extend to other cases, that are resembling; and when these are
very remote, our sympathy is proportionably weaker, and our praise or
blame fainter and more doubtful. The case is here the same as in our
judgments concerning external bodies. All objects seem to diminish by
their distance: But though the appearance of objects to our senses be the
original standard, by which we judge of them, yet we do not say, that
they actually diminish by the distance; but correcting the appearance by
reflection, arrive at a more constant and established judgment concerning
them. In like manner, though sympathy be much fainter than our concern for
ourselves, and a sympathy with persons remote from us much fainter than
that with persons near and contiguous; yet we neglect all these
differences in our calm judgments concerning the characters of men.
Besides, that we ourselves often change our situation in this particular,
we every day meet with persons, who are in a different situation from
ourselves, and who coued never converse with us on any reasonable terms,
were we to remain constantly in that situation and point of view, which
is peculiar to us. The intercourse of sentiments, therefore, in society
and conversation, makes us form some general inalterable standard, by
which we may approve or disapprove of characters and manners. And though
the heart does not always take part with those general notions, or
regulate its love and hatred by them, yet are they sufficient for
discourse, and serve all our purposes m company, in the pulpit, on the
theatre, and in the schools.

From these principles we may easily account for that merit, which is
commonly ascribed to generosity, humanity, compassion, gratitude,
friendship, fidelity, zeal, disinterestedness, liberality, and all those
other qualities, which form the character of good and benevolent. A
propensity to the tender passions makes a man agreeable and useful in all
the parts of life; and gives a just direction to all his other quailties,
which otherwise may become prejudicial to society. Courage and ambition,
when not regulated by benevolence, are fit only to make a tyrant and
public robber. It is the same case with judgment and capacity, and all the
qualities of that kind. They are indifferent in themselves to the
interests of society, and have a tendency to the good or ill of mankind,
according as they are directed by these other passions.

As Love is immediately agreeable to the person, who is actuated by it,
and hatred immediately disagreeable; this may also be a considerable
reason, why we praise all the passions that partake of the former, and
blame all those that have any considerable share of the latter. It is
certain we are infinitely touched with a tender sentiment, as well as
with a great one. The tears naturally start in our eyes at the conception
of it; nor can we forbear giving a loose to the same tenderness towards
the person who exerts it. All this seems to me a proof, that our
approbation has, in those cases, an origin different from the prospect of
utility and advantage, either to ourselves or others. To which we may
add, that men naturally, without reflection, approve of that character,
which is most like their own. The man of a mild disposition and tender
affections, in forming a notion of the most perfect virtue, mixes in it
more of benevolence and humanity, than the man of courage and enterprize,
who naturally looks upon a certain elevation of mind as the most
accomplished character. This must evidently proceed from an immediate
sympathy, which men have with characters similar to their own. They enter
with more warmth into such sentiments, and feel more sensibly the
pleasure, which arises from them.

It is remarkable, that nothing touches a man of humanity more than any
instance of extraordinary delicacy in love or friendship, where a person
is attentive to the smallest concerns of his friend, and is willing to
sacrifice to them the most considerable interest of his own. Such
delicacies have little influence on society; because they make us regard
the greatest trifles: But they are the more engaging, the more minute the
concern is, and are a proof of the highest merit in any one, who is
capable of them. The passions are so contagious, that they pass with the
greatest facility from one person to another, and produce correspondent
movements in all human breasts. Where friendship appears in very signal
instances, my heart catches the same passion, and is warmed by those warm
sentiments, that display themselves before me. Such agreeable movements
must give me an affection to every one that excites them. This is the
case with every thing that is agreeable in any person. The transition
from pleasure to love is easy: But the transition must here be still more
easy; since the agreeable sentiment, which is excited by sympathy, is
love itself; and there is nothing required but to change the object.

Hence the peculiar merit of benevolence in all its shapes and
appearances. Hence even its weaknesses are virtuous and amiable; and a
person, whose grief upon the loss of a friend were excessive, would be
esteemed upon that account. His tenderness bestows a merit, as it does a
pleasure, on his melancholy.

We are not, however, to imagine, that all the angry passions are vicious,
though they are disagreeable. There is a certain indulgence due to human
nature in this respect. Anger and hatred are passions inherent in Our
very frame and constitutions. The want of them, on some occasions, may
even be a proof of weakness and imbecillity. And where they appear only
in a low degree, we not only excuse them because they are natural; but
even bestow our applauses on them, because they are inferior to what
appears in the greatest part of mankind.

Where these angry passions rise up to cruelty, they form the most
detested of all vices. All the pity and concern which we have for the
miserable sufferers by this vice, turns against the person guilty of it,
and produces a stronger hatred than we are sensible of on any other
occasion. Even when the vice of inhumanity rises not to this extreme
degree, our sentiments concerning it are very much influenced by
reflections on the harm that results from it. And we may observe in
general, that if we can find any quality in a person, which renders him
incommodious to those, who live and converse with him, we always allow it
to be a fault or blemish, without any farther examination. On the other
hand, when we enumerate the good qualities of any person. we always
mention those parts of his character, which render him a safe companion,
an easy friend, a gentle master, an agreeable husband, or an indulgent
father. We consider him with all his relations in society; and love or
hate him, according as he affects those, who have any immediate
intercourse with him. And it is a most certain rule, that if there be no
relation of life, in which I coued not wish to stand to a particular
person, his character must so far be allowed to be perfect. If he be as
little wanting to himself as to others, his character is entirely
perfect. This is the ultimate test of merit and virtue.



SECT. IV  OF NATURAL ABILITIES


No distinction is more usual in all systems of ethics, than that betwixt
natural abilities and moral virtues; where the former are placed on the
same footing with bodily endowments, and are supposed to have no merit or
moral worth annexed to them. Whoever considers the matter accurately,
will find, that a dispute upon this head would be merely a dispute of
words, and that though these qualities are not altogether of the same kind,
yet they agree in the most material circumstances. They are both of them
equally mental qualities: And both of them equally produce pleasure; and
have of course an equal tendency to procure the love and esteem of
mankind. There are few, who are not as jealous of their character, with
regard to sense and knowledge, as to honour and courage; and much more
than with regard to temperance and sobriety. Men are even afraid of
passing for goodnatured; lest that should be taken for want of
understanding: And often boast of more debauches than they have been
really engaged in, to give themselves airs of fire and spirit. In short,
the figure a man makes in the world, the reception he meets with in
company, the esteem paid him by his acquaintance; all these advantages
depend almost as much upon his good sense and judgment, as upon any other
part of his character. Let a man have the best intentions in the world,
and be the farthest from all injustice and violence, he will never be
able to make himself be much regarded. without a moderate share, at
least, of parts and understanding. Since then natural abilities, though,
perhaps, inferior, yet are on the same footing, both as to their causes
and effects, with those qualities which we call moral virtues, why should
we make any distinction betwixt them?

Though we refuse to natural abilities the title of virtues, we must allow,
that they procure the love and esteem of mankind; that they give a new
lustre to the other virtues; and that a man possessed of them is much
more intitled to our good-will and services, than one entirely void of
them. It may, indeed, be pretended. that the sentiment of approbation,
which those qualities produce, besides its being inferior, is also
somewhat different from that, which attends the other virtues. But this,
in my opinion, is not a sufficient reason for excluding them from the
catalogue of virtues. Each of the virtues, even benevolence, justice,
gratitude. integrity, excites a different sentiment or feeling in the
spectator. The characters of Caesar and Cato, as drawn by Sallust, are
both of them virtuous, in the strictest sense of the word; but in a
different way: Nor are the sentiments entirely the same, which arise from
them. The one produces love; the other esteem: The one is amiable; the
other awful: We could wish to meet with the one character in a friend;
the other character we would be ambitious of in ourselves. In like
manner, the approbation. which attends natural abilities, may be somewhat
different to the feeling from that, which arises from the other virtues,
without making them entirely of a different species. And indeed we may
observe, that the natural abilities, no more than the other virtues,
produce not, all of them, the same kind of approbation. Good sense and
genius beget esteem: Wit and humour excite love.

[Footnote 27  Love and esteem are at the bottom the same passions, and
arise from like causes. The qualities, that produce both, are agreeable,
and give pleasure. But where this pleasure is severe and serious; or where
its object is great, and makes a strong impression; or where it produces
any degree of humility and awe: In all these cases, the passion, which
arises from the pleasure, is more properly denominated esteem than love.
Benevolence attends both: But is connected with love in a more eminent
degree.]

Those, who represent the distinction betwixt natural abilities and moral
virtues as very material, may say, that the former are entirely
involuntary, and have therefore no merit attending them, as having no
dependance on liberty and free-will. But to this I answer, first, that
many of those qualities, which all moralists, especially the antients,
comprehend under the title of moral virtues, are equally involuntary and
necessary, with the qualities of the judgment and imagination. Of this
nature are constancy, fortitude, magnanimity; and, in short, all the
qualities which form the great man. I might say the same, in some degree,
of the others; it being almost impossible for the mind to change its
character in any considerable article, or cure itself of a passionate or
splenetic temper, when they are natural to it. The greater degree there
is of these blameable qualities, the more vicious they become, and yet
they are the less voluntary. Secondly, I would have anyone give me a
reason, why virtue and vice may not be involuntary, as well as beauty and
deformity. These moral distinctions arise from the natural distinctions
of pain and pleasure; and when we receive those feelings from the general
consideration of any quality or character, we denominate it vicious or
virtuous. Now I believe no one will assert, that a quality can never
produce pleasure or pain to the person who considers it, unless it be
perfectly voluntary in the person who possesses it. Thirdly, As to
free-will, we have shewn that it has no place with regard to the actions,
no more than the qualities of men. It is not a just consequence, that
what is voluntary is free. Our actions are more voluntary than our
judgments; but we have not more liberty in the one than in the other.

But though this distinction betwixt voluntary and involuntary be not
sufficient to justify the distinction betwixt natural abilities and moral
virtues, yet the former distinction will afford us a plausible reason,
why moralists have invented the latter. Men have observed, that though
natural abilities and moral qualities be in the main on the same footing,
there is, however, this difference betwixt them, that the former are
almost invariable by any art or industry; while the latter, or at least,
the actions, that proceed from them, may be changed by the motives of
rewards and punishments, praise and blame. Hence legislators, and
divines, and moralists, have principally applied themselves to the
regulating these voluntary actions, and have endeavoured to produce
additional motives, for being virtuous in that particular. They knew,
that to punish a man for folly, or exhort him to be prudent and
sagacious, would have but little effect; though the same punishments and
exhortations, with regard to justice and injustice, might have a
considerable influence. But as men, in common life and conversation, do
not carry those ends in view, but naturally praise or blame whatever
pleases or displeases them, they do not seem much to regard this
distinction, but consider prudence under the character of virtue as well
as benevolence, and penetration as well as justice. Nay, we find, that
all moralists, whose judgment is not perverted by a strict adherence to a
system, enter into the same way of thinking; and that the antient
moralists in particular made no scruple of placing prudence at the head
of the cardinal virtues. There is a sentiment of esteem and approbation,
which may be excited, in some degree, by any faculty of the mind, in its
perfect state and condition; and to account for this sentiment is the
business of Philosophers. It belongs to Grammarians to examine what
qualities are entitled to the denomination of virtue; nor will they find,
upon trial, that this is so easy a task, as at first sight they may be
apt to imagine.

The principal reason why natural abilities are esteemed, is because of
their tendency to be useful to the person, who is possessed of them. It is
impossible to execute any design with success, where it is not conducted
with prudence and discretion; nor will the goodness of our intentions
alone suffice to procure us a happy issue to our enterprizes. Men are
superior to beasts principally by the superiority of their reason; and
they are the degrees of the same faculty, which set such an infinite
difference betwixt one man and another. All the advantages of art are
owing to human reason; and where fortune is not very capricious, the most
considerable part of these advantages must fall to the share of the
prudent and sagacious.

When it is asked, whether a quick or a slow apprehension be most
valuable? whether one, that at first view penetrates into a subject, but
can perform nothing upon study; or a contrary character, which must work
out every thing by dint of application? whether a clear head, or a
copious invention? whether a profound genius, or a sure judgment? in
short, what character, or peculiar understanding, is more excellent than
another? It is evident we can answer none of these questions, without
considering which of those qualities capacitates a man best for the
world, and carries him farthest in any of his undertakings.

There are many other qualities of the mind, whose merit is derived from
the same origin, industry, perseverance, patience, activity, vigilance,
application, constancy, with other virtues of that kind, which it will be
easy to recollect, are esteemed valuable upon no other account, than
their advantage in the conduct of life. It is the same case with
temperance, frugality, economy, resolution: As on the other hand,
prodigality, luxury, irresolution, uncertainty, are vicious, merely
because they draw ruin upon us, and incapacitate us for business and
action.

As wisdom and good-sense are valued, because they are useful to the
person possessed of them; so wit and eloquence are valued, because they
are immediately agreeable to others. On the other hand, good humour is
loved and esteemed, because it is immediately agreeable to the person
himself. It is evident, that the conversation of a man of wit is very
satisfactory; as a chearful good-humoured companion diffuses a joy over
the whole company, from a sympathy with his gaiety. These qualities,
therefore, being agreeable, they naturally beget love and esteem, and
answer to all the characters of virtue.

It is difficult to tell, on many occasions, what it is that renders one
man's conversation so agreeable and entertaining, and another's so
insipid and distasteful. As conversation is a transcript of the mind as
well as books, the same qualities, which render the one valuable, must
give us an esteem for the other. This we shall consider afterwards. In
the mean time it may be affirmed in general, that all the merit a man may
derive from his conversation (which, no doubt, may be very considerable)
arises from nothing but the pleasure it conveys to those who are present.

In this view, cleanliness is also to be regarded as a virtue; since it
naturally renders us agreeable to others, and is a very considerable
source of love and affection. No one will deny, that a negligence in this
particular is a fault; and as faults are nothing but smaller vices, and
this fault can have no other origin than the uneasy sensation, which it
excites in others, we may in this instance, seemingly so trivial, dearly
discover the origin of the moral distinction of vice and virtue in other
instances.

Besides all those qualities, which render a person lovely or valuable,
there is also a certain JE-NE-SCAI-QUOI of agreeable and handsome, that
concurs to the same effect. In this case, as well as in that of wit and
eloquence, we must have recourse to a certain sense, which acts without
reflection, and regards not the tendencies of qualities and characters.
Some moralists account for all the sentiments of virtue by this sense.
Their hypothesis is very plausible. Nothing but a particular enquiry can
give the preference to any other hypothesis. When we find, that almost
all the virtues have such particular tendencies; and also find, that
these tendencies are sufficient alone to give a strong sentiment of
approbation: We cannot doubt, after this, that qualities are approved of,
in proportion to the advantage, which results from them.

The decorum or indecorum of a quality, with regard to the age, or
character, or station, contributes also to its praise or blame. This
decorum depends, in a great measure, upon experience. It is usual to see
men lose their levity, as they advance in years. Such a degree of
gravity, therefore, and such years, are connected together in our
thoughts. When we observe them separated in any person's character, this
imposes a kind of violence on our imagination, and is disagreeable.

That faculty of the soul, which, of all others, is of the least
consequence to the character, and has the least virtue or vice in its
several degrees, at the same time, that it admits of a great variety of
degrees, is the memory. Unless it rise up to that stupendous height as to
surprize us, or sink so low as, in some measure, to affect the judgment,
we commonly take no notice of its variations, nor ever mention them to
the praise or dispraise of any person. It is so far from being a virtue to
have a good memory, that men generally affect to complain of a bad one;
and endeavouring to persuade the world, that what they say is entirely of
their own invention, sacrifice it to the praise of genius and judgment.
Yet to consider the matter abstractedly, it would be difficult to give a
reason, why the faculty of recalling past ideas with truth and clearness,
should not have as much merit in it, as the faculty of placing our
present ideas, in such an order, as to form true propositions and
opinions. The reason of the difference certainly must be, that the memory
is exerted without any sensation of pleasure or pain; and in all its
middling degrees serves almost equally well in business and affairs. But
the least variations in the judgment are sensibly felt in their
consequences; while at the same time that faculty is never exerted in any
eminent degree, without an extraordinary delight and satisfaction. The
sympathy with this utility and pleasure bestows a merit on the
understanding; and the absence of it makes us consider the memory as a
faculty very indifferent to blame or praise.

Before I leave this subject of natural abilities, I must observe, that,
perhaps, one source of the esteem and affection, which attends them, is
derived from the importance and weight, which they bestow on the person
possessed of them. He becomes of greater consequence in life. His
resolutions and actions affect a greater number of his fellow-creatures.
Both his friendship and enmity are of moment. And it is easy to observe,
that whoever is elevated, after this manner, above the rest of mankind,
must excite in us the sentiments of esteem and approbation. Whatever is
important engages our attention, fixes our thought, and is contemplated
with satisfaction. The histories of kingdoms are more interesting than
domestic stories: The histories of great empires more than those of small
cities and principalities: And the histories of wars and revolutions more
than those of peace and order. We sympathize with the persons that
suffer, in all the various sentiments which belong to their fortunes. The
mind is occupied by the multitude of the objects, and by the strong
passions, that display themselves. And this occupation or agitation of
the mind is commonly agreeable and amusing. The same theory accounts for
the esteem and regard we pay to men of extraordinary parts and abilities.
The good and ill of multitudes are connected with their actions. Whatever
they undertake is important, and challenges our attention. Nothing is to
be over-looked and despised, that regards them. And where any person can
excite these sentiments, he soon acquires our esteem; unless other
circumstances of his character render him odious and disagreeable.



SECT. V  SOME FARTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING THE NATURAL VIRTUES


It has been observed, in treating of the passions, that pride and
humility, love and hatred, are excited by any advantages or disadvantages
of the mind, body, or fortune; and that these advantages or disadvantages
have that effect by producing a separate impression of pain or pleasure.
The pain or pleasure, which arises from the general survey or view of any
action or quality of the mind, constitutes its vice or virtue, and gives
rise to our approbation or blame, which is nothing but a fainter and more
imperceptible love or hatred. We have assigned four different sources of
this pain and pleasure; and in order to justify more fully that
hypothesis, it may here be proper to observe, that the advantages or
disadvantages of the body and of fortune, produce a pain or pleasure from
the very same principles. The tendency of any object to be useful to the
person possess d of it, or to others; to convey pleasure to him or to
others; all these circumstances convey an immediate pleasure to the
person, who considers the object, and command his love and approbation.

To begin with the advantages of the body; we may observe a phaenomenon,
which might appear somewhat trivial and ludicrous, if any thing coued be
trivial, which fortified a conclusion of such importance, or ludicrous,
which was employed in a philosophical reasoning. It is a general remark,
that those we call good women's men, who have either signalized
themselves by their amorous exploits, or whose make of body promises any
extraordinary vigour of that kind, are well received by the fair sex, and
naturally engage the affections even of those, whose virtue prevents any
design of ever giving employment to those talents. Here it is evident, that
the ability of such a person to give enjoyment, is the real source of
that love and esteem he meets with among the females; at the same time
that the women, who love and esteem him, have no prospect of receiving
that enjoyment themselves, and can only be affected by means of their
sympathy with one, that has a commerce of love with him. This instance is
singular, and merits our attention.

Another source of the pleasure we receive from considering bodily
advantages, is their utility to the person himself, who is possessed of
them. It is certain, that a considerable part of the beauty of men, as well
as of other animals, consists in such a conformation of members, as we
find by experience to be attended with strength and agility, and to
capacitate the creature for any action or exercise. Broad shoulders, a
lank belly, firm joints, taper legs; all these are beautiful in our
species. because they are signs of force and vigour, which being
advantages we naturally sympathize with, they convey to the beholder a
share of that satisfaction they produce in the possessor.

So far as to the utility, which may attend any quality of the body. As to
the immediate pleasure, it is certain, that an air of health, as well as
of strength and agility, makes a considerable part of beauty; and that a
sickly air in another is always disagreeable, upon account of that idea
of pain and uneasiness, which it conveys to us. On the other hand, we are
pleased with the regularity of our own features, though it be neither
useful to ourselves nor others; and it is necessary at a distance, to make
it convey to us any satisfaction. We commonly consider ourselves as we
appear in the eyes of others, and sympathize with the advantageous
sentiments they entertain with regard to us.

How far the advantages of fortune produce esteem and approbation from the
same principles, we may satisfy ourselves by reflecting on our precedent
reasoning on that subject. We have observed, that our approbation of
those, who are possess d of the advantages of fortune, may be ascribed to
three different causes. First, To that immediate pleasure, which a rich
man gives us, by the view of the beautiful cloaths, equipage, gardens, or
houses, which he possesses. Secondly, To the advantage, which we hope to
reap from him by his generosity and liberality. Thirdly, To the pleasure
and advantage, which he himself reaps from his possessions, and which
produce an agreeable sympathy in us. Whether we ascribe our esteem of the
rich and great to one or all of these causes, we may clearly see the
traces of those principles, which give rise to the sense of vice and
virtue. I believe most people, at first sight, will be inclined to
ascribe our esteem of the rich to self-interest, and the prospect of
advantage. But as it is certain, that our esteem or deference extends
beyond any prospect of advantage to ourselves, it is evident, that that
sentiment must proceed from a sympathy with those, who are dependent on
the person we esteem and respect, and who have an immediate connexion
with him. We consider him as a person capable of contributing to the
happiness or enjoyment of his fellow-creatures, whose sentiments, with
regard to him, we naturally embrace. And this consideration will serve to
justify my hypothesis in preferring the third principle to the other two,
and ascribing our esteem of the rich to a sympathy with the pleasure and
advantage, which they themselves receive from their possessions. For as
even the other two principles cannot operate to a due extent, or account
for all the phaenomena, without having recourse to a sympathy of one kind
or other; it is much more natural to chuse that sympathy, which is
immediate and direct, than that which is remote and indirect. To which we
may add, that where the riches or power are very great, and render the
person considerable and important in the world, the esteem attending
them, may, in part, be ascribed to another source, distinct from these
three, viz. their interesting the mind by a prospect of the multitude,
and importance of their consequences: Though, in order to account for the
operation of this principle, we must also have recourse to sympathy; as
we have observed in the preceding section.

It may not be amiss, on this occasion, to remark the flexibility of our
sentiments, and the several changes they so readily receive from the
objects, with which they are conjoined. All the sentiments of
approbation, which attend any particular species of objects, have a great
resemblance to each other, though derived from different sources; and, on
the other hand, those sentiments, when directed to different objects, are
different to the feeling, though derived from the same source. Thus the
beauty of all visible objects causes a pleasure pretty much the same,
though it be sometimes derived from the mere species and appearance of the
objects; sometimes from sympathy, and an idea of their utility. In like
manner, whenever we survey the actions and characters of men, without any
particular interest in them, the pleasure, or pain, which arises from the
survey (with some minute differences) is, in the main, of the same kind,
though perhaps there be a great diversity in the causes, from which it is
derived. On the other hand, a convenient house, and a virtuous character,
cause not the same feeling of approbation; even though the source of our
approbation be the same, and flow from sympathy and an idea of their
utility. There is something very inexplicable in this variation of our
feelings; but it is what we have experience of with regard to all our
passions and sentiments.



SECT. VI  CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK


Thus upon the whole I am hopeful, that nothing is wanting to an accurate
proof of this system of ethics. We are certain, that sympathy is a very
powerful principle in human nature. We are also certain, that it has a
great influence on our sense of beauty, when we regard external objects,
as well as when we judge of morals. We find, that it has force sufficient
to give us the strongest sentiments of approbation, when it operates
alone, without the concurrence of any other principle; as in the cases of
justice, allegiance, chastity, and good-manners. We may observe, that all
the circumstances requisite for its operation are found in most of the
virtues; which have, for the most part, a tendency to the good of
society, or to that of the person possessed of them. If we compare all
these circumstances, we shall not doubt, that sympathy is the chief
source of moral distinctions; especially when we reflect, that no
objection can be raised against this hypothesis in one case, which will
not extend to all cases. Justice is certainly approved of for no other
reason, than because it has a tendency to the public good: And the public
good is indifferent to us, except so far as sympathy interests us in it.
We may presume the like with regard to all the other virtues, which have
a like tendency to the public good. They must derive all their merit from
our sympathy with those, who reap any advantage from them: As the
virtues, which have a tendency to the good of the person possessed of
them, derive their merit from our sympathy with him.

Most people will readily allow, that the useful qualities of the mind are
virtuous, because of their utility. This way of thinking is so natural,
and occurs on so many occasions, that few will make any scruple of
admitting it. Now this being once admitted, the force of sympathy must
necessarily be acknowledged. Virtue is considered as means to an end.
Means to an end are only valued so far as the end is valued. But the
happiness of strangers affects us by sympathy alone. To that principle,
therefore, we are to ascribe the sentiment of approbation, which arises
from the survey of all those virtues, that are useful to society, or to
the person possessed of them. These form the most considerable part of
morality.

Were it proper in such a subject to bribe the reader's assent, or employ
any thing but solid argument, we are here abundantly supplied with topics
to engage the affections. All lovers of virtue (and such we all are in
speculation, however we may degenerate in practice) must certainly be
pleased to see moral distinctions derived from so noble a source, which
gives us a just notion both of the generosity and capacity of human
nature. It requires but very little knowledge of human affairs to
perceive, that a sense of morals is a principle inherent in the soul, and
one of the most powerful that enters into the composition. But this sense
must certainly acquire new force, when reflecting on itself, it approves
of those principles, from whence it is derived, and finds nothing but
what is great and good in its rise and origin. Those who resolve the
sense of morals into original instincts of the human mind, may defend the
cause of virtue with sufficient authority; but want the advantage, which
those possess, who account for that sense by an extensive sympathy with
mankind. According to their system, not only virtue must be approved of,
but also the sense of virtue: And not only that sense, but also the
principles, from whence it is derived. So that nothing is presented on
any side, but what is laudable and good.

This observation may be extended to justice, and the other virtues of
that kind. Though justice be artificial, the sense of its morality is
natural. It is the combination of men, in a system of conduct, which
renders any act of justice beneficial to society. But when once it has
that tendency, we naturally approve of it; and if we did not so, it is
impossible any combination or convention coued ever produce that
sentiment.

Most of the inventions of men are subject to change. They depend upon
humour and caprice. They have a vogue for a time, and then sink into
oblivion. It may, perhaps, be apprehended, that if justice were allowed
to be a human invention, it must be placed on the same footing. But the
cases are widely different. The interest, on which justice is founded, is
the greatest imaginable, and extends to all times and places. It cannot
possibly be served by any other invention. It is obvious, and discovers
itself on the very first formation of society. All these causes render
the rules of justice stedfast and immutable; at least, as immutable as
human nature. And if they were founded on original instincts, coued they
have any greater stability?

The same system may help us to form a just notion of the happiness, as
well as of the dignity of virtue, and may interest every principle of our
nature in the embracing and cherishing that noble quality. Who indeed
does not feel an accession of alacrity in his pursuits of knowledge and
ability of every kind, when he considers, that besides the advantage,
which immediately result from these acquisitions, they also give him a
new lustre in the eyes of mankind, and are universally attended with
esteem and approbation? And who can think any advantages of fortune a
sufficient compensation for the least breach of the social virtues, when
he considers, that not only his character with regard to others, but also
his peace and inward satisfaction entirely depend upon his strict
observance of them; and that a mind will never be able to bear its own
survey, that has been wanting in its part to mankind and society? But I
forbear insisting on this subject. Such reflections require a work
a-part, very different from the genius of the present. The anatomist
ought never to emulate the painter; nor in his accurate dissections and
portraitures of the smaller parts of the human body, pretend to give his
figures any graceful and engaging attitude or expression. There is even
something hideous, or at least minute in the views of things, which he
presents; and it is necessary the objects should be set more at a
distance, and be more covered up from sight, to make them engaging to the
eye and imagination. An anatomist, however, is admirably fitted to give
advice to a painter; and it is even impracticable to excel in the latter
art, without the assistance of the former. We must have an exact
knowledge of the parts, their situation and connexion, before we can
design with any elegance or correctness. And thus the most abstract
speculations concerning human nature, however cold and unentertaining,
become subservient to practical morality; and may render this latter
science more correct in its precepts, and more persuasive in its
exhortations.



APPENDIX


There is nothing I would more willingly lay hold of, than an opportunity
of confessing my errors; and should esteem such a return to truth and
reason to be more honourable than the most unerring judgment. A man, who
is free from mistakes, can pretend to no praises, except from the
justness of his understanding: But a man, who corrects his mistakes,
shews at once the justness of his understanding, and the candour and
ingenuity of his temper. I have not yet been so fortunate as to discover
any very considerable mistakes in the reasonings delivered in the
preceding volumes, except on one article: But I have found by experience,
that some of my expressions have not been so well chosen, as to guard
against all mistakes in the readers; and it is chiefly to remedy this
defect, I have subjoined the following appendix.

We can never be induced to believe any matter of fact, except where its
cause, or its effect, is present to us; but what the nature is of that
belief, which arises from the relation of cause and effect, few have had
the curiosity to ask themselves. In my opinion, this dilemma is
inevitable. Either the belief is some new idea, such as that of reality
or existence, which we join to the simple conception of an object, or it
is merely a peculiar feeling or sentiment. That it is not a new idea,
annexed to the simple conception, may be evinced from these two
arguments. First, We have no abstract idea of existence, distinguishable
and separable from the idea of particular objects. It is impossible,
therefore, that this idea of existence can be annexed to the idea of any
object, or form the difference betwixt a simple conception and belief.
Secondly, The mind has the command over all its ideas, and can separate,
unite, mix, and vary them, as it pleases; so that if belief consisted
merely in a new idea, annexed to the conception, it would be in a man's
power to believe what he pleased. We may, therefore, conclude, that
belief consists merely in a certain feeling or sentiment; in something,
that depends not on the will, but must arise from certain determinate
causes and principles, of which we are not masters. When we are convinced
of any matter of fact, we do nothing but conceive it, along with a
certain feeling, different from what attends the mere reveries of the
imagination. And when we express our incredulity concerning any fact, we
mean, that the arguments for the fact produce not that feeling. Did not
the belief consist in a sentiment different from our mere conception,
whatever objects were presented by the wildest imagination, would be on
an equal footing with the most established truths founded on history and
experience. There is nothing but the feeling, or sentiment, to
distinguish the one from the other.

This, therefore, being regarded as an undoubted truth, that belief is
nothing but a peculiar feeling, different from the simple conception, the
next question, that naturally occurs, is, what is the nature of this
feeling, or sentiment, and whether it be analogous to any other sentiment
of the human mind? This question is important. For if it be not analogous
to any other sentiment, we must despair of explaining its causes, and
must consider it as an original principle of the human mind. If it be
analogous, we may hope to explain its causes from analogy, and trace it
up to more general principles. Now that there is a greater firmness and
solidity in the conceptions, which are the objects of conviction and
assurance, than in the loose and indolent reveries of a castle-builder,
every one will readily own. They strike upon us with more force; they are
more present to us; the mind has a firmer hold of them, and is more
actuated and moved by them. It acquiesces in them; and, in a manner,
fixes and reposes itself on them. In short, they approach nearer to the
impressions, which are immediately present to us; and are therefore
analogous to many other operations of the mind.

There is not, in my opinion, any possibility of evading this conclusion,
but by asserting, that belief, beside the simple conception, consists in
some impression or feeling, distinguishable from the conception. It does
not modify the conception, and render it more present and intense: It is
only annexed to it, after the same manner that will and desire are
annexed to particular conceptions of good and pleasure. But the following
considerations will, I hope, be sufficient to remove this hypothesis.
First, It is directly contrary to experience, and our immediate
consciousness. All men have ever allowed reasoning to be merely an
operation of our thoughts or ideas; and however those ideas may be varied
to the feeling, there is nothing ever enters into our conclusions but
ideas, or our fainter conceptions. For instance; I hear at present a
person's voice, whom I am acquainted with; and this sound comes from the
next room. This impression of my senses immediately conveys my thoughts
to the person, along with all the surrounding objects. I paint them out
to myself as existent at present, with the same qualities and relations,
that I formerly knew them possessed of. These ideas take faster hold of
my mind, than the ideas of an inchanted castle. They are different to the
feeling; but there is no distinct or separate impression attending them.
It is the same case when I recollect the several incidents of a journey, or
the events of any history. Every particular fact is there the object of
belief. Its idea is modified differently from the loose reveries of a
castle-builder: But no distinct impression attends every distinct idea,
or conception of matter of fact. This is the subject of plain experience.
If ever this experience can be disputed on any occasion, it is when the
mind has been agitated with doubts and difficulties; and afterwards, upon
taking the object in a new point of view, or being presented with a new
argument, fixes and reposes itself in one settled conclusion and belief.
In this case there is a feeling distinct and separate from the
conception. The passage from doubt and agitation to tranquility and
repose, conveys a satisfaction and pleasure to the mind. But take any
other case. Suppose I see the legs and thighs of a person in motion,
while some interposed object conceals the rest of his body. Here it is
certain, the imagination spreads out the whole figure. I give him a head
and shoulders, and breast and neck. These members I conceive and believe
him to be possessed of. Nothing can be more evident, than that this whole
operation is performed by the thought or imagination alone. The
transition is immediate. The ideas presently strike us. Their customary
connexion with the present impression, varies them and modifies them in a
certain manner, but produces no act of the mind, distinct from this
peculiarity of conception. Let any one examine his own mind, and he will
evidently find this to be the truth.

Secondly, Whatever may be the case, with regard to this distinct
impression, it must be allowed, that the mind has a firmer hold, or more
steady conception of what it takes to be matter of fact, than of
fictions. Why then look any farther, or multiply suppositions without
necessity?

Thirdly, We can explain the causes of the firm conception, but not those
of any separate impression. And not only so, but the causes of the firm
conception exhaust the whole subject, and nothing is left to produce any
other effect. An inference concerning a matter of fact is nothing but the
idea of an object, that is frequently conjoined, or is associated with a
present impression. This is the whole of it. Every part is requisite to
explain, from analogy, the more steady conception; and nothing remains
capable of producing any distinct impression.

Fourthly, The effects of belief, in influencing the passions and
imagination, can all be explained from the firm conception; and there is
no occasion to have recourse to any other principle. These arguments,
with many others, enumerated in the foregoing volumes, sufficiently
prove, that belief only modifies the idea or conception; and renders it
different to the feeling, without producing any distinct impression. Thus
upon a general view of the subject, there appear to be two questions of
importance, which we may venture to recommend to the consideration of
philosophers, Whether there be any thing to distinguish belief from the
simple conception beside the feeling of sentiment? And, Whether this
feeling be any thing but a firmer conception, or a faster hold, that we
take of the object?

If, upon impartial enquiry, the same conclusion, that I have formed, be
assented to by philosophers, the next business is to examine the analogy,
which there is betwixt belief, and other acts of the mind, and find the
cause of the firmness and strength of conception: And this I do not
esteem a difficult task. The transition from a present impression, always
enlivens and strengthens any idea. When any object is presented, the idea
of its usual attendant immediately strikes us, as something real and
solid. It is felt, rather than conceived, and approaches the impression,
from which it is derived, in its force and influence. This I have proved
at large. I cannot add any new arguments.

I had entertained some hopes, that however deficient our theory of the
intellectual world might be, it would be free from those contradictions,
and absurdities, which seem to attend every explication, that human
reason can give of the material world. But upon a more strict review of
the section concerning personal identity, I find myself involved in such
a labyrinth, that, I must confess, I neither know how to correct my
former opinions, nor how to render them consistent. If this be not a good
general reason for scepticism, it is at least a sufficient one (if I were
not already abundantly supplied) for me to entertain a diffidence and
modesty in all my decisions. I shall propose the arguments on both sides,
beginning with those that induced me to deny the strict and proper
identity and simplicity of a self or thinking being.

When we talk of self or substance, we must have an idea annexed to these
terms, otherwise they are altogether unintelligible. Every idea is
derived from preceding impressions; and we have no impression of self or
substance, as something simple and individual. We have, therefore, no
idea of them in that sense.

Whatever is distinct, is distinguishable; and whatever is
distinguishable, is separable by the thought or imagination. All
perceptions are distinct. They are, therefore, distinguishable, and
separable, and may be conceived as separately existent, and may exist
separately, without any contradiction or absurdity.

When I view this table and that chimney, nothing is present to me but
particular perceptions, which are of a like nature with all the other
perceptions. This is the doctrine of philosophers. But this table, which
is present to me, and the chimney, may and do exist separately. This is
the doctrine of the vulgar, and implies no contradiction. There is no
contradiction, therefore, in extending the same doctrine to all the
perceptions.

In general, the following reasoning seems satisfactory. All ideas are
borrowed from preceding perceptions. Our ideas of objects, therefore, are
derived from that source. Consequently no proposition can be intelligible
or consistent with regard to objects, which is not so with regard to
perceptions. But it is intelligible and consistent to say, that objects
exist distinct and independent, without any common simple substance or
subject of inhesion. This proposition, therefore, can never be absurd
with regard to perceptions.

When I turn my reflection on myself, I never can perceive this self
without some one or more perceptions; nor can I ever perceive any thing
but the perceptions. It is the composition of these, therefore, which forms
the self. We can conceive a thinking being to have either many or few
perceptions. Suppose the mind to be reduced even below the life of an
oyster. Suppose it to have only one perception, as of thirst or hunger.
Consider it in that situation. Do you conceive any thing but merely that
perception? Have you any notion of self or substance? If not, the
addition of other perceptions can never give you that notion.

The annihilation, which some people suppose to follow upon death, and
which entirely destroys this self, is nothing but an extinction of all
particular perceptions; love and hatred, pain and pleasure, thought and
sensation. These therefore must be the same with self; since the one
cannot survive the other.

Is self the same with substance? If it be, how can that question have
place, concerning the subsistence of self, under a change of substance?
If they be distinct, what is the difference betwixt them? For my part, I
have a notion of neither, when conceived distinct from particular
perceptions.

Philosophers begin to be reconciled to the principle, that we have no
idea of external substance, distinct from the ideas of particular
qualities. This must pave the way for a like principle with regard to the
mind, that we have no notion of it, distinct from the particular
perceptions.

So far I seem to be attended with sufficient evidence. But having thus
loosened all our particular perceptions, when I proceed to explain
the principle of connexion, which binds them together, and makes us
attribute to them a real simplicity and identity; I am sensible, that my
account is very defective, and that nothing but the seeming evidence of
the precedent reasonings coued have induced me to receive it. If
perceptions are distinct existences, they form a whole only by being
connected together. But no connexions among distinct existences are ever
discoverable by human understanding. We only feel a connexion or
determination of the thought, to pass from one object to another. It
follows, therefore, that the thought alone finds personal identity, when
reflecting on the train of past perceptions, that compose a mind, the
ideas of them are felt to be connected together, and naturally introduce
each other. However extraordinary this conclusion may seem, it need not
surprize us. Most philosophers seem inclined to think, that personal
identity arises from consciousness; and consciousness is nothing but a
reflected thought or perception. The present philosophy, therefore, has
so far a promising aspect. But all my hopes vanish, when I come to
explain the principles, that unite our successive perceptions in our
thought or consciousness. I cannot discover any theory, which gives me
satisfaction on this head.

In short there are two principles, which I cannot render consistent; nor
is it in my power to renounce either of them, viz, that all our distinct
perceptions are distinct existences, and that the mind never perceives
any real connexion among distinct existences. Did our perceptions either
inhere in something simple and individual, or did the mind perceive some
real connexion among them, there would be no difficulty in the case. For
my part, I must plead the privilege of a sceptic, and confess, that this
difficulty is too hard for my understanding. I pretend not, however, to
pronounce. it absolutely insuperable. Others, perhaps, or myself, upon
more mature reflections, may discover some hypothesis, that will
reconcile those contradictions.

I shall also take this opportunity of confessing two other errors of less
importance, which more mature reflection has discovered to me in my
reasoning. The first may be found in Vol. I. page 106. where I say, that
the distance betwixt two bodies is known, among other things, by the
angles, which the rays of light flowing from the bodies make with each
other. It is certain, that these angles are not known to the mind, and
consequently can never discover the distance. The second error may be
found in Vol. I. page 144 where I say, that two ideas of the same object
can only be different by their different degrees of force and vivacity. I
believe there are other differences among ideas, which cannot properly be
comprehended under these terms. Had I said, that two ideas of the same
object can only be different by their different feeling, I should have
been nearer the truth.









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