SHAFTESBURY'S 
 CHARACTERISTICS
 
 CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 OF 
 
 Men, Manners, Opinions, 
 Times, etc. 
 
 By the Right Honourable 
 ANTHONY EARL OF SHAFTESBURY 
 
 EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES, BY 
 
 JOHN M. ROBERTSON 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 VOL. I 
 
 London 
 GRANT RICHARDS 
 
 1900
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFC 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 EDITOR'S PREFACE 
 
 THIS edition of Shaftesbury's Characteristics repro- 
 duces all the essays he himself so entitled, with strict 
 adherence to his text, as corrected by him for a 
 reissue. Of that corrected copy I have collated a 
 large part with the reprints, and I find that his 
 alterations were scrupulously given effect to, down 
 to the smallest particulars. A few of the footnote 
 references to corroborative passages in the book 
 itself have here, as a matter of convenience, been 
 altered back to their first form, specifying titles and 
 sections of the essays rather than pages of the book ; 
 but no liberty has at any point been taken with the 
 text beyond the modernising of the spelling and 
 disregard of the old italics and capitals. 
 
 This external change has been made with some 
 reluctance, but with a conviction that it is really a 
 service to the author. The profuse use of italics 
 and capitals in English books of Shaftesbury's day, 
 though in exact reprints it lends a certain agreeable 
 local colour to such books as the Spectator, and
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 though it might lend an analogous element to an 
 exact reprint of Shakspere, is a positive hindrance 
 to the fluent reading of an argumentative treatise. 
 Those who have read the Characteristics in an old 
 edition will find the modernised text distinctly 
 easier to follow. As with variations of type, so 
 with spelling. One hesitates to put " them " for the 
 modish " 'em " commonly used, even by some theo- 
 logical writers, about 1700 ; but the usage is become 
 so quaint in its virtual foppery, like the spelling 
 " aukard," as to be disconcerting to the reader's 
 thought. It may interest moderns, however, to 
 know that Shaftesbury wrote " specter," " center," 
 and " theater," thus giving to these " Americanisms " 
 the classic English paternity established for so many 
 others. 
 
 In the interest of a large part of the reading 
 public it has been thought advisable to append foot- 
 note translations of the L<atin and Greek extracts 
 in the original. Some of them, doubtless, hardly 
 needed translating ; but others would have given 
 trouble to all but readers who had not let their 
 classics rust ; and the usage has been made uniform. 
 In this matter the editor has been relieved by a much 
 better scholar. Elucidatory notes, which at some 
 points in the text had become necessary, and at 
 others may not be supererogatory, have been invari- 
 
 vi
 
 EDITOR'S PREFACE 
 
 ably put in brackets, a course recommended by the 
 fact that in Mr. Hatch's unfinished edition of 1869 
 some of Shaftesbury's own notes have been marked 
 "Ed." 
 
 Save for that edition, unfortunately stopped by 
 its editor's death when only one of three volumes 
 had been printed, the present is believed to be the 
 first reprint of the Characteristics for over a 
 century. It is hoped that it does not unworthily 
 reproduce a set of treatises which once had almost 
 classic status throughout Europe, and in our own 
 day have been made the subject of two elaborate 
 German monographs. 
 
 vu
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 IN his Pensees Diverges, Montesquieu has a surprising phrase, 
 giving an obsolete view of more than one reputation. "The 
 four great poets,"" it runs, are " Plato, Malebranche, Shaftesbury, 
 Montaigne." Probably the idea came from Shaftesbury him- 
 self, who often discusses poetry as identical with good moral 
 teaching. The author of the Spirit of Laws, on his part, was 
 not exactly a connoisseur of poetry, for he is further committed 
 to the view that " Pope alone has felt the greatness of Homer " ; 
 and in any case his praise of a thinker as a poet does not 
 necessarily imply approval of his teaching, since he affirms in 
 another page that Malebranche has fallen into a thousand 
 sophisms through missing the principle of relativity. Since, 
 however, he makes no such charge against Shaftesbury, he must 
 be supposed in his regard to have intended high praise; and 
 as a matter of fact his eulogy of the author of the Character- 
 istics would be echoed, with whatever differences of phrase, by 
 multitudes of instructed men in France, Germany, and England, 
 at the time he wrote. As late as 1794 we have Herder praising 
 our author as a "virtuoso of humanity," who had "signally 
 influenced the best heads of the eighteenth century." l Such a 
 reputation seems worth looking into. 
 
 1 Cited by G. von Gizycki, Die Philosophic Shaftesbury' s, 1876. 
 
 ix
 
 Anthony Ashley Cooper, third Earl of Shaftesbury, was 
 born in London on February 6, 1671 (New Style). Connected 
 by direct descent with the famous " Achitophel " of Dryden, who 
 was his grandfather, he is associated in literary history no less 
 closely with John Locke, who had been charged by the first 
 earl to find a wife for his invalid son, and who acted thereafter 
 as supervisor of the training of the seven children born of the 
 marriage. Under Locke's eye and method, Anthony, the first- 
 born, was taught Greek and Latin, on the plan of conversation, 
 by an accomplished woman, Elizabeth Birch, daughter of a 
 schoolmaster. He had thus the rare fortune to be able to 
 read both languages with ease at the age of eleven. Yet it 
 was thought fit to send him to the Winchester public school 
 at that age, presumably by way of toughening him for practical 
 life. Professor Fowler, his most thorough biographer, has 
 seen a letter in which, at the age of nineteen, he gives a 
 startling account of the ways of the school ; and the biographer's 
 conclusion is that " the English public-school education of those 
 days probably left fewer traces of culture, and inspired boys 
 less with the love of letters, than it does even in our own." 
 Shaftesbury, however, had been well grounded under Locke; 
 and three years (1686-89) spent in foreign travel added a 
 perfect mastery of French to his skill in the classics, and gave 
 him a love of the arts which solaced him till his death. 
 On his return to England he gave nearly five years to quiet 
 study. 
 
 It was not, however, to letters but to politics that he gave 
 himself when he felt he had intellectually come of age. In 
 1695 he entered Parliament as member for Poole ; and in that 
 
 X
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 year he he and not the Earl of Halifax, of whom the story is 
 sometimes told made the often-cited stroke of advocacy for 
 the Bill which provided that men indicted on charges of treason 
 should be allowed the use of counsel. Finding himself at a 
 loss for words, he had yet presence of mind enough to say : " If 
 I, sir, who rise only to speak my opinion on the Bill now 
 depending, am so confounded that I am unable to express the 
 least of what I proposed to say ; what must the condition of 
 the man be who is pleading for his life without any assistance, 
 and under apprehensions of being deprived of it ? " l The Bill 
 passed ; but Shaftesbury did not often so conciliate the House. 
 It was then in one of its most factious periods; and Shaftesbury's 
 hereditary Whiggism and personal independence were not to 
 the taste of either side. In any case, his health soon worsened 
 to a degree that forced him to give up his seat after the 
 dissolution of 1698. His malady was Locke's asthma, to 
 which London smoke then, as later, was peculiarly deadly ; 
 and to relieve it he spent a year in Holland, returning to 
 England at the end of 1699, when, on his father's death, he 
 succeeded to the title. Macaulay, in his specific manner, 
 asserts that after leaving the Commons Shaftesbury "gave 
 himself up to mere intellectual luxury." As a matter of fact 
 he exerted himself so greatly on the Whig side in the two 
 elections of 1701 as to receive the special thanks of the king, 
 with repeated offers of high office; and though he declined 
 these, it was only the complete change of men and measures 
 at the accession of Anne that drove him back into private 
 
 1 Macaulay (ch. xxi.) gives a much more elaborate version of the 
 appeal. If it had been worded as he gives it, it would justify his suspicion 
 that the whole episode was premeditated. But his version is plainly a 
 composition of a later date. That in the text is the report authorised by 
 Shaftesbury's son. 
 
 xi
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 life. Even thereafter, his letters show him constantly and 
 deeply interested in current politics, though he became ere long 
 a confirmed invalid. 1 
 
 It was in this state of health that he at length addressed 
 himself to deliberate authorship, and to no less deliberate 
 marriage. Those of his letters unwarrantably published by 
 Toland show him desirous of marrying, in 1708, the daughter 
 of a certain rich " old lord," who (the father, that is,) would not 
 take a favourable view of him or his suit, though he was 
 willing to forego a dowry. One plan failing, he formed 
 another, and in 1709 married Miss Jane Ewer, a distant family 
 connection, with very little fortune. Ten years earlier he 
 seems to have put aside the suggestion of Locke, that he should 
 propose to a certain young lady with a fortune of c4 J 20,000. 
 In private life he cared above all things for quiet happiness, 
 and he seems to have found it, as he humorously testifies to 
 his friend Molesworth that after marriage he finds himself " as 
 happy a man now as ever."" 
 
 In 1708 had been published his anonymous Letter Concern- 
 ing Enthusiasm, which had the distinction of speedily eliciting 
 three angry replies, each bulkier than his pamphlet one being 
 twice its size. His only previous venture had been an edition 
 in 1698 of some sermons of the Cambridge Latitudinarian, 
 Dr. Whichcote, to which he put a laudatory preface. In 1699 
 Toland had published without his permission his remarkably 
 precocious Inquiry Concerning Virtue or Merit, in some respects 
 his most weighty performance; but not till he had put his 
 ethical doctrine afresh, with a lighter and more unsystematic 
 
 1 In June 1703 he writes of "my health, which I have mightily 
 impaired by my fatigues in the public affairs these last three years " 
 (Original Letters of Locke, Sidney, and Shaftesbury, ed. by T. Forster, 
 1830, p. 198). 
 
 xii
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 touch, in his Essay on the Freedom of Wit and Humour and 
 his Moralists, both published in 1709, and produced his Advice 
 to an Author (1710), did he proceed to publish the revised 
 version of his early treatise with the others. 
 
 It was in 1711 that he put forth his collected essays as 
 Characteristics of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times, including 
 among them the Inquiry, and adding, as third volume, 
 Miscellaneous Reflections on the preceding Treatises, and other 
 Critical Subjects. It may be surmised that the Moralists, the 
 Wit and Humour, and the Advice to an Author, or some of 
 them, had been begun before 1708 ; and that his industry from 
 that year onwards was motived partly by his success, partly by 
 his consciousness of rapidly failing strength, and the need to 
 husband time. Only two more years were left him. In July 
 1711 he set out for the warmer clime of Italy; and there, at 
 Naples, he died early in 1713, barely forty-two years old. 1 His 
 last literary labours were the careful revision of his Character- 
 istics and the writing of two essays in aesthetics, a Letter on 
 Design, and a Notion of the Historical Draught or Tablature of 
 the Judgment of Hercules ; with some note-making for a general 
 essay on the arts. 
 
 II 
 
 Of this short literary career the success was rapid and 
 far-reaching. It was hardly an exaggeration in 1733 to say, 
 as did the preface to the pocket-edition of that year, that " all 
 
 1 Various errors are current as to the above dates. I have been else- 
 where misled by a standard authority which gives 1711 as the year of 
 Shaftesbury's death ; the editions of 1733 and 1737 (and presumably 
 others) describe the Miscellaneous Reflections as having been first printed 
 in 1714 ; Mr. Hatch's edition represents the whole collection as first 
 appearing in 1713 ; and Dr. Gideon Spicker in his work on Shaftesbury 
 dates it 1709. 
 
 xiii
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 the best judges are agreed that we never had any work in the 
 English language so beautiful, so delightful, and so instructive 
 as these CJuiracteristicks" On the title-page of a clerical Cure 
 of Deism, published in 1736, Shaftesbury and Tindal figure as 
 " the two Oracles of Deism " ; and this was perhaps the high- 
 water period of the Deistic agitation. Nor was it only a popular 
 acceptance that was thus indicated : the praise of Leibnitz had 
 reached the Earl before his death ; Hutcheson, the most con- 
 siderable philosopher between Berkeley and Hume, was his 
 professed champion, and declared that his writings " will be 
 esteemed while any reflection remains among men"; 1 while 
 Mandeville, Berkeley, and Butler testified to his importance in 
 criticising him. Abroad, his status was equally high. The 
 Essay on the Freedom of Wit and Humour, issued in 1709, was 
 translated into French before 1713; a German translation of 
 the essays was begun in 1738 ; Diderot, then in his first Deistic 
 stage, issued his adaptation of the Inquiry Concerning Virtue 
 and Merit in 1745 ; Montesquieu panegyrised him as we have 
 seen ; a complete French translation of his works and Letters 
 appeared at Geneva in 1769 ; and a complete German transla- 
 tion of the Characteristics in 1776-79. By that time, Shaftes- 
 bury's form of optimism had even carried the day in Germany 
 over that of Leibnitz, 2 who had admitted its measure of congruity 
 with his own ; and there are clear traces of his influence in 
 both the ethics and the aesthetics of Kant. 3 As regarded his 
 general vogue, the facts that his philosophy was the basis of 
 
 1 Preface to the later editions of An Inquiry into the Original of our 
 Ideas of Beauty and Virtue. The passage is not in the first edition (1725). 
 
 2 Cp. Lange, History of Materialism, Eng. tr. ii. 146, 147. 
 
 3 Zart, Einfluss der englischen Philosophen seit Bacon auf die deutsclie 
 Philosophic des 18ten Jahrhunderts, 1881, S. 219, 231. Kant, of course, 
 never committed himself to optimism. 
 
 xiv
 
 Bolingbroke's, and therefore of Pope's Essay on Man, and that 
 at least eleven English editions of his book (the last appearing 
 at Basel) had been produced by the year 1790, may be taken 
 to signify that he held a classic standing before the beginning 
 of the reaction against the French Revolution, in which so 
 many popularities were undone. The publication of Brown's 
 Essays on the Characteristics in 1751 was a proof that forty 
 years after publication they were reckoned dangerously in- 
 fluential ; and the prompt production of three replies to Brown 
 testified to the rightness of his estimate of Shaftesbury's vogue. 
 
 The decay of this reputation in the present century has 
 been ascribed by one critic alternately to the unattractiveness 
 of Shaftesbury's style and to the inconclusiveness of his think- 
 ing ; as if profundity conferred popularity, or charm of style 
 philosophic influence. Certainly the fashion of style has 
 changed since Shaftesbury's passed as specially delightful. Its 
 main defect is that which differences it so entirely from 
 Montaigne's, its constant preoccupation with the labour of 
 being at ease. Lamb has done it a certain injustice in calling 
 it " genteel " ; for though Shaftesbury seeks to " regulate his 
 style or language by the standard of good company, and people 
 of the better sort," x he is really concerned less to be superior 
 than to seem natural ; and when he is fairly judged he must be 
 admitted to have substantially reached his aim. Yet, withal, his 
 very conception of the natural had a certain gentility ; so that, 
 though his prose is really not inferior to Addison's, with which 
 it is so often contrasted by way of condemnation, it is inferior 
 in both energy and ease to Dryden's, which lay to his hand as 
 a model. Addison is indeed more transparent, but only because 
 he is so much shallower. Something depends on the depth of 
 
 1 Advice to an Author, part i. 1. 
 XV
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 what a man has to say. What deprives Shaftesbury of litheness 
 and large-limbed vigour as a writer is his derivative ideal of 
 propriety, which perhaps correlates with his invalidism ; though 
 on the other hand it goes by the ruling standards of his age. 
 A generation before, Dryden's own gift, no less than the heritage 
 of spacious and imaginative prose which still remained to 
 compensate Englishmen for the loss of great dramatic verse, 
 had availed to reveal to him, after Rapin and Rymer had done 
 their worst, the supremacy of Shakspere and the doom of the 
 classic French tragedy, as well as to preserve stride and stature 
 in his own prose. But the ame damnee of James II., the 
 Romanist pervert, and the venomous assailant of the first 
 Shaftesbury, was nearly the last man to whom the accomplished 
 and scholarly third Earl, Whig of the Whigs, was likely to 
 look for either example or instruction. 1 In these matters 
 Locke could not guide his pupil, and he formed his taste on 
 the French critics of the periwig period, reading the classics 
 partly through their spectacles. 
 
 Thus we find him praising the Elizabethans and Milton at 
 most for their choice of blank verse and their ethical quality, 
 finding Shakspere devoid of grace, finish, polish, and ornament, 
 but a good moral teacher so far as Hamlet went ; and Milton as 
 an artist no better this after poor John Dennis had shot his 
 bolt on the right side, and just before Addison took up Milton's 
 cause in the Spectator. Shaftesbury, again, had enough of the 
 fine gentleman in him to make him concerned to tell his readers 2 
 that he allowed the printer to sell as many copies of the book 
 as he could for his own profit, the author taking no money ; 
 
 1 See the long note in the Miscellaneous Reflections, Misc. v. ch. ii., 
 where Dryden is not unskilfully pilloried for some of his petulances. 
 
 2 Advice to an Author, part iii. 2. 
 
 xvi
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 and that his Letter Concerning Enthusiasm was really a private 
 letter, which got into print by accident. 1 The punctilio about 
 money survived in the peerage till Byron's day, so that we must 
 not charge it specially to Shaftesbury ; but the whole attitude 
 smacks more of Beau Brummel than of Montaigne. And with 
 all his lordship's severity on his professional fellow-authors for 
 "aiming at a false sublime, with crowded simile and mixed 
 metaphor (the hobby-horse and rattle of the Muses)," he could 
 proceed in the next breath after that very protest to speak of 
 the Elizabethans as having "happily broken the ice for those 
 who are to follow them ; and who, treading in their footsteps, 
 may at leisure polish our language, lead our ear to finer 
 pleasure, and find out the true rhythmus and harmonious 
 numbers which alone can satisfy a just judgment and Muse-like 
 apprehension" 2 one of the most comprehensive mixtures of 
 metaphor on record, and a tolerable specimen of crowded simile, 
 if not of the false sublime. 
 
 Some of his canons of style, further, were pettily pedantic, 
 and pedantically held. In his own carefully corrected copy of 
 the Characteristics, now in the British Museum, he notes that a 
 friend has suggested the substitution of a "though" for a 
 " notwithstanding " at a place where such a change would create 
 a succession of ten monosyllables, " an offence," he declares, 
 "which I am resolved never to commit." In another page, 
 finding he has actually committed it, he deliberately creates a 
 tautology by way of cure, and the clause " for any one to take 
 the chair who is not called to it" is made to run "neither 
 called nor invited." 3 For once he seems to have been bowing 
 to Dryden, who in the Essay on Dramatic Poesy derides a 
 
 1 Misc. i. chs. ii. iii. ; Misc. iv. ch. i. 
 2 Advice to an Author, infra, p. 142. 3 Infra, p. 53. 
 
 xvii
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 poetaster of his day as " creeping along with ten little words 
 in every line." Dryden's judgment seems to have become 
 canonical, since Pope in the Essay on Criticism repeats it : 
 And ten low words oft creep in one dull line. 
 
 But that Dryden had no notion of forbidding every succession 
 of ten monosyllables either in prose or in verse is clear from 
 his own practice in the same Essay , for not only does he at 
 times put ten successive monosyllables in his prose, but he 
 renders thus a bad line of Ovid : 
 
 Now all was sea, nor had that sea a shore ; 
 
 and, as everybody will remember, he begins his translation of 
 the Aeiieid with the ten monosyllables 
 
 Arms and the man I sing, who, forced by fate. 
 
 What he was condemning was the eking out of a verse with 
 weak redundant particles, as " for," " to," " unto," to the entire 
 loss of sonority and strength ; and Pope had in view the same 
 kind of thing. Categorically obeyed, the veto accepted by 
 Shaftesbury would have quashed Shakspere's 
 
 We are such stuff 
 
 As dreams are made on, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep ; 
 
 and Tennyson's 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
 and 
 
 When the dumb hour, clothed in black, 
 Brings the dreams about my bed. 
 
 It is not thus that the great masters of speech are ruled ; l 
 and Shaftesbury's acceptance of such an arbitrary bondage in 
 
 1 In Bacon's essay Of Gardens (par. 6) there is a sequence of twenty- 
 four monosyllables. 
 
 xviii
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 style, while standing for " free thought " in all things, must be 
 granted to take him out of the magistral rank. At times, as 
 in the Miscellaneous Reflections, he is even dilettantist enough 
 in his manner and matter to justify Professor Fowler's complaint 
 that his tone becomes " falsetto. 1 ' 
 
 All this however proves only that Shaftesbury is not a great 
 or an impeccable artist : it does not amount to destroying his 
 credit as a good writer. Before he was classed as a Deist, 
 nobody seems to have denied that he wrote very well indeed. 
 On the first appearance of the Letter Concerning Enthusiasm 
 it was credited to Swift by all his friends ; and Swift himself, 
 believing it to be by his accomplished friend Hunter, pronounced 
 it "very well writ." l This praise it certainly deserves. Though 
 Shaftesbury can at times sink below Addison who, however, was 
 capable of chronic bad grammar as well as of much slipshod 
 he is normally above him in point of sheer vivacity and intension, 
 to say nothing of his intellectual impact on a reader's sense. 
 Even as critics the two men are pretty much on a par, since 
 Addison's admiration of Milton was mainly based on religious 
 sentiment, and was freely extended to the impossible Blackmore. 
 And though Shaftesbury's elegant manipulation of his rapier 
 often makes us wish for the clean cut and thrust of Hobbes's 
 mightier blade, yet he can at times write, and that in criticism 
 of Hobbes, 2 with a swift sureness and spontaneous power that 
 the other could not excel, and that Addison could not approach. 
 
 1 Forster's Life of Swift, p. 220. 
 
 2 See the Essay on the Freedom of Wit and Humour, part iii. 1, end. 
 As regards the criticism there passed upon Hobbes, it should be remarked 
 that he himself anticipates it in the admission (Leviathan, part i. ch. xiv.) that 
 religious fear " hath place in the nature of man before civil society " ; and 
 again (part ii. ch. xxx.) in the insistence that men must know before law 
 the obligation to keep faith. But Hobbes never properly colligated his 
 principles, and he is substantially open to Shaftesbury's attack. Temple 
 
 VOL. i xix b
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 It was not literary imperfection, then, that lost the Character- 
 istics their one-time credit. Rather their very literary art may 
 have counted somewhat to that effect, since the students to 
 whom finally Shaftesbury's audience was restricted would be apt 
 to be impatient with his gentlemanlike discursiveness and want 
 of visible method, in contrast with the businesslike progression 
 of Locke. Nor can it well have been the logical insufficiency of 
 his philosophy that lost him his status as a serious classic in the 
 sense in which Locke may be said to have kept his ; for Locke 
 is at least as pervious to criticism. The explanation, however, 
 though different from those above considered, is perhaps fully 
 as simple. In any case it is properly to be reached by way of 
 a view of his doctrine. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The Letter Concerning- Enthusiasm, with which Shaftesbury 
 began his few years of diligent authorship, gives clear clues to 
 all the essentials of his thought, though it is properly a political 
 pamphlet aiming at influencing immediate action. As we have 
 seen, he was a highly-principled Whig, and as such he disliked 
 at once the fanaticism of "enthusiasm" and the fanaticism 
 which would forcibly suppress it. In the case of the " French 
 prophets,"" both forces were at work ; and though he did not 
 anticipate any serious convulsion from their clash, he saw in 
 their emergence an excellent opportunity for inculcating a 
 counsel of perfection a counsel which, as it happened, he must 
 first have given to himself before passing it on. For as urbane 
 
 had already put the two sides of the case shrewdly enough in the phrase : 
 " Nor do I know, if men are like sheep, why they need any government, 
 or, if they are like wolves, how they can suffer it " (Essay upon the Original 
 and Nature of Government, 1672 ; Works, ed. 1814, i. 9, 10). 
 
 XX
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 as he is to use one of his favourite idioms in his plea for 
 good-humour in all matters of religious discussion, it happens 
 that he came to that view by way of self -discipline, having 
 become aware in himself of "those defects of passion, those 
 meannesses and imperfections which we acknowledge such in 
 ourselves, which as good men we endeavour to be superior to, 
 and which we find we every day conquer as we grow better." 
 Serenity was the prescription of his early Inquiry Concerning 
 Virtue ; but he had not always fulfilled his ideal. In the first 
 of his Letters to a Student, under date February 24, 1706-7, 
 he is anything but good-humoured about the "enthusiasts" 
 who, then as always, decried the " cold dead reasoning " which 
 put them at a disadvantage; and on that score he warmly 
 champions Locke, whom on other grounds he was later to 
 criticise with some asperity. It was later in the same year 
 that he wrote his plea for ridicule as the proper regimen for 
 "enthusiasm," 1 ' having in the interim doubtless found it the 
 more comfortable frame of mind. As his Letter to Somers 
 avows, we are all capable of some sort of " enthusiasm " ; and 
 as he elsewhere urges, the only safeguard against miscarriage 
 is vigilant self-judgment. The very self -consciousness of the 
 Letter might alone suggest the manner of its inception. It 
 does not employ banter, but prescribes it : a man spontaneously 
 given that way would have made the fun he recommended. 
 
 And that Shaftesbury went through a process of self- 
 discipline in serenity as a part of his progress to (or in) a 
 philosophy of optimism, may be gathered from one of his letters 
 to his friend Molesworth, dated November 4, 1708 : 
 
 You may think me melancholy if you will. I own there was 
 a time in public affairs when I really was; for, saving yourself, and 
 perhaps one or two more (I speak the most) I had none that acted 
 
 xxi
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 with me against the injustice and corruption of both parties : each 
 of them enflamed against me, particularly one, because of my birth 
 and principles ; the other, because of my pretended apostasy, which 
 was only adhering to those principles on which their party was 
 founded. . . . But the days are long past since you and I were 
 treated as Jacobites. 
 
 Yet even in the very year in which he published his Letter 
 on Enthusiasm and his Essay on Wit and Humour we find him 
 writing to his student protege with extraordinary heat against 
 Lucian as "a wretch who was truly the most profane and 
 impious " ; l a deliverance so surprising as to make us feel afresh 
 that the critic's leaning to humorous methods was a rather 
 artificially cultivated mood with him. 
 
 Having declared, however, for ridicule as the proper pro- 
 tection for the State and the spirit against fanaticism, he must 
 needs argue, as a consistent optimist, that there was nothing to 
 be feared from the resort to such an instrument. It could 
 check folly, but it could not hurt truth. Thus his humane 
 prescription led him subtly into a position not tenable without 
 paralogism ; and he duly paralogised, albeit pleasantly, even 
 making Aristotle say, what Aristotle never said, that ridicule is 
 the test of truth. No right-thinking person, Shaftesbury goes 
 on, can endure ridicule of the truth. But the right-thinking 
 person, who thus admittedly apprehends the truth without the 
 help of ridicule, has nothing to do with the case ; since the 
 business in hand is to enlighten the wrong -thinking, the en- 
 thusiast who takes error for truth. And as this person errs 
 about what is truth, he can obviously err about the Tightness 
 of ridicule ; so that for him it is no test ; while the other man, 
 in the terms of the case, does not need this test in particular. 
 
 1 Letter of January 28, 1708-9. 
 
 xxii
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 Forty years later, " Estimate " Brown took much time and 
 space to put some such refutation of the false formula into 
 which Shaftesbury unwittingly expanded his very sensible 
 counsel to the politicians of his day. In the criticism, the 
 practical good wrought by Shaftesbury's challenge receives small 
 recognition. The trouble was that by Brown's time the test 
 of ridicule had come to be rather freely applied in directions 
 where others than enthusiasts were disturbed by it. Voltaire 
 was now in session. Brown was probably wrong in arguing 
 that the ridicule of Aristophanes contributed to the death of 
 Socrates a question still discussed but he was of course safe 
 in saying that any doctrine whatever may be ridiculed by a 
 qualified opponent, and that the worse may so be made to 
 appear the better reason. Shaftesbury had indeed implied as 
 much in the somewhat odd passage in which, while professing 
 orthodoxy, he argued concerning the hostility of the Jews to 
 Jesus that " had they but taken the fancy to act such puppet- 
 shows in his contempt as at this hour the Papists are acting in 
 his honour," they " might possibly have done our religion more 
 harm than by all their other ways of severity."" Paul, he pro- 
 ceeded to say, had fared ill at urbane and critical Athens. 
 Believing Christians might be excused for inferring that a man 
 who wrote thus, and who had previously urged that no right- 
 thinking person could enjoy "ridicule wrong placed," was not 
 a believer. 
 
 As to this there has been some forensic dispute, though his 
 express compliments to Christianity as a " witty and good- 
 natured religion " have not as a rule given satisfaction to the 
 serious. Of his way of life it is told by his son that " whenever 
 his health permitted, he was constant in attending the services 
 of the Church of England, and received the Holy Communion 
 
 xxiii
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 regularly three or four times a year"; and in a letter to his 
 brother he blessed Providence for a church " where zeal was not 
 frenzy and enthusiasm ; . . . religious discoveries not cant and 
 unintelligible nonsense ; but where a good and virtuous life . . . 
 joined with a religious performance of all sacred duties and a 
 conformity with the established rites, was enough to answer 
 the highest character of religion." As Dr. Fowler says, " the 
 language is not very fervid " ; and one is moved to pronounce 
 his lordship pious in a Pickwickian sense, 1 the more so when we 
 have his own avowal as to the calculated way in which, after a 
 youth of some outspokenness, he decided to alter his outward 
 demeanour, without professing to have altered his opinions. 
 In a letter to his brother under date January 19, 1701-2, 
 printed by Mr. Hatch (App. II.), Shaftesbury gives a striking 
 account of a visit he had received from a set of charlatan 
 "enthusiasts," whom he specifies as "my old acquaintance 
 Chrysogenes and Chrysogeneia his accomplished spouse," and a 
 woman in Quaker's dress who accompanied them. Telling how 
 he did his best to receive their vaticinations with respectful 
 religious comment, he mentions that he asked his friend " if he 
 thought this discourse any way strange in me, or if he judged 
 of me now at this time by my character of early days and in 
 the heat of youth, 2 when he first knew me, though even then he 
 knew very well the awful impression I had of a Deity. And 
 here I appealed to him concerning my much altered character 
 
 1 Compare the cautiously ironical passage in the Miscellaneous Reflec- 
 tions, Misc. v. ch. iii. , with what follows. 
 
 2 Shaftesbury probably had leanings to Deism early instilled into him 
 by his grandfather, of whom is first told, by Toland, the familiar story of 
 the statesman's saying that all wise men are of one religion, the nature of 
 which wise men never tell. Toland (Clidophorus, ch. xiii.) says he had 
 the story from "a near relation to the old Lord Shaftesbury." 
 
 xxiv
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 of late years, my greater deference to all things sacred, or 
 that carried but the shadow of religion." It may be doubted 
 whether such a declaration, could it have been read by Berkeley, 
 would have induced him to withhold from its presumed applica- 
 tion to Shaftesburv l his remark that " an infidel who sets up for 
 the nicest honour shall, without the least grain of faith or 
 religion, take any test, join in any act of worship, kneel, pray, 
 receive the Sacrament, to serve an interest.' 1 2 And yet, apart 
 from the gratuitous implication of the last clause, Shaftesbury 
 would in that case only be doing what Berkeley constantly and 
 passionately called upon unbelievers to do. Again and again 
 he urges on them the "usefulness" of Christianity, and the 
 recklessness of any course which takes away existing moral 
 motives and menaces. There is no reason to doubt that 
 Shaftesbury in his conformities acted on some principle of 
 giving a good example to " the vulgar " ; and yet Berkeley is 
 only the more exasperated. 
 
 Between the two men there is perhaps little to choose on 
 the point of principle, since Berkeley implicitly justifies the 
 subordination of truth to supposed public utility ; 3 and on the 
 point of temper and bearing the advantage is almost wholly 
 with Shaftesbury, who does seem to have attained a due philo- 
 sophic tranquillity, where Berkeley grows more and more em- 
 bittered during some thirty years of strife with the new ideas. 
 What he thought of the philosophy of his friend Pope's Essay 
 on Man, which is in large part pure Shaftesbury, 4 filtered 
 
 1 Professor Fowler is satisfied that all the insinuations at the outset of 
 the third Dialogue of The Minute Philosopher were directed against Shaftes- 
 bury. This is probable, but not certain on the face of the composition. 
 
 2 Minute Philosopher, Dial. iii. 2. 
 
 3 Cp. Dial. iii. end, and Dial. iv. 4. 
 
 4 This was noted by Voltaire (Lettres sur les Anglais, xxii. ) ; but even 
 
 XXV
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 through Bolingbroke, is not recorded. 1 The first two epistles 
 of the Essay appeared in 1732, the very year of the issue of the 
 Minute Philosopher; and they brought upon Pope charges of 
 pantheism and immorality. His rehabilitation at the hands of 
 Warburton is a good illustration of the chances of opinion- 
 making. Warburton, we are assured, on first reading the Essay 
 declared that it taught rank atheism. 2 When the French 
 academician Crousaz said the same thing, Warburton took 
 Pope's side, declared that he spoke " truth uniformly through- 
 out," and went about to prove as much in an elaborate corn- 
 in Professor Ward's excellent edition of Pope the inspiration of the Exxtty 
 is credited solely to Bolingbroke and Leibnitz, though Pope denied having 
 ever read anything by Leibnitz, and Bolingbroke dismissed him with 
 contempt, as chimerical and unintelligible (Letter to Mr. Pope, in volume 
 with Letter to Wyndham, 1753, p. 470). Specific parallels between Shaftes- 
 bury and Pope are traced by Warton, Essay on Pope, 4th ed. , ii. 64-66, 93-95, 
 97-98. But there are many others : compare, for instance, the thesis, 
 " true self-love and social are the same," with the Inquiry Concerning 
 Virtue, bk. i. part ii. 2 ; bk. ii. part ii. i. ; the passage "Shall gravitation 
 cease?" with Shaftesbury's " The central Powers . . . must not be con- 
 trolled to ... rescue from the precipice a puny animal " (Moralists, part 
 i. 3) ; and the passage 
 
 Opinion gilds with varying rays 
 
 Those painted clouds that beautify our days, 
 
 with the engraving on the title-page of the later editions of the Character- 
 istics, and its legend, irdvra virb\r]\l/is a thesis often returned to in the 
 text. So general, indeed, is the parallel, that we must suppose Boling- 
 broke's silence on the subject to be due to the sharp political opposition 
 between him and Shaftesbury in the war period, and to Shaftesbury's 
 unanswerable indictment of his career in the Characteristics (see the Mis- 
 cellaneous Reflections, Misc. iii. ch. ii., and editor's note). 
 
 1 Warton (ii. 123, 124, 295) has an odd story, derived from Spence, to 
 the effect that Berkeley persuaded Pope to omit from the Essay an address 
 to Jesus Christ, on the score that " the Christian dispensation did not 
 come within the compass of his plan " the very circumstance, it might 
 have been supposed, which to Berkeley would be most objectionable. 
 
 2 Mr. Stephen's Pope, p. 178 ; Warton, ii. 125, citing Bishop Law. 
 
 xxvi
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 mentary. Later, Pope told this precious champion that "to 
 his knowledge the Characteristics had done more harm to 
 revealed religion in England than all the works of infidelity 
 put together " ; x and Warburton passed on to Brown the 
 mission of confuting Shaftesbury. Finally, Pope, in reply to 
 the complaint of the younger Racine that his Essay was Spino- 
 zistic and irreligious, wrote repudiating alike Spinoza and 
 Leibnitz, and claiming to be on the side of Pascal and Fenelon. 2 
 Yet, even after Warburton demonstrated to him his orthodoxy, 
 he had written his " Universal Prayer," 11 which passed current 
 as " The Deist's Prayer " ; and it had contained at first a stanza 
 asking whether any act could " offend great Nature's God which 
 Nature's self inspires ?" Compared with the prudent poet, the 
 most untruthful man of his age, and the accommodating if 
 blusterous bishop, the author of the Characteristics, whom they 
 utilised and impeached, comes out fairly well for posterity, as a 
 man and as a propagandist. 
 
 His course, however, involved distinct penalties. By putting 
 forth an ethical philosophy which plainly impugned the reigning 
 creed, and embroidering it with sarcasms against the priests 
 thereof, he put himself in the position of owing his literary 
 vogue to the vogue of heresy, and of losing it when that went 
 out of fashion. To speak of him as unwarrantably indirect in 
 his way of impugning the argument from miracles, 3 is to make 
 unduly small account of the risks which in 1711 still attended 
 any direct attack on the popular religion. Under the Blas- 
 phemy Law of 1697, the author of such an attack could be 
 
 1 Chalmers' Biog. Diet., art. on Brown, cited by Professor Fowler. 
 
 2 Warton, ii. 121. The letter is dated 1742. Pascal, it may be noted, 
 is copied in the lines of the Essay describing man as the " glory, jest, and 
 riddle of the world " ; but he would certainly have repudiated it as a 
 whole. 3 So Professor Fowler, Sfuiftesbury, p. 121. 
 
 xxvii
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 imprisoned; and in 1713 Anthony Collins actually found it 
 expedient to fly to Holland during the storm aroused by his 
 Discourse of Freethiriking. Shaftesbury was quite direct enough 
 to be instantly ranked with the unbelievers. He had indeed 
 declared for a Church Establishment, on Harrington's ground 
 that " 'tis necessary a people should have a public leading in 
 religion." l But Hobbes before him had failed to win by such 
 a view any forgiveness for direct hostility to the intellectual 
 claims of Churchmen ; and Bolingbroke in the next generation 
 was disowned by the Church he had politically championed, 
 when, after his death, the views they knew him to hold on 
 religion were by his directions put in print. It was a matter of 
 ecclesiastical police. And as Shaftesbury and Bolingbroke 
 among the older writers mainly represented the deistic position 
 at the date of the French Revolution for English people of 
 heterodox culture, they passed together from fashionable popu- 
 larity to disgrace as soon as the upper classes realised that 
 rationalism of every sort had begun to mean democracy. 
 Shaftesbury in particular was notable as a rather pronounced 
 Whig, though he did speak of monarchy with much complais- 
 ance. The Characteristics accordingly have not been reprinted 
 in full from that day to this. The explanation is, broadly 
 speaking, that when "free" views were again able to force a 
 hearing, they were put by new writers in a current idiom, and 
 in terms of the ideas accumulated during a hundred years of 
 research. Relatively to modern philosophy, Shaftesbury is but 
 a pioneer. But after two German monographs such as those of 
 Spicker 2 and Gizycki 3 have been devoted to showing his im- 
 
 1 Letter Concerning Enthusiasm, 2. 
 
 2 Die Philosophic des Grafen Shaftesbury, 1872. 
 
 3 Die Philosophic Shaftesbury' s, 1876. 
 
 xxviii
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 portance in the line of progress of moral philosophy ; and after 
 two such culture-historians as Hettner and J. H. Fichte have 
 pronounced him a most important writer, whom our century 
 does ill to neglect ; even if we smile at Dr. Spicker's unsmiling 
 reminder l that it needed the Germans to teach us to appreciate 
 Shakspere, it may be assumed that a knowledge of an English 
 author of such repute will be generally admitted to be a part of 
 a liberal English culture. 
 
 IV 
 
 We come now to a study of Shaftesbury's philosophy with- 
 out any preoccupying concern as to why it first succeeded and 
 then failed. As exhibiting a way of thought which prevailed 
 widely in Europe throughout the eighteenth century, and 
 affected even the orthodox theology which repelled it, the ethic 
 and Wdt-Anschauung of the following essays deserves undis- 
 tracted attention. Put with much graceful reiteration through- 
 out the Characteristics, it may be briefly stated thus : 
 
 1. Not only is the world providentially ruled by a Mind ; 
 but that rule is as absolutely beneficent as in the nature of 
 things it can be. Nothing in the universe is " ill," relatively 
 to the whole, and everything is as it must be. 2 
 
 2. The ruling Mind may be alternately conceived as the 
 Soul of the universe and as a personality external to the 
 universe. 3 Disbelief in such a Mind need not necessarily do 
 
 1 Work cited, S. 53. 
 
 2 Inquiry Concerning Virtue, bk. i. part i. 2 ; part ii. 1 ; part iii. 
 3 ; Moralists, part i. 2, 3 ; part ii. 4 ; part iii. 2 ; Letter on 
 Enthusiasm, 4, 5. 
 
 3 Cp. Moralists, part iii. 1 ; Inquiry Concerning Virtue, bk. i. part iii. 
 3. 
 
 xxix
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 harm, but does no active good ; right belief can do much good, 
 and wrong belief much harm. 1 
 
 3. The ruling Mind being absolutely beneficent, Benevolence 
 is the proper frame of mind in Man, who is so constituted as 
 to find happiness in all his benevolent affections and in all 
 beneficent action, and misery in the contrary. 2 Delight in evil 
 does exist, but is " unnatural." 3 
 
 4. This being so, all cajolery and terrorism in religion are 
 vicious and fallacious. God is to be loved without hope of 
 reward or fear of punishment. 4 Immortality is likely enough ; 
 but future happiness is not to be held out as a bribe to right 
 action when right action is in itself happiness ; and future 
 punishment is for the same reasons not to be held out as a 
 menace, especially seeing that such considerations weaken the 
 appeal of the natural moral interests, and that there is no 
 virtue in doing right from fear. Yet the strong' hope of future 
 reward and strong fear of future punishment may lead men 
 into habits out of which true virtue may grow ; though a weak 
 belief in a future state is again entirely injurious. 5 
 
 5. While virtue is thus in every way natural to Man, there 
 is an art or refinement in that as in other expressions of natural 
 preference. Perfect virtue, then, is perfected taste in morals. 
 " All Beauty is Truth " ; " Beauty and Good are one and the 
 same."" Misconduct, accordingly, is bad taste in morals ; and 
 it is not surprising that ill-educated people err in ethics as in 
 
 1 Inquiry, bk. i. part iii. 
 
 2 Inquiry, bk. i. part ii. 2 ; Moralists, part ii. 1 ; Essay on Wit and 
 Humour, part iii. 1. 
 
 3 Inquiry, bk. ii. part ii. 3. 
 
 * Inquiry, bk. i. part iii. 3 ; Moralists, part ii. 3. Letter on 
 Enthusiasm, 5. 
 
 6 Inquiry, bk. i. part iii. 3 ; Moralists, part ii. 3 ; Essay on Wit and 
 Humour, part ii. 3, 4. 
 
 XXX
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 aesthetics. To be good-humoured and truly cultivated is to 
 be right in religion and in conduct, and consequently happy. 
 To be malevolent or maleficent, in the same way, is to be 
 miserable. 1 
 
 Merely to state these articles of philosophic faith in context, 
 of course, is to show their inconsistency. But we shall best 
 appreciate their influence by remembering that they share that 
 defect with all philosophies which have ever been popular, and 
 by reflecting that the defect followed inevitably on their purpose 
 as a reform of religious theory from within. If we ask why 
 Shaftesbury in effect affirmed that "whatever is, is right," 
 that the universe is beneficently controlled, and that man is 
 naturally virtuous, while avowing that most things need 
 rectifying, that the ruling Mind is normally misconceived by 
 its creatures, and that bad taste in morals abounds, the first 
 answer must be that Shaftesbury set out with some philosophic 
 conclusions entailed on him by previous thought. 
 
 His critics and commentators in general have rather oddly 
 overlooked the fact that his philosophy, as regards its bases, 
 is drawn more or less directly from Spinoza. It is customary 
 to point to The Moralists as the enunciation of his optimism 
 that presumably influenced the Theodicee of Leibnitz, which 
 appeared a year later ; but the main positions of The Moralists 
 are laid down in the Inquiry Concerning- Virtue, and the whole 
 argument of that essay is contained in the version published 
 by Toland in 1699, 2 the later alterations being in the main 
 
 1 Wit and Humour, part iii. 4 ; part iv. 1, 2 ; Advice to an Author, 
 part iv. 3 ; Moralists, part iii. 2. 
 
 2 Archbishop King's Latin essay on the Origin of Evil, to which Zart 
 thinks Leibnitz owed more than to Shaftesbury (Einfluss der englischen 
 Philosophen seit Bacon auf die deutsche Philosophic des 18ten Jahrh., 1881, 
 S. 15, 16), appeared in 1702. 
 
 xxxi
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 mere improvements in style. Now, that Shaftesbury should at 
 the age of eighteen have produced from his own meditations a 
 finished and formal philosophical treatise, of which the theses 
 were capable of influencing European thought for a century, 
 would be an extravagant assumption. It is morally certain 
 that his main ideas were given him ; and as a matter of fact 
 they are nearly all explicit or implicit in Spinoza, whose 
 teaching Shaftesbury was sure to hear of in his sojourn in 
 Holland in 1698, if he had not studied it before. That there 
 can be nothing essentially evil in the universe as a whole; 
 that sin and evil are "not positive" 11 ; that men cannot properly 
 be said to sin against God ; that blessedness is not the reward 
 of virtue but the state of virtue; that acts done from fear 
 of punishment are not virtuous ; that benevolence involves 
 happiness; that things which are evil relatively to us are to 
 be borne with tranquillity, since nothing in the universe can be 
 otherwise than it is ; that angry passions constitute a state of 
 misery all these doctrines are to be found in Spinoza's Ethics 
 or in his correspondence. 1 Some of them are also to be found, 
 in less explicit form, in the De Legibus Naturae of Cumberland 
 (1672), who like Shaftesbury oppugned Hobbes; some (with 
 other favourite ideas of Shaftesbury's such as that of the beauty 
 of virtue) in the ethic of the ancients Platonic, Stoic, 
 Epicurean ; some in Charron and Locke. With some of these 
 debts Shaftesbury was reproached by clerical assailants; but 
 not one of them, I think, noted that he echoes the Book of 
 Proverbs (xi. 17), and none of them seems to have known his 
 
 1 Cp. the Ethics, part i. Prop, xvii., Coroll. and Schol. ; Prop, xxxiii. 
 and Scholia ; Prop, xxxvi. and Appendix ; part ii. Prop. xlix. Schol. ; 
 part v. Prop. xlii. Letters to Blyenbergh, Jan. and Feb. 1665 (Ep. 32, 
 34, 36, ed. Gfrorer). 
 
 xxxii
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 relation to Spinoza, his chief forerunner. 1 It seems regrettable 
 that he himself should never have avowed his chief sources; 
 but as regards Cumberland he may have been unaware of his 
 coincidences ; and as regards Spinoza he probably had cause 
 to apprehend being specially attacked as atheistic if he 
 professed any agreement with the great Jew, since his Inquiry 
 seems to have been actually so stigmatised. 2 
 
 The ethical ideas thus variously traceable Shaftesbury puts 
 formally but simply and lucidly in the Inquiry ; and in the 
 Moralists he develops them with that urbane strategy of 
 exposition which he regarded as best ensuring attention and 
 comprehension on the part of those whom he wished to reach. 
 And the central inconsistency as well as the practical insuffi- 
 ciency of the scheme as a whole inheres in the great structure of 
 Spinoza as well as in the lighter framework set up by Shaftesbury 
 and the flimsy erection of Pope. Needless to add, Spinoza in 
 his beginnings proceeds on Descartes ; and Descartes in the very 
 act of claiming to begin a philosophy without presuppositions 
 had presupposed the idea of God. Thus the whole series of 
 efforts to deal philosophically with the problem of evil were 
 but revisions of the immemorial theological effort, with the 
 problem still conceived as theology had put it, 3 and as it was 
 envisaged ages ago in the drama of Job and his cold comforters. 
 
 1 Some suggestions Shaftesbury may also have had from the Enchiridion 
 Ethicum of Henry More, which he highly praises in one of his Letters to a 
 Student (December 30, 1709) ; and it is to be noted that Hobbes himself, 
 as against the passages (e.g. Leviathan, part i. ch. vi.) in which he seems j 
 to make moral distinctions arbitrary, expressly states their natural~"basfs in*) 
 social utility (part i. ch. xv. near end). 
 
 2 See The Moralists, part ii. 3. 
 
 3 The direct passage of the problem from theological hands to those 
 of Spinoza can be readily seen from the Disputatio de Malo of Robert 
 Baronius, 5 of part i. of his Metaphysica Generalis, described on its title- 
 
 xxxiii
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 For us to-day, the criticism of all alike is that the attempt 
 to prove the essential Tightness of an infinite universe as such 
 is not so much fallacious as meaningless. As some of our 
 discerning ancestors must have gathered from the battles of 
 Irish bishops soon after Shaftesbury's day, 1 every expedition 
 to reconcile "divine goodness" with earthly evil ends in trouble, 
 for it has to be finally admitted that infinite goodness cannot 
 be as human goodness ; that is to say, that infinite goodness 
 has no meaning for men. Thus every optimistic philosophy 
 ends in verbally explaining to an uncomprehended infinitude, 
 in terms of finite thought, the necessity of its infinite perfection 
 from its own point of view : a laudably disinterested under- 
 taking, but one which men might profitably forego in the 
 pursuit of their own concerns. 
 
 Theory apart, the undertaking has this special bane, that 
 inasmuch as any doctrine, to be held at all intelligently, must 
 needs be construed with a meaning rather than as meaningless, 
 the optimistic view of evil is always tending to paralyse ethics. 
 Normally, no doubt, the theorem that evil is nan-ens, that 
 whatever is is right, that wrong is so only relatively to the finite, 
 is held as a philosophic verbalism, out of touch with conduct. 
 
 page as ad umm theologiae accommodata (Leyden, 1657). The proposition 
 as to the nonentity of evil was also taken over by Spinoza from Descartes : 
 see the Principia philos. Cartes., Pars i. Prop. xv. and Schol., and the 
 Cogitata Metaphysica, Pars i. c. vi. Dr. Martineau, indeed {Spinoza, p. 5(5), 
 finds that in this one case of the doctrine that evil is non-ens Spinoza may 
 have been indebted to rabbinical philosophy in particular to Maimonides. 
 But for that matter the thesis is at least as old as Gregory of Nyssa, 
 who anticipated St. Augustine in using it against the Manicheans ; and it 
 reappears clearly in the Pseudo-Dionysius ; and again, long afterwards, 
 in Giordano Bruno. (Ueberweg, Eng. tr. i. 330, 343, 351 ; ii. 27.) 
 
 1 See Mr. Leslie Stephen's account of the feud of Bishops Browne and 
 Berkeley, English Thought in the Eighteenth Century, i. 114-118. Arch- 
 bishops King and Synge were implicated. 
 
 xxxiv
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 In the hands of Pope the insincerity of it becomes preposterous. 
 Spinoza and Shaftesbury, like their predecessors, affirm in one 
 breath the universal harmony of things, and in the next 
 denounce the discords. In our own day, Mr. Browning has 
 with unique vivacity repeated their procedure, reminding us 
 in one set of poems, in the ancient fashion, that we who see 
 only a minute fraction of the scheme of things have no right 
 to an opinion ; and in others darkly explaining how Deity 
 " unmakes but to remake " its moral misfits. " It's better 
 being good than bad," sings the poet, face to face with evil ; 
 going on to inform us that his " own hope is, a sun will pierce 
 the thickest cloud earth ever stretched," and that what God 
 blessed once cannot prove accurst. On that airy footing, 
 perhaps, little harm is done to anything but the logical sense. 
 But whether or not Mr. Browning ever made of his optimism 
 a deafening medium between his sensibilities and 
 
 the fierce confederate storm 
 Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 
 Within the walls of cities, 
 
 there is always an even chance that the less sensitive will so 
 employ the theorem. 
 
 In the case of Shaftesbury as in that of Pope, it is plain, 
 the optimist and the moralist are always tending to neutralise 
 each other. If partial ill be universal good, how shall the man 
 who thinks so be zealous to alter any ill save, by reflex action, 
 the pinching of his own shoe? If he be really concerned to 
 mend human things, to what end does he insist that it is only 
 from the ignorant human point of view that they need mending, 
 and that a Benevolent First Cause has done all things well ? 
 For the mere comfort of resignation under ills that cannot be 
 altered, such a moral price seems excessive, to say nothing of the 
 VOL. I XXXV C
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 philosophical vertigo involved. Haunted by the old dilemma, 
 and hemmed in by the adversary, Mr. Gladstone in our own 
 day took the prudent course of avowing that evil in general is 
 a mystery, though like his teachers he could always salve any 
 particular evil by the argument from finite ignorance. Two 
 hundred years ago, in the first enchantment of naturalistic 
 exploration, away from the theological close, the pioneering 
 theists did not feel the need for reserves, else Shaftesbury and 
 Pope had not had such an easy time of it in criticism. 
 
 We can but note, then, that Shaftesbury saddled his ethic 
 with optimism on the pressure of his theistic presuppositions, 
 and that he did his work winningly enough to satisfy the liberal 
 majority for two or three generations. If he repelled Christians 
 where Locke sought to conciliate them, on the other hand he 
 seemed to Deists to give a new footing to theistic ethics by 
 rejecting Locke's polemic against innate ideas as irrelevant, 1 
 inasmuch as moral ideas are none the less inevitably developed. 
 It was his form of optimism, as we saw, that carried the day in 
 the land of Leibnitz ; he inspired the Deism of France, through 
 Diderot and Voltaire; and it may well have been by lineal 
 literary descent from him that Browning drew his creed ; for 
 we find it accepted, apparently from the Characteristics, by 
 Priestley, 2 who passed it on to the Unitarian Cogan and to 
 W. J. Fox, from whose preaching in South Place Chapel 
 Browning would seem to have partly derived it. 3 
 
 At the same time, the ethic of the Characteristics, considered 
 apart from its theistic frame, was no less widely influential. 
 The appearance of the book, says our historian of ethics, " marks 
 
 1 See the Letters to a Student, under date June 3, 1709. 
 
 2 Essay on the First Principles of Government, 2nd ed. 1771, pp. 257-261. 
 
 3 Cp. Dr. Conway's Centenary of the South Place Society, 1894, pp. 80, 89. 
 
 xxxvi
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 a turning-point in the history of English ethical thought." 1 
 " Shaftesbury is the first moralist who distinctly takes psycho- 
 logical experience as the basis of ethics. His suggestions were de- 
 veloped by Hutcheson into one of the most elaborate systems of 
 moral philosophy which we possess ; and through Hutcheson, if 
 not directly, they indirectly influenced Hume's speculations. . . . 
 Moreover, the substance of Shaftesbury's main arguments was 
 adopted by Butler."" l In this aspect, again, our author com- 
 pels our critical attention. 
 
 The gist of Shaftesbury's doctrine of morals, later system- 
 atised by Hutcheson, lies in his claim that is self-evident " that 
 in the very nature of things there must of necessity be the 
 foundation of a wrong and a right taste, relish, or choice, as 
 well in respect of inward characters and features as of outward 
 person, behaviour, and action."" 2 Its immediate controversial 
 bearing lay in its relation to the ethics of Hobbes and Locke, 
 of whom the former, though he did incidentally note clearly 
 enough that moral law is an expression of a surmised social 
 utility, was led by his reaction against rebellious fanaticism to 
 place all moral authority in a political head ; while the latter, 
 rejecting political absolutism, placed the source of morals in the 
 will or command of Deity. To force moral philosophy from 
 these bases to that of human nature and rationally conceived 
 utility was no small service; and this Shaftesbury virtually 
 accomplished. The previous effort of Cumberland, who was in 
 
 1 Sidgwick, Outlines of the History of Ethics, 3rd. ed. p. 190. 
 
 2 Advice to an Author, part iii. 3 ; infra, pp. 216, 217. 
 
 xxxvii
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 the main not only utilitarian but psychologically materialistic, 1 
 but who still made Deity a concurrent factor in morals, seems 
 to have come to nothing, apparently for lack of adhesiveness of 
 statement. His book, whether in the original Latin or in the 
 English abridgment or complete translation, seems never to have 
 been widely circulated ; whereas Shaftesbury became instantly 
 popular ; and ever since his day, through the succession of 
 Hutcheson, Butler, Hume, Smith, Bentham, Mill, and Spencer, 
 the rationalistic view has held its ground in English thought. 
 Even Brown's clerical criticism of the Characteristics expressly 
 aimed at putting a thorough in place of an imperfect 
 utilitarianism. 
 
 Imperfections apart, Shaftesbury's teaching broadly pro- 
 moted rational morals, not only against the political and 
 theological forms of dogmatism, but against the anarchism 
 which they had generated. Locke's dogma that Tightness and 
 wrongness depend on God's will, left small theistic standing- 
 ground against his own demonstration that all moral ideas are 
 acquired, and vary accordingly. As Hutcheson remarked, 
 " Nothing is more ordinary among those who after Mr. Locke 
 have shaken off the groundless opinions about innate ideas, than 
 to allege that all our relish for beauty and order is either from 
 advantage, or custom, or education ; " 2 and the argument as 
 to morals was on all fours. Mandeville made it classic; but 
 Shaftesbury's remarks 3 show that it was popular before 
 Mandeville published the prose commentary on his Fable of 
 
 1 See the account of his doctrine by Whewell, Lectures on Moral 
 Philosophy, ed. 1862, pp. 75-83. 
 
 2 Inquiry into the Original of our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue, 1st. ed. 
 pp. 73, 74. 
 
 3 Inquiry, bk. ii. part ii. 1 ; Wit and Humour, part ii. 2 ; part iii. 
 3 ; Advice to an Author, part iii. 3. 
 
 xxxviii
 
 the Bees. Against that Nihilistic line of attack Shaftesbury's 
 defence would have been distinctly stronger if, instead of 
 affirming the infinite rightness of things and loosely attaching 
 to that concept the further formula that the infinite order is 
 absolute beauty, to which it is our business to approximate, 
 he had squarely put it that the relations involved in ethics 
 are subjectively variable, like those involved in aesthetics. 
 Moral opinions clearly enough root in the nature of things ; 
 they therefore vary with all variations and developments in 
 human relations. As Brown irreligiously put it, right or 
 beautiful actions " have not any absolute and independent but 
 a relative and reflected beauty. 11 1 And as Shaftesbury himself 
 admitted the greater need for self-study and criticism in 
 morals than in aesthetics, he should in just sequence have pro- 
 ceeded to teach that the right adjustment of human relations all 
 round is a matter of endless and anxious calculation. This 
 much he might have recognised even without the light of that 
 concept of evolution which prepares us to find in men an 
 endless diversity of adaptation to social conditions, from the 
 best to the worst. As it was, he gave a standing-ground 
 against moral anarchism ; but his optimism put his adherents 
 very much at their ease in Zion, and left not a little logical 
 room for the play of the dogmatisms which avowedly recognised 
 the difficulties he ignored. Life was too plainly a less simple 
 matter than he made it out. 
 
 Two criticisms typify the resistance against which Shaftes- 
 bury failed to provide. Mandeville in his grimly humorous 
 way pointed to the enormous force of egoism in human affairs, 
 and in effect decided for the theoretic solution of Hobbes. 
 Brown, while sharply repugning Mandeville, whose humour he 
 1 Essays on the ' Characteristics,' 1751, p. 136. 
 
 xxxix
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 appreciated as little as he did Shaftesbury's, dwelt equally with 
 him on the stress of evil, and theologically insisted on the 
 necessity of a hope of reward and fear of future punishment as a 
 restraint on human action, declaring such a belief to be " the 
 essence of religion. 11 1 Such theological utilitarianism, dignified 
 by Butler and confused by Paley, became the ruling English 
 orthodoxy. The upshot was that while Shaftesbury was in 
 favour with leisured and irresponsible men of rational culture, 
 the semi-pessimism of the cynic and of the theologian held its 
 ground with the majority, all the more easily because Shaftes- 
 bury himself allowed that " the mere vulgar of mankind often 
 stand in need of such a rectifying object as the gallows before 
 their eyes. 112 Between Mandevillism and the Church, despite 
 the revulsion of many, there grew up a curious sympathy. It 
 is indeed a mistake to take seriously, as does Professor Fowler, 
 the closing sentence of Mandeville's book, in which, with a 
 sardonic humour all his own, he speaks of Shaftesbury as 
 designing "to establish heathen virtue on the ruins of 
 Christianity. 11 There was certainly small serious concern 1 for 
 Christianity in the author of the Fable of the Bees. None the 
 less there arose, as Henry Crabb Robinson wrote to Schlosser, 
 a "sneaking kindness 11 towards Mandeville on the part of 
 Churchmen, 3 who felt that if he did not believe in them he at 
 least damaged their adversary, the optimistic pantheist. 4 The 
 
 1 Essays, p. 210. 
 
 2 Essay on the Freedom of Wit and Humour, part iii. 4, end. 
 
 3 Schlosser, History of the Eighteenth Century, Eng. tr. ii. .51, note. 
 
 4 Mandeville observed that no two systems could be more opposed than 
 his and Shaftesbury's. Yet there is a point of concurrence, at which 
 Shaftesbury's is left undeveloped. In general he argued for the pleasur- 
 ableness of virtue, where Mandeville founded on the old Christian doctrine 
 that there is no virtue without self-sacrifice. In the Inquiry, however, 
 Shaftesbury expressly admits that there is more virtue in governing a bad 
 
 xl
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 due subjection of " the vulgar," however, was sufficiently agreed 
 upon all round, down till the last decade of the century, to 
 make it possible for Shaftesburyan deists and pantheists to 
 maintain themselves as good friends of the reigning order ; and 
 when that was suddenly and vehemently assailed they seem 
 promptly to have joined the party of authority and repression. 
 
 VI 
 
 When all is said, however, Shaftesbury is found to leave to 
 our own age the legacy of a rarely tolerant judgment, a deeply 
 rational bias, and many a shrewd hint towards the understand- 
 ing of that social evolution which his formula of optimism as a 
 whole unduly glosed. He deserves, among other things, to 
 rank as one of the very first of our sociologists ; since ideas 
 which afterwards seem fresh in Hume and Ferguson are to be 
 found clearly enough set forth in his pages. Not only does he 
 confute with masterly force the Hobbesian fallacy that a 
 political compact first gives validity to moral obligations, 1 but he 
 expresses in a singularly modern way the continuity and ubiquity 
 of the associative principle in man, from the primordial herd 
 onwards to societies within society. 2 While humorists and para- 
 doxers of Mandeville^s school were obscuring the truth by their 
 exaggerations, witty or otherwise, he puts his finger accurately 
 on the economic principle in religious evolution. 3 And though 
 Mandeville on the whole did more for the analysis of con- 
 disposition than in following a good one (Inquiry, bk. i. part ii. 4). 
 " There seems," he confesses, " to be some kind of difficulty in the case." 
 
 1 See the Wit and Humour, part iii. 1 ; infra, pp. 73, 74. 
 
 2 Id. part iii. 2. 
 
 3 Miscellaneous Reflections, Misc. ii. chs. i. ii. 
 
 Xli
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 temporary social problems, he rendered no better social service 
 than did Shaftesbury in the Letter Concerning Enthusiasm, of 
 which the paralogism did no harm, seeing that men always did 
 and always will ridicule what they do not believe; while the 
 practical plea for a literary and humorous instead of a physical 
 and malignant inquisition into popular heresy was more 
 persuasive and more practically effective than any other of that 
 age, not even excepting Locke's. At a time when we are 
 imprisoning the " Peculiar People " for doing without doctors 
 for their children, it is still well worth reading. And at a time 
 when " empire " is becoming once more a popular ideal in an 
 advanced civilisation, it is no less worth while to read the 
 arguments in the Characteristics^ as to the affinity of the arts 
 and sciences for the life of free states, and as to the diseases 
 incident to overgrown ones. 
 
 Not that Shaftesbury was a sworn friend of peace. His 
 faith in the rule of infinite goodness, and in the dependence of 
 human happiness on the play of the benevolent affections, left 
 him a very warm partisan of the war against Louis XIV. ; and 
 his last days seem to have been darkened by disappointment at 
 the stop put to hostilities by the new Ministry. That "the 
 fatal villainy of the priest Sacheveril, and the fall of the old 
 Ministry and Whigs," should reduce a devout theistic optimist 
 to serious dejection, 2 and that he should die full of a sense of 
 " shame " over such a national " calamity " as the granting of 
 an easy peace to a half-ruined enemy, are notable psychological 
 facts. The onlooking mind craves a closer adjustment of 
 philosophy to life, and grows more than ever doubtful of the 
 
 1 Advice to an Author, part ii. 1,2; Wit and Humour, part ii. 2. 
 
 2 Letter to Furly, July 19, 1712, in T. Forster's vol. of Original 
 Letters of Locke, Sidney, and Shaft esbury, 1830, p. 270. 
 
 xlii
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 value of optimistic theories of things. It is only fair, however, 
 to remember that it was a dying man who thus desponded with 
 his optimistic essays under his pillow ; and for the rest, that 
 throughout his life Shaftesbury had very well fulfilled his 
 principle that happiness lies in the exercise of the benevolent 
 affections. The student Michael Ainsworth, son of his butler, 
 to whom he addressed the letters collected and published in 
 1716, was one of many beneficiaries of his. Among the others 
 was the deist Toland, to whom he accorded a pension somewhat 
 against his own bias, Toland's vivacious temperament being 
 lacking in some of the merits he most appreciated. 
 
 It is this spirit of practical benevolence, finally, that best 
 countervails the aesthetic shortcomings of Shaftesbury's aesthetic 
 essays, the Notion of the Historical Draught or Tablature of the 
 Judgment of Hercules, and the Letter Concerning Design. It is 
 with regret that I dissent from Professor Fowler's verdict that 
 these papers, which were incongruously included in the later 
 editions of the Characteristics, show him to have had a good 
 taste in the arts. They rather show him, I think, to have had no 
 breadth of taste in architecture, since he despised St. Paul's as 
 " Gothic," and to have held the typically Anglican view that 
 painting is properly not a source of delight to the sense, but a 
 vehicle of moral instruction. His aesthetic, as we have seen, 
 was like his ethic Platonist and a priori ; and when Baumgarten 
 in the next generation began to lay the bases of a truly in- 
 ductive aesthetic, he had to negate the principle on which 
 Shaftesbury most insisted. Shaftesbury was in fact false to his 
 own rules of expertise, for if he had consulted the trained tastes, 
 those of the artists, not even in England would he have found 
 them in accord with his. In the closing paragraph of the 
 Notion he expressly insists that painting "has nothing more 
 
 xliii
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 wide of its real aim, or more remote from its intention, than 
 to make a show of colours, or from their mixture to raise a 
 separate and flattering pleasure to the sense"; and though in 
 a footnote he adds a possibly sounder plea that " it is always 
 the best when the colours are most subdued," it is evident that 
 he did not value a picture as a composition in colour, but as a 
 fingerpost to right conduct. From that hopeless standpoint 
 one turns with satisfaction to his appeal, in the Letter Concerning 
 Design, for an inclusion of the whole people in the artistic 
 culture that he hoped England would thenceforth develop. 
 " In reality the people are no small parties in this cause. 
 Nothing moves successfully without them. There can be no 
 PUBLIC but where they are included." There spoke the man 
 with a gift for morals, the " virtuoso of humanity," who advised 
 authors to "add the wisdom of the heart to the task and 
 exercise of the brain, in order to bring proportion and beauty 
 into their works." l 
 
 And though the delicate copperplates of curious design 
 which adorn the old octavo editions published after the author's 
 death cannot be said to observe even his own relatively judicious 
 stipulation that multiplicity of detail should never be allowed 
 to perplex the eye in any design, yet their careful scrupulosity 
 of symbolism and of execution has a certain coeval congruity 
 with the text, while reminding us that that in turn carried in it 
 so much more of new life. In an age of mostly restrictive and 
 pedestrian artistic ideals, and of thinking that was apt to be 
 splenetic when it was not commonplace, Shaftesbury rises, 
 despite his aesthetic chains, to intellectual levels of serenity and 
 sincerity where, though aliens and predecessors may transcend 
 him, no English contemporary stands by his side not the 
 1 Advice to an Author, part ii. 3 ; infra, p. 180. 
 
 xliv
 
 EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 exasperated Swift, nor the otherwise embittered Berkeley, who 
 stand on cloudier heights; and not the esteemed Addison, 
 whose ideas are to-day so entirely negligible. Given fair play, 
 the Characteristics can still hold their own with most of the 
 books with which they competed in their generation. 
 
 JOHN M. ROBERTSON. 
 
 xlv
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 PAGB 
 
 1 
 
 TREATISE I 
 A LETTER CONCERNING ENTHUSIASM TO MY LORD ***** 
 
 Section 
 
 I 
 II 
 III 
 IV 
 V 
 VI 
 VII 
 
 5 
 9 
 17 
 24 
 28 
 31 
 37 
 
 TREATISE II 
 
 Sensus Communis ; AN ESSAY ON THE FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 PART I. Section 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 III 
 
 IV 
 
 V 
 
 VI 
 
 43 
 44 
 46 
 48 
 51 
 54 
 
 xlvii
 
 PART II. Section I . . . . .57 
 
 II 63 
 
 III .... .65 
 
 PART III. Section I . . . . . .69 
 
 II 74 
 
 III . 77 
 
 IV .... .81 
 
 PART IV. Section I . . . . .85 
 
 II 89 
 
 III 94 
 
 TREATISE III 
 
 Soliloquy OR ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 PART I. Section I . . . . . .103 
 
 II - 112 
 
 HI 124 
 
 PART II. Section I . . . . . .137 
 
 II . . . . 150 
 
 ill . 170 
 
 PART III. Section I . . . . .182 
 
 II 197 
 
 III 212 
 
 TREATISE IV 
 AN INQUIRY CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 BOOK I 
 PART I. Section I ...... 237 
 
 II .... 239 
 
 xlviii
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART II. Section 
 
 PART III. Section 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 III 
 IV 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 III 
 
 PAGE 
 
 243 
 247 
 251 
 255 
 
 258 
 261 
 265 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 PART I. Section I 
 
 II 
 
 III 
 
 PART II. Section I 
 
 II 
 
 HI 
 
 280 
 282 
 285 
 
 293 
 317 
 
 330 
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 336 
 
 xlix
 
 PREFACE 
 
 IF the Author of these united Tracts had been any friend 
 to prefaces, he would probably have made his entrance after 
 that manner, in one or other of the five treatises formerly 
 published apart. But as to all prefatory or dedicatory 
 discourse, he has told us his mind sufficiently in that treatise 
 which he calls " Soliloquy." Being satisfied, however, that there 
 are many persons who esteem these introductory pieces as very 
 essential in the constitution of a work, he has thought fit, in 
 behalf of his honest printer, to substitute these lines under the 
 title of a Preface ; and to declare " That (according to his best 
 judgment and authority) these presents ought to pass, and be 
 received, construed, and taken, as satisfactory in full, for all 
 preliminary composition, dedication, direct or indirect applica- 
 tion for favour to the public, or to any private patron or party 
 whatsoever : nothing to the contrary appearing to him from 
 the side of truth or reason." 1 Witness his hand, this fifth day 
 of December, 1710. 
 
 A. A. C. A. N. A. M. C. 
 M. D. C. L. X. X. I. 1 
 
 1 [These initials presumably signify as follows : " Anthony Ashley 
 Cooper, Armiger, Natus Anno Aetatis Christi (or Aerae Christianae) 1671 " 
 that being the year of his birth. ] 
 
 VOL. I B
 
 TREATISE I 
 
 A LETTER 
 CONCERNING ENTHUSIASM 
 
 TO 
 
 MY LORD ***** 
 
 Ridentem dicere verum 
 Quid vetat? HOB. Sat. i. 
 
 Printed first in the year MDCCVIII. 
 [* The name " Sommers" is added in the sixth edition, 1737.]
 
 A LETTER CONCERNING ENTHUSIASM 1 
 
 Sept. 1707. 
 MY LORD, 
 
 Now you are returned to . . ., and before the season comes 
 which must engage you in the weightier matters of state, if you 
 care to be entertained a while with a sort of idle thoughts, such 
 as pretend only to amusement, and have no relation to business 
 or affairs, you may cast your eye slightly on what you have 
 before you ; and if there be anything inviting, you may read 
 it over at your leisure. 
 
 It has been an established custom for poets, at the entrance 
 of their work, to address themselves to some muse : and this 
 practice of the ancients has gained so much repute that even 
 in our days we find it almost constantly imitated. I cannot 
 but fancy, however, that this imitation, which passes so currently 
 with other judgments, must at some time or other have stuck 
 a little with your lordship, who is used to examine things by a 
 
 1 [The words " enthusiasm " and " enthusiast " normally carried in the 
 seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the significance of "fanaticism" and 
 " fanatic/' especially of the emotionally demonstrative kind. Churchmen 
 and Deists alike disparaged all such manifestations. Compare Locke, 
 Essay, bk. iv. ch. xix. 7. Shaftesbury accepts the normal sense of the 
 terms, but endeavours in this Letter and elsewhere to widen and elevate 
 their application. Compare the end of the present Letter with the Moralists, 
 part iii. 2, and the Miscellaneous Reflections, Misc. ii. ch. i. Dr. 
 Henry More had previously urged such a modification ; but Shaftesbury 
 appears to have given the first effective lead to the modern and com- 
 mendatory use of the terms.] 
 
 5
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 better standard than that of fashion or the common taste. 
 You must certainly have observed our poets under a remarkable 
 constraint, when obliged to assume this character : and you 
 have wondered, perhaps, why that air of enthusiasm, which sits 
 so gracefully with an ancient, should be so spiritless and 
 awkward in a modern. But as to this doubt, your lordship 
 would have soon resolved yourself; and it could only serve to 
 bring across you a reflection you have often made on many 
 occasions besides, that truth is the most powerful thing in the 
 world, since even fiction itself must be governed by it, and can 
 only please by its resemblance. The appearance of reality is 
 necessary to make any passion agreeably represented ; and to 
 be able to move others we must first be moved ourselves, or at 
 least seem to be so, upon some probable grounds. Now what 
 possibility is there that a modern, who is known never to have 
 worshipped Apollo, or owned any such deity as the muses, 
 should persuade us to enter into his pretended devotion and 
 move us by his feigned zeal in a religion out of date ? But as 
 for the ancients, 'tis known they derived both their religion and 
 polity from the muses' art. How natural therefore must it 
 have appeared in any, but especially a poet of those times, to 
 address himself in raptures of devotion to those acknowledged 
 patronesses of wit and science ? Here the poet might with 
 probability feign an ecstasy, though he really felt none : and 
 supposing it to have been mere affectation, it would look how- 
 ever like something natural, and could not fail of pleasing. 
 
 But perhaps, my lord, there was a further mystery in the 
 case. Men, your lordship knows, are wonderfully happy in a 
 faculty of deceiving themselves, whenever they set heartily about 
 it: and a very small foundation of any passion will serve us, 
 not only to act it well, but even to work ourselves into it 
 beyond our own reach. Thus, by a little affectation in love- 
 matters, and with the help of a romance or novel, a boy of 
 fifteen, or a grave man of fifty, may be sure to grow a very 
 natural coxcomb, and feel the belle passion in good earnest. A 
 
 6
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 man of tolerable good-nature, who happens to be a little piqued, 
 may, by improving his resentment, become a very fury for 
 revenge. Even a good Christian, who would needs be over-good, 
 and thinks he can never believe enough, may, by a small inclina- 
 tion well improved, extend his faith so largely as to comprehend 
 in it not only all scriptural and traditional miracles, but a solid 
 system of old wives' stories. Were it needful, I could put your 
 lordship in mind of an eminent, learned, and truly Christian 
 prelate you once knew, 1 who could have given you a full account 
 of his belief in fairies. And this, methinks, may serve to make 
 appear how far an ancient poet's faith might possibly have been 
 raised together with his imagination. 
 
 But we Christians, who have such ample faith ourselves, will 
 allow nothing to poor heathens. They must be infidels in 
 every sense. We will not allow them to believe so much as 
 their own religion ; which, we cry, is too absurd to have been 
 credited by any besides the mere vulgar. But if a reverend 
 Christian prelate may be so great a volunteer in faith, as beyond 
 the ordinary prescription of the catholic church to believe in 
 fairies, why may not a heathen poet, in the ordinary way of 
 his religion, be allowed to believe in muses ? For these, your 
 lordship knows, were so many divine persons in the heathen 
 creed, and were essential in their system of theology. The 
 goddesses had their temples and worship, the same as the other 
 deities : and to disbelieve the Holy Nine, or their Apollo, was 
 the same as to deny Jove himself, and must have been esteemed 
 equally profane and atheistical by the generality of sober men. 
 Now what a mighty advantage must it have been to an ancient 
 poet to be thus orthodox, and by the help of his education, and 
 a good-will into the bargain, to work himself up to the belief 
 of a divine presence and heavenly inspiration ? It was never 
 surely the business of poets in those days to call revelation in 
 
 1 Dr. Edward Fowler, Bishop of Gloucester. [Note to ed. of 1733. 
 One of the replies to the Letter deals excitedly with this passage, and is 
 plausihly ascribed to Bishop Fowler. ] 
 
 7
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 question, when it evidently made so well for their art. On the 
 contrary, they could not fail to animate their faith as much as 
 possible ; when by a single act of it, well enforced, they could 
 raise themselves into such angelical company. 
 
 How much the imagination of such a presence must exalt 
 a genius we may observe merely from the influence which an 
 ordinary presence has over men. Our modern wits are more 
 or less raised by the opinion they have of their company, and 
 the idea they form to themselves of the persons to whom they 
 make their addresses. A common actor of the stage will inform 
 us how much a full audience of the better sort exalts him above 
 the common pitch. And you, my lord, who are the noblest 
 actor, and of the noblest part assigned to any mortal on this 
 earthly stage, when you are acting for liberty and mankind ; l 
 does not the public presence, that of your friends, and the well- 
 wishers to your cause, add something to your thought and 
 genius ? Or is that sublime of reason, and that power of 
 eloquence, which you discover in public, no more than what 
 you are equally master of in private, and can command at 
 any time, alone, or with indifferent company, or in any easy 
 or cool hour? This indeed were more godlike; but ordinary 
 humanity, I think, reaches not so high. 
 
 For my own part, my lord, I have really so much need of 
 some considerable presence or company to raise my thoughts on 
 any occasion, that when alone I must endeavour by strength 
 of fancy to supply this want ; and in default of a muse, must 
 inquire out some great man of a more than ordinary genius, 
 whose imagined presence may inspire me with more than what 
 
 1 [The high eulogy here passed on Somers was not overstrained, accord- 
 ing to the literary standards of the time. Addison dedicated to him the 
 Spectator in nearly as high a strain ; and Swift's humorous dedication of 
 the Tale of a Tub goes as far ; though on changing parties Swift changed 
 his tone. The detailed estimate in Macaulay's twentieth chapter sub- 
 stantially bears out all these panegyrics on the great Whig statesman. 
 In religion he seems to have been nearly if not quite as advanced as 
 Shaftesbury, for whom he had a great regard.] 
 
 8
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 I feel at ordinary hours. And thus, my lord, have I chosen to 
 address myself to your lordship ; though without subscribing 
 my name : allowing you as a stranger the full liberty of reading 
 no more than what you may have a fancy for ; but reserving to 
 myself the privilege of imagining you read all, with particular 
 notice, as a friend, and one whom I may justifiably treat with 
 the intimacy and freedom which follows. 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 IF the knowing well how to expose any infirmity or vice were a 
 sufficient security for the virtue which is contrary, how excellent 
 an age might we be presumed to live in ! Never was there in 
 our nation a time known when folly and extravagance of every 
 kind were more sharply inspected, or more wittily ridiculed. 
 And one might hope, at least from this good symptom, that 
 our age was in no declining state ; since whatever our distempers 
 are, we stand so well affected to our remedies. To bear the 
 being told of faults is in private persons the best token of 
 amendment. 'Tis seldom that a public is thus disposed. For 
 where jealousy of state, or the ill lives of the great people, or 
 any other cause, is powerful enough to restrain the freedom of 
 censure in any part, it in effect destroys the benefit of it in the 
 whole. /There can be no impartial and free censure of manners 
 where any peculiar custom or national opinion is set apart, and 
 not only exempted from criticism, but even flattered with the 
 highest art. 'Tis only in a free nation, such as ours, that 
 imposture has no privilege ; and that neither the credit of a 
 court, the power of a nobility, nor the awfulness of a Church 
 can give her protection, or hinder her from being arraigned in 
 every shape and appearance. 'Tis true, this liberty may seem 
 to run too far. We may perhaps be said to make ill use of it. 
 So every one will say, when he himself is touched, and his 
 opinion freely examined. But who shall be judge of what 
 may be freely examined and what may not ? Where liberty 
 
 9
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 may be used and where it may not ? What remedy shall we 
 prescribe to this in general ? Can there be a better than from 
 that liberty itself which is complained of ? If men are vicious, 
 petulant, or abusive, the magistrate may correct them : but if 
 they reason ill, "'tis reason still must teach them to do better. 
 Justness of thought and style, refinement in manners, good 
 breeding, and politeness of every kind can come only from the 
 trial and experience of what is best. Let but the search go 
 freely on, and the right measure of everything will soon be 
 found. Whatever humour has got the start, if it be unnatural, 
 it cannot hold; and the ridicule, if ill-placed at first, will 
 certainly fall at last where it deserves. 
 
 I have often wondered to see men of sense so mightily 
 alarmed at the approach of anything like ridicule on certain 
 subjects ; as if they mistrusted their own judgment. For what 
 ridicule can lie against reason ? or how can any one of the least 
 justness of thought endure a ridicule wrong placed ? Nothing 
 is more ridiculous than this itself. The vulgar, indeed, may 
 swallow any sordid jest, any mere drollery or buffoonery ; but 
 it must be a finer and truer wit which takes with the men of 
 sense and breeding. How comes it to pass, then, that we 
 appear such cowards in reasoning, and are so afraid to stand 
 the test of ridicule ? O ! say we, the subjects are too grave. 
 Perhaps so : but let us see first whether they are really grave 
 or no : for in the manner we may conceive them they may, 
 peradventure, be very grave and weighty in our imagination, 
 but very ridiculous and impertinent in their own nature. 
 Gravity is of the very essence of imposture. It does not only 
 make us mistake other things, but is apt perpetually almost to 
 mistake itself. For even in common behaviour, how hard is it 
 for the grave character to keep long out of the limits of the 
 formal one ? We can never be too grave, if we can be assured 
 we are really what we suppose. And we can never too much 
 honour or revere anything for grave, if we are assured the 
 thing is grave, as we apprehend it. The main point is to know 
 
 10
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 always true gravity from the false : and this can only be by 
 carrying the rule constantly with us, and freely applying it not 
 only to the things about us, but to ourselves ; for if unhappily 
 we lose the measure in ourselves, we shall soon lose it in every- 
 thing besides. Now what rule or measure is there in the world, 
 except in the considering of the real temper of things, to find 
 which are truly serious and which ridiculous? And how can 
 this be done, unless by applying the ridicule, to see whether it 
 will bear ? But if we fear to apply this rule in anything, what 
 security can we have against the imposture of formality in all 
 things ? We have allowed ourselves to be formalists in one 
 point; and the same formality may rule us as it pleases in 
 all other. 
 
 'Tis not in every disposition that we are capacitated to judge 
 of things. We must beforehand judge of our own temper, and 
 accordingly of other things which fall under our judgment. 
 But we must never more pretend to judge of things, or of our 
 own temper in judging them, when we have given up our 
 preliminary right of judgment, and under a presumption of 
 gravity have allowed ourselves to be most ridiculous and to 
 admire profoundly the most ridiculous things in nature, at least 
 for aught we know. For having resolved never to try, we can 
 never be sure. 
 
 Ridiculum acri 
 Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res. 1 
 
 This, my lord, I may safely aver, is so true in itself, and so 
 well known for truth by the cunning formalists of the age, that 
 they can better bear to have their impostures railed at, with all 
 the bitterness and vehemence imaginable, than to have them 
 touched ever so gently in this other way. They know very well, 
 that as modes and fashions, so opinions, though ever so ridi- 
 culous, are kept up by solemnity ; and that those formal notions, 
 
 1 [" A jest often decides weighty matters better and more forcibly than 
 can asperity." Hor. Sat. i. x. 14, 15.] 
 
 11
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 which grew up probably in an ill mood and have been conceived 
 in sober sadness, are never to be removed but in a sober kind of 
 cheerfulness, and by a more easy and pleasant way of thought. 
 There is a melancholy which accompanies all enthusiasm. Be it 
 love or religion (for there are enthusiasms in both) nothing can 
 put a stop to the growing mischief of either, till the melancholy 
 be removed and the mind at liberty to hear what can be said 
 against the ridiculousness of an extreme in either way. 
 
 It was heretofore the wisdom of some wise nations to let 
 people be fools as much as they pleased, and never to punish 
 seriously what deserved only to be laughed at, and was, after 
 all, best cured by that innocent remedy. There are certain 
 humours in mankind which of necessity must have vent. The 
 human mind and body are both of them naturally subject to 
 commotions : and as there are strange ferments in the blood, 
 which in many bodies occasion an extraordinary discharge ; so 
 in reason, too, there are heterogeneous particles which must be 
 thrown off by fermentation. Should physicians endeavour 
 absolutely to allay those ferments of the body, and strike in 
 the humours which discover themselves in such eruptions, they 
 might, instead of making a cure, bid fair perhaps to raise a 
 plague, and turn a spring-ague or an autumn-surfeit into an 
 epidemical malignant fever. They are certainly as ill physicians 
 in the body-politic who would needs be tampering with these 
 mental eruptions; and under the specious pretence of healing 
 this itch of superstition, and saving souls from the contagion of 
 enthusiasm, should set all nature in an uproar, and turn a few 
 innocent carbuncles into an inflammation and mortal gangrene. 
 
 We read l in history that Pan, when he accompanied 
 Bacchus in an expedition to the Indies, found means to strike a 
 terror through a host of enemies by the help of a small company, 
 whose clamours he managed to good advantage among the 
 echoing rocks and caverns of a woody vale. The hoarse bellow- 
 ing of the caves, joined to the hideous aspect of such dark and 
 1 Polyaeni Strateg. i. 2. 
 
 12
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 desert places, raised such a horror in the enemy, that in this 
 state their imagination helped them to hear voices, and doubtless 
 to see forms too, which were more than human : whilst the 
 uncertainty of what they feared made their fear yet greater, and 
 spread it faster by implicit looks than any narration could 
 convey it. And this was what in after-times men called a panic. 
 The story indeed gives a good hint of the nature of this passion, 
 which can hardly be without some mixture of enthusiasm and 
 horrors of a superstitious kind. 
 
 One may with good reason call every passion panic which is 
 raised in a multitude and conveyed by aspect or, as it were, by 
 contact of sympathy. Thus popular fury may be called panic 
 when the rage of the people, as we have sometimes known, has 
 put them beyond themselves ; especially where religion has had 
 to do. And in this state their very looks are infectious. The 
 fury flies from face to face ; and the disease is no sooner seen than 
 caught. They who in a better situation of mind have beheld a 
 multitude under the power of this passion, have owned that they 
 saw in the countenances of men something more ghastly and 
 terrible than at other times is expressed on the most passionate 
 occasion. Such force has society in ill as well as in good 
 passions : and so much stronger any affection is for being social 
 and communicative. 
 
 Thus, my lord, there are many panics in mankind besides 
 merely that of fear. And thus is religion also panic; when 
 enthusiasm of any kind gets up, as oft, on melancholy occasions, 
 it will. For vapours naturally rise ; and in bad times especially, 
 when the spirits of men are low, as either in public calamities, 
 or during the unwholesomeness of air or diet, or when con- 
 vulsions happen in nature, storms, earthquakes, or other amazing 
 prodigies : at this season the panic must needs run high, and the 
 magistrate of necessity give way to it. For to apply a serious 
 remedy, and bring the sword, or fasces, as a cure, must make 
 the case more melancholy, and increase the very cause of the 
 distemper. To forbid men's natural fears, and to endeavour 
 
 13
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 the overpowering them by other fears, must needs be a most 
 unnatural method. The magistrate, if he be any artist, should 
 have a gentler hand ; and instead of caustics, incisions, and 
 amputations, should be using the softest balms ; and with a 
 kind sympathy entering into the concern of the people ; and 
 taking, as it were, their passion upon him should, when he has 
 soothed and satisfied it, endeavour, by cheerful ways, to divert 
 and heal it. 
 
 This was ancient policy : and hence (as a notable author l of 
 our nation expresses it) 'tis necessary a people should have a 
 public leading- in religion. For to deny the magistrate a worship, 
 or take away a national church, is as mere enthusiasm as the 
 notion which sets up persecution. For why should there not 
 be public walks as well as private gardens ? Why not public 
 libraries as well as private education and home-tutors ? But 
 to prescribe bounds to fancy and speculation, to regulate men's 
 apprehensions and religious beliefs or fears, to suppress by 
 violence the natural passion of enthusiasm, or to endeavour to 
 ascertain it, or reduce it to one species, or bring it under any 
 one modification, is in truth no better sense, nor deserves a 
 better character, than what the comedian declares of the like 
 project in the affair of love 
 
 Nihilo plus agas 
 Quam si des operam ut cum ratione insanias. 2 
 
 Not only the visionaries and enthusiasts of all kinds were 
 tolerated, your lordship knows, by the ancients ; but, on the 
 other side, philosophy had as free a course, and was permitted 
 as a balance against superstition. And whilst some sects, such 
 as the Pythagorean and latter Platonic, joined in with the 
 superstition and enthusiasm of the times; the Epicurean, the 
 Academic, and others, were allowed to use all the force of wit 
 
 1 Harrington. 
 
 2 [" You will manage it no better than if you undertook to be rationally 
 insane." Terence, Eunuchus, Act i. Sc. 1.] 
 
 14
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 and raillery against it. And thus matters were happily 
 balanced ; reason had fair play ; learning and science flourished. 
 Wonderful was the harmony and temper which arose from all 
 these contrarieties. Thus superstition and enthusiasm were mildly 
 treated, and being let alone they never raged to that degree as 
 to occasion bloodshed, wars, persecutions, and devastation in the 
 world. But a new sort of policy, which extends itself to another 
 world and considers the future lives and happiness of men rather 
 than the present, has made us leap the bounds of natural 
 humanity ; and out of a supernatural charity has taught us 
 the way of plaguing one another most devoutly. It has raised 
 an antipathy which no temporal interest could ever do; and 
 entailed upon us a mutual hatred to all eternity. And now 
 uniformity in opinion (a hopeful project !) is looked on as the 
 only expedient against this evil. The saving of souls is now the 
 heroic passion of exalted spirits ; and is become in a manner 
 the chief care of the magistrate, and the very end of government 
 itself. 
 
 If magistracy should vouchsafe to interpose thus much in 
 other sciences, I am afraid we should have as bad logic, as bad 
 mathematics, and in every kind as bad philosophy, as we often 
 have divinity, in countries where a precise orthodoxy is settled 
 by law. Tis a hard matter for a government to settle wit. If 
 it does but keep us sober and honest, 'tis likely we shall have as 
 much ability in our spiritual as in our temporal affairs : and if 
 we can but be trusted, we shall have wit enough to save our- 
 selves, when no prejudice lies in the way. But if honesty and 
 wit be insufficient for this saving work, 'tis in vain for the 
 magistrate to meddle with it : since if he be ever so virtuous or 
 wise, he may be as soon mistaken as another man. I am sure 
 the only way to save men's sense, or preserve wit at all in the 
 world, is to give liberty to wit. Now wit can never have its 
 liberty where the freedom of raillery is taken away : for against 
 serious extravagances and splenetic humours there is no other 
 remedy than this. 
 
 15
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 We have indeed full power over all other modifications of 
 spleen. We may treat other enthusiasms as we please. We 
 may ridicule love, or gallantry, or knight-errantry to the 
 utmost; and we find that in these latter days of wit, the 
 humour of this kind, which was once so prevalent, is pretty 
 well declined. The crusades, the rescuing of holy lands, and 
 such devout gallantries, are in less request than formerly : but 
 if something of this militant religion, something of this soul- 
 rescuing spirit and saint-errantry prevails still, we need not 
 wonder, when we consider in how solemn a manner we treat 
 this distemper, and how preposterously we go about to cure 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 I can hardly forbear fancying that if we had a sort of 
 inquisition, or formal court of judicature, with grave officers 
 and judges, erected to restrain poetical licence, and in general 
 to suppress that fancy and humour of versification ; but in 
 particular that most extravagant passion of love, as it is set out 
 by poets, in its heathenish dress of Venuses and Cupids : if the 
 poets, as ringleaders and teachers of this heresy, were, under 
 grievous penalties, forbid to enchant the people by their vein 
 of rhyming ; and if the people, on the other side, were, under 
 proportionable penalties, forbid to hearken to any such charm, 
 or lend their attention to any love tale, so much as in a play, 
 a novel, or a ballad we might perhaps see a new Arcadia arising 
 out of this heavy persecution : old people and young would be 
 seized with a versifying spirit: we should have field -conventicles 
 of lovers and poets : forests would be filled with romantic 
 shepherds and shepherdesses : and rocks resound with echoes 
 of hymns and praises offered to the powers of love. We might 
 indeed have a fair chance, by this management, to bring back 
 the whole train of heathen gods, and set our cold northern island 
 burning with as many altars to Venus and Apollo, as were 
 formerly in Cyprus, Delos, or any of those warmer Grecian 
 climates. 
 
 16
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 SECTION III 
 
 Bur, my lord, you may perhaps wonder, that having been drawn 
 into such a serious subject as religion, I should forget myself so 
 far as to give way to raillery and humour. I must own, my 
 lord, 'tis not merely through chance that this has happened. 
 To say truth, I hardly care so much as to think on this subject, 
 much less to write on it, without endeavouring to put myself in 
 as good humour as is possible. People indeed, who can endure 
 no middle temper, but are all air and humour, know little of 
 the doubts and scruples of religion, and are safe from any 
 immediate influence of devout melancholy or enthusiasm, which 
 requires more deliberation and thoughtful practice to fix itself 
 in a temper, and grow habitual. But be the habit what it 
 will ; to be delivered of it at so sad a cost as inconsiderateness, 
 or madness, is what I would never wish to be my lot. I had 
 rather stand all adventures with religion, than endeavour to get 
 rid of the thoughts of it by diversion. All I contend for, is 
 to think of it in a right humour ; and that this goes more than 
 half-way towards thinking rightly of it, is what I shall en- 
 deavour to demonstrate. 
 
 Good-humour is not only the best security against enthusiasm, 
 but the best foundation of piety and true religion ; for if right 
 thoughts and worthy apprehensions of the Supreme Being are 
 fundamental to all true worship and adoration, 'tis more than 
 probable that we shall never miscarry in this respect, except 
 through ill-humour only. Nothing beside ill-humour, either 
 natural or forced, can bring a man to think seriously that the 
 world is governed by any devilish or malicious power. I very 
 much question whether anything besides ill-humour can be the 
 cause of atheism. For there are so many arguments to persuade 
 a man in humour that, in the main, all things are kindly and 
 well disposed, that one would think it impossible for him to be 
 so far out of conceit with affairs as to imagine they all ran at 
 VOL. I 17 C
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 adventures ; and that the world, as venerable and wise a face 
 as it carried, had neither sense nor meaning in it. This how- 
 ever I am persuaded of, that nothing beside ill-humour can give 
 us dreadful or ill thoughts of a Supreme Manager. Nothing 
 can persuade us of sullenness or sourness in such a being, beside 
 the actual sore feeling of somewhat of this kind within ourselves; 
 and if we are afraid of bringing good-humour into religion, or 
 thinking with freedom and pleasantness on such a subject as 
 God, 'tis because we conceive the subject so like ourselves, and 
 can hardly have a notion of majesty and greatness without 
 stateliness and moroseness accompanying it. 
 
 This, however, is the just reverse of that character which 
 we own to be most divinely good when we see it, as we some- 
 times do, in men of highest power among us. If they pass for 
 truly good, we dare treat them freely, and are sure they will 
 not be displeased with this liberty. They are doubly gainers 
 by this goodness of theirs. For the more they are searched 
 into, and familiarly examined, the more their worth appears ; 
 and the discoverer, charmed with his success, esteems and loves 
 more than ever, when he has proved this additional bounty in 
 his superior, and reflects on that candour and generosity he has 
 experienced. Your lordship knows more perhaps of this 
 mystery than any one. How else should you have been so 
 beloved in power, and out of power so adhered to, and still 
 more beloved ? 
 
 Thank heaven ! there are even in our own age some such 
 examples. In former ages there have been many such. We 
 have known mighty princes, and even emperors of the world, 
 who could bear unconcernedly, not only the free censure of 
 their actions, but the most spiteful reproaches and calumnies, 
 even to their faces. Some perhaps may wish there had never 
 been such examples found in heathens; but more especially, 
 that the occasion had never been given by Christians. 'Twas 
 more the misfortune indeed of mankind in general, than of 
 Christians in particular, that some of the earlier Roman 
 
 18
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 emperors were such monsters of tyranny, and began a persecu- 
 tion, not on religious men merely, but on all who were suspected 
 of worth or virtue. What could have been a higher honour or 
 advantage to Christianity than to be persecuted by a Nero ? 
 But better princes, who came after, were persuaded to remit 
 these severe courses. Tis true, the magistrate might possibly 
 have been surprised with the newness of a notion, which he 
 might pretend, perhaps, did not only destroy the sacredness of 
 his power, but treated him and all men as profane, impious, 
 and damned, who entered not into certain particular modes of 
 worship ; of which there had been formerly so many thousand 
 instituted, all of them compatible and sociable till that time. 
 However, such was the wisdom of some succeeding ministries, 
 that the edge of persecution was much abated ; and even that 
 prince l who was esteemed the greatest enemy of the Christian 
 sect, and who himself had been educated in it, was a great 
 restrainer of persecution, and would allow of nothing further 
 than a resumption of church lands and public schools, without 
 any attempt on the goods or persons, even of those who branded 
 the State religion and made a merit of affronting the public 
 worship. 
 
 'Tis well we have the authority of a sacred author in our 
 religion to assure us that the spirit of love and humanity is 
 above that of martyrs. 2 Otherwise, one might be a little 
 scandalised, perhaps, at the history of many of our primitive 
 confessors and martyrs, even according to our own accounts. 
 There is hardly now in the world so good a Christian (if this be 
 indeed the mark of a good one) who, if he happened to live at 
 Constantinople, or elsewhere under the protection of the Turks, 
 would think it fitting or decent to give any disturbance to their 
 mosque - worship. And as good Protestants, my lord, as you 
 and I are, we should consider him as little better than a rank 
 
 1 [Julian. The subject is recurred to in the Miscellaneous Reflections, 
 Misc. ii. ch. ii. note.] 
 
 2 1 Cor. xiii. 3. 
 
 19
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 enthusiast, who, out of hatred to the Romish idolatry, should, 
 in time of high mass (where mass perhaps was by law established), 
 interrupt the priest with clamours, or fall foul on his images 
 and relics. 
 
 There are some, it seems, of our good brethren, the French 
 Protestants, lately come among us, 1 who are mightily taken 
 with this primitive way. They have set afoot the spirit of 
 martyrdom to a wonder in their own country ; and they long 
 to be trying it here, if we will give them leave, and afford them 
 the occasion : that is to say, if we will only do them the favour 
 to hang or imprison them ; if we will only be so obliging as to 
 break their bones for them, after their country fashion, blow up 
 their zeal, and stir afresh the coals of persecution. But no such 
 grace can they hitherto obtain of us. So hard-hearted we are, 
 that notwithstanding their own mob are willing to bestow kind 
 blows upon them, and fairly stone them now and then in the 
 open street ; though the priests of their own nation would 
 gladly give them their desired discipline, and are earnest to 
 light their probationary fires for them ; we Englishmen, who 
 
 1 [These were refugees from the Cevennes, where had occurred the 
 war of the Camisards, as a sequel to the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. 
 Frightful cruelties, recalling the Languedoc massacres of four centuries 
 before, awoke in the persecuted people a spirit of mystic frenzy, and 
 hundreds declared themselves inspired by the Holy Ghost to prophesy. 
 It was some of these " prophets " who reproduced in London the ecstatic 
 phenomena of their warfare in the Cevennes. In 1707 the refugees 
 petitioned the English court for succour for their destitute ; and 1000 
 a month were allowed them. In the same year (July) a number of the 
 prophets were tried for publishing books containing predictions of trouble 
 for England, and were ultimately sentenced (November) to be fined 20 
 marks, with the alternative of imprisonment, and to be pilloried at 
 Charing Cross and Cornhill. Shaftesbury's Letter, which in the collected 
 edition is dated Sept. 1707, remains without reference to the sentence in 
 question. A number of contemporary pamphlets deal with the proceed- 
 ings of the " French prophets " ; and fairly full details as to the literature 
 of the subject will be found in Appendix I. to the unfinished edition of 
 the Characteristics by the Rev. W. M. Hatch, 1870.] 
 
 20
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 are masters in our own country, will not suffer the enthusiasts 
 to be thus used. Nor can we be supposed to act thus in envy 
 to their phoenix sect, which it seems has risen out of the flames, 
 and would willingly grow to be a new church by the same 
 manner of propagation as the old one, whose seed was truly said 
 to be from the blood of the martyrs. 
 
 But how barbarous still, and more than heathenishly cruel, 
 are we tolerating Englishmen ! For, not contented to deny 
 these prophesying enthusiasts the honour of a persecution, we 
 have delivered them over to the cruellest contempt in the world. 
 I am told, for certain, that they are at this very time 1 the 
 subject of a choice droll or puppet-show at Barflemy Fair. 2 
 There, doubtless, their strange voices and involuntary agitations 
 are admirably well acted, by the motion of wires and inspiration 
 of pipes. For the bodies of the prophets, in their state of 
 prophecy, being not in their own power, but (as they say them- 
 selves) mere passive organs, actuated by an exterior force, have 
 nothing natural, or resembling real life, in any of their sounds 
 or motions ; so that how awkwardly soever a puppet-show may 
 imitate other actions, it must needs represent this passion to 
 the life. And whilst Barf lemy Fair is in possession of this 
 privilege, I dare stand security to our National Church that no 
 sect of enthusiasts, no new venders of prophecy or miracles, 
 
 1 Viz. Anno 1707. 
 
 2 [i.e. St. Bartholomew's Fair, then at the height of its popularity and 
 disrepute. In 1708 was made the first of a series of attempts to confine it 
 within its original bounds of three days, which it had so far exceeded as 
 to last a full fortnight. No reference is made in Professor Henry Morley's 
 Memoirs of Bartholomew Fair to the particular "droll" mentioned by 
 Shaftesbury ; but such a performance was sure to be popular, being a 
 return to a favourite species of ridicule, dating from Ben Jonson's day. 
 It is to be feared that the puppet-show was not conducted in the spirit of 
 Shaftesbury's essay ; but the "prophecies" seem rapidly to have degenerated 
 into money-getting imposture. See, in Mr. Hatch's edition, p. 33, 
 extracts from a satirical handbill on the pilloried prophets, preserved in 
 the Bodleian, also his Appendix, pp. 380, 381.] 
 
 21
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 shall ever get the start, or put her to the trouble of trying her 
 strength with them, in any case. 
 
 Happy it was for us, that when popery had got possession, 
 Smithfield was used in a more tragical way. Many of our first 
 reformers, 'tis feared, were little better than enthusiasts; and 
 God knows whether a warmth of this kind did not considerably 
 help us in throwing off that spiritual tyranny. So that had 
 not the priests, as is usual, preferred the love of blood to all 
 other passions, they might in a merrier way, perhaps, have 
 evaded the greatest force of our reforming spirit. I never heard 
 that the ancient heathens were so well advised in their ill 
 purpose of suppressing the Christian religion in its first rise, as 
 to make use, at any time, of this Barf lemy Fair method. But 
 this I am persuaded of, that had the truth of the Gospel been 
 any way surmountable, they would have bid much fairer for the 
 silencing it, if they had chosen to bring our primitive founders 
 upon the stage in a pleasanter way than that of bear-skins and 
 pitch-barrels. 
 
 The Jews were naturally a very cloudy l people, and would 
 endure little raillery in anything, much less in what belonged 
 to any religious doctrines or opinions. Religion was looked 
 upon with a sullen eye ; and hanging was the only remedy they 
 could prescribe for anything which looked like setting up a new 
 revelation. The sovereign argument was Crucify, Crucify. 2 
 But with all their malice and inveteracy to our Saviour, and his 
 apostles after him, had they but taken the fancy to act such 
 puppet-shows in his contempt, as at this hour the papists are 
 acting in his honour, I am apt to think they might possibly 
 have done our religion more harm than by all their other ways 
 of severity. 
 
 1 [i.e. gloomy.] 
 
 2 Our author having been censured for this and some following passages 
 concerning the Jews, the reader is referred to the notes and citations in 
 the Miscellaneous Reflections, Misc. ii. ch. i. [See also, hereinafter, the 
 Advice to an Author, part iii. 1.] 
 
 22
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 I believe our great and learned Apostle found less advantage l 
 from the easy treatment of his Athenian antagonists, than from 
 the surly and curst spirit of the most persecuting Jewish cities. 
 He made less improvement of the candour and civility of his 
 Roman judges, than of the zeal of the synagogue and vehemence 
 of his national priests. Though when I consider this apostle as 
 appearing either before the witty Athenians, or before a Roman 
 court of judicature, in the presence of their great men and ladies, 
 and see how handsomely he accommodates himself to the appre- 
 hensions and temper of those politer people, I do not find that 
 he declines the way of wit or good-humour ; but, without 
 suspicion of his cause, is willing generously to commit it to this 
 proof, and try it against the sharpness of any ridicule which 
 might be offered. 
 
 But though the Jews we,re never pleased to try their wit or 
 malice this way against our Saviour or his apostles, the irre- 
 ligious part of the heathens had tried it long before against the 
 best doctrines and best characters of men which had ever arisen 
 amongst them. Nor did this prove in the end any injury, but, 
 on the contrary, the highest advantage to those very characters 
 and doctrines, which, having stood the proof, were found so solid 
 and just. The divinest man who had ever appeared in the 
 heathen world was in the height of witty times, and by the 
 wittiest of all poets, most abominably ridiculed, in a whole 
 comedy writ and acted on purpose. But so far was this from 
 sinking his reputation, or suppressing his philosophy, that they 
 each increased the more for it ; and he apparently grew to be 
 more the envy of other teachers. He was not only contented to 
 be ridiculed ; but, that he might help the poet as much as 
 possible, he presented himself openly in the theatre ; that his 
 
 1 What advantage he made of his sufferings, and how pathetically his 
 bonds and stripes were set to view, and often pleaded by him, to raise his 
 character, and advance the interest of Christianity, any one who reads his 
 Epistles, and is well acquainted with his manner and style, may easily 
 observe. 
 
 23
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 real figure (which was no advantageous one) might be compared 
 with that which the witty poet had brought as his representative 
 on the stage. Such was his good-humour ! Nor could there be 
 in the world a greater testimony of the invincible goodness of 
 the man, or a greater demonstration, that there was no imposture 
 either in his character or opinions. For that imposture should 
 dare sustain the encounter of a grave enemy is no wonder. A 
 solemn attack, she knows, is not of such danger to her. There 
 is nothing she abhors or dreads like pleasantness and good- 
 humour. 
 
 SECTION IV 
 
 IN short, my lord, the melancholy way of treating religion is 
 that which, according to my apprehension, renders it so tragical, 
 and is the occasion of its acting in reality such dismal tragedies 
 in the world. And my notion is, that provided we treat religion 
 with good manners, we can never use too much good-humour, 
 or examine it with too much freedom and familiarity. For, if 
 it be genuine and sincere, it will not only stand the proof, but 
 thrive and gain advantage from hence; if it be spurious, or 
 mixed with any imposture, it will be detected and exposed. 
 
 The melancholy way in which we have been taught religion, 
 makes us unapt to think of it in good-humour. 'Tis in adversity 
 chiefly, or in ill health, under affliction, or disturbance of mind, 
 or discomposure of temper, that we have recourse to it. Though 
 in reality we are never so unfit to think of it as at such a heavy 
 and dark hour. We can never be fit to contemplate anything 
 above us, when we are in no condition to look into ourselves, 
 and calmly examine the temper of our own mind and passions. 
 For then it is we see wrath, and fury, and revenge, and terrors 
 in the Deity ; when we are full of disturbances and fears within, 
 and have, by sufferance and anxiety, lost so much of the natural 
 calm and easiness of our temper. 
 
 We must not only be in ordinary good-humour, but in the 
 
 24
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 best of humours, and in the sweetest, kindest disposition of our 
 lives, to understand well what true goodness is, and what those 
 attributes imply which we ascribe with such applause and 
 honour to the Deity. We shall then be able to see best 
 whether those forms of justice, those degrees of punishment, 
 that temper of resentment, and those measures of offence and 
 indignation, which we vulgarly suppose in God, are suitable to 
 those original ideas of goodness, which the same Divine Being, 
 or Nature under him, has implanted in us, and which we must 
 necessarily presuppose, in order to give him praise or honour in 
 any kind. This, my lord, is the best security against all super- 
 stition : to remember that there is nothing in God but what is 
 godlike ; and that he is either not at all, or truly and perfectly 
 good. But when we are afraid to use our reason freely, even on 
 that very question, " whether he really be, or not, " we then 
 actually presume him bad, and flatly contradict that pretended 
 character of goodness and greatness; whilst we discover this 
 mistrust of his temper, and fear his anger and resentment, in 
 the case of this freedom of inquiry. 
 
 We have a notable instance of this freedom in one of our 
 sacred authors. As patient as Job is said to be, it cannot be 
 denied that he makes bold enough with God, and takes his 
 providence roundly to task. His friends, indeed, plead hard 
 with him, and use all arguments, right or wrong, to patch up 
 objections, and set the affairs of providence upon an equal foot. 
 They make a merit of saying all the good they can of God, at 
 the very stretch of their reason, and sometimes quite beyond it. 
 But this, in Job's opinion, is flattering God, accepting of God's 
 person, and even mocking him. 1 And no wonder. For, what 
 merit can there be in believing God, or his providence, upon 
 frivolous and weak grounds ? W'hat virtue in assuming an 
 opinion contrary to the appearance of things, and resolving to 
 hear nothing which may be said against it ? Excellent character 
 of the God of truth! that he should be offended at us for 
 
 1 ch. xiii. 7-10. 
 25
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 having refused to put the lie upon our understandings, as much 
 as in us lay, and be satisfied with us for having believed at a 
 venture, and against our reason, what might have been the 
 greatest falsehood in the world, for anything we could bring as 
 a proof or evidence to the contrary ! 
 
 It is impossible that any besides an ill-natured man can wish 
 against the being of a God; for this is wishing against the 
 public, and even against one's private good too, if rightly 
 understood. But if a man has not any such ill-will to stifle 
 his belief, he must have surely an unhappy opinion of God, and 
 believe him not so good by far as he knows himself to be, if he 
 imagines that an impartial use of his reason, in any matter of 
 speculation whatsoever, can make him run any risk hereafter; 
 and that a mean denial of his reason, and an affectation of belief 
 in any point too hard for his understanding, can entitle him 
 to any favour in another world. This is being sycophants in 
 religion, mere parasites of devotion. "Tis using God as the 
 crafty beggars use those they address to, when they are ignorant 
 of their quality. The novices amongst them may innocently 
 come out, perhaps, with a " good sir," or a " good forsooth " ; 
 but with the old stagers, no matter whom they meet in a coach, 
 ^ 'tis always " good your honour ! " or " good your lordship ! " or 
 " your ladyship ! " For if there should be really a lord in the 
 case, we should be undone (say they) for want of giving the 
 title ; but if the party should be no lord, there would be no 
 offence ; it would not be ill taken. 
 
 And thus it is in religion. We are highly concerned how 
 to beg right ; and think all depends upon hitting the title, and 
 making a good guess. 'Tis the most beggarly refuge imaginable, 
 which is so mightily cried up, and stands as a great maxim with 
 many able men, "that they should strive to have faith, and 
 believe to the utmost ; because if, after all, there be nothing in 
 the matter, there will be no harm in being thus deceived ; but 
 if there be anything, it will be fatal for them not to have 
 believed to the full." But they are so far mistaken that, whilst 
 
 26
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 they have this thought, 'tis certain they can never believe either 
 to their satisfaction and happiness in this world, or with any 
 advantage of recommendation to another. For besides that our 
 reason, which knows the cheat, will never rest thoroughly 
 satisfied on such a bottom, but turn us often adrift, and toss 
 us in a sea of doubt and perplexity, we cannot but actually 
 grow worse in our religion, and entertain a worse opinion still 
 of a Supreme Deity, whilst our belief is founded on so injurious 
 a thought of him. 
 
 To love the public, to study universal good, and to promote 
 the interest of the whole world, as far as lies within our power, 
 is surely the height of goodness, and makes that temper which 
 we call divine. In this temper, my lord (for surely you should 
 know it well), 'tis natural for us to wish that others should 
 partake with us, by being convinced of the sincerity of our 
 exemple. 'Tis natural for us to wish our merit should be known ; 
 particularly if it be our fortune to have served a nation as a 
 good Minister ; or as some prince, or father of a country, to have 
 rendered happy a considerable part of mankind under our care. 
 But if it happened that of this number there should be some so 
 ignorantly bred, and of so remote a province, as to have lain out 
 of the hearing of our name and actions ; or hearing of them 
 should be so puzzled with odd and contrary stories told up and 
 down concerning us, that they knew not what to think, whether 
 there were really in the world any such person as ourself ; should 
 we not, in good truth, be ridiculous to take offence at this ? 
 And should we not pass for extravagantly morose and ill- 
 humoured if, instead of treating the matter in raillery, we should 
 think in earnest of revenging ourselves on the offending parties, 
 who, out of their rustic ignorance, ill-judgment, or incredulity, 
 had detracted from our renown ? ) ' 
 
 How shall we say then ? Does it really deserve praise to be 
 thus concerned about it ? Is the doing good for glory's sake so 
 divine a thing ? or is it not diviner to do good even where it 
 may be thought inglorious, even to the ungrateful, and to those 
 
 27
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 who are wholly insensible of the good they receive ? How 
 comes it then, that what is so divine in us, should lose its 
 character in the Divine Being? And that according as the 
 Deity is represented to us, he should more resemble the weak, 
 womanish, and impotent part of our nature, than the generous, 
 manly, and divine ? 
 
 SECTION V 
 
 ONE would think, my lord, it were in reality no hard thing to 
 know our own weaknesses at first sight, and distinguish the 
 features of human frailty with which we are so well acquainted. 
 One would think it were easy to understand that provocation 
 and offence, anger, revenge, jealousy in point of honour or 
 power, love of fame, glory, and the like, belong only to limited 
 beings, and are necessarily excluded a being which is perfect 
 and universal. But if we have never settled with ourselves any 
 notion of what is morally excellent ; or if we cannot trust to that 
 reason which tells us that nothing beside what is so, can have 
 place in the Deity ; we can neither trust to anything which 
 others relate of him, or which he himself reveals to us. We 
 must be satisfied beforehand that he is good, and cannot deceive 
 us. Without this, there can be no real religious faith or con- 
 fidence. Now, if there be really something previous to revelation, 
 some antecedent demonstration of reason, to assure us that God is, 
 and withal that he is so good as not to deceive us ; the same 
 reason, if we will trust to it, will demonstrate to us that God is so 
 good as to exceed the very best of us in goodness. And after this 
 manner we can have no dread or suspicion to render us uneasy ; 
 for it is malice only, and not goodness, which can make us afraid. 
 There is an odd way of reasoning, but in certain distempers 
 of mind very sovereign to those who can apply it ; and it is this : 
 " There can be no malice but where interests are opposed. A 
 universal being can have no interest opposite ; and therefore can 
 have no malice. 11 If there be a general mind, it can have no 
 particular interest ; but the general good, or good of the whole, 
 
 28
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 and its own private good, must of necessity be one and the 
 same. It can intend nothing besides, nor aim at any- 
 thing beyond, nor be provoked to anything contrary. So that 
 we have only to consider whether there be really such a thing 
 as a mind which has relation to the whole, or not. For if un- 
 happily there be no mind, we may comfort ourselves, however, 
 that Nature has no malice ; if there be really a mind, we may 
 rest satisfied that it is the best-natured one in the world. The 
 last case, one would imagine, should be the most comfortable ; 
 and the notion of a common parent less frightful than that of 
 forlorn Nature and a fatherless world. Though, as religion stands 
 amongst us, there are many good people who would have less 
 fear in being thus exposed, and would be easier, perhaps, in 
 their minds, if they were assured they had only mere Chance to 
 trust to. For nobody trembles to think there should be no 
 God ; but rather that there should be one. This however 
 would be otherwise, if Deity were thought as kindly of as 
 Humanity ; and we could be persuaded to believe, that if there 
 really was a God, the highest goodness must of necessity belong 
 to him, without any of those defects of passion, 1 those mean- 
 nesses and imperfections which we acknowledge such in ourselves, 
 which as good men we endeavour all we can to be superior to, 
 and which we find we every day conquer as we grow better. 
 
 Methinks, my lord, it would be well for us if, before we 
 ascended into the higher regions of divinity, we would vouchsafe 
 to descend a little into ourselves, and bestow some poor 
 thoughts upon plain honest morals. When we had once looked 
 into ourselves, and distinguished well the nature of our own 
 affections, we should probably be fitter judges of the divineness 
 
 1 For my own part, says honest Plutarch, I had rather men should say 
 of me, ' ' That there neither is nor ever was such a one as Plutarch ; than 
 they should say, There was a Plutarch, an unsteady, changeable, easily 
 provokable, and revengeful man, 8.v6puvos d^^Scuos, etfyuercf/SoXos, fvxfpT]* 
 ir/>6s dprfv, (UKp6\viros } " etc. Plutarch, de Superstitione. [Compare Misc. ii. 
 ch. iiL] 
 
 29
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 of a character, and discern better what affections were suitable 
 or unsuitable to a perfect being. We might then understand 
 how to love and praise, when we had acquired some consistent 
 notion of what was laudable or lovely. Otherwise we might 
 chance to do God little honour, when we intended him the 
 most. For 'tis hard to imagine what honour can arise to the 
 Deity from the praises of creatures who are unable to discern 
 what is praiseworthy or excellent in their own kind. 
 
 If a musician were cried up to the skies by a certain set of 
 people who had no ear in music, he would surely be put to 
 the blush, and could hardly, with a good countenance, accept 
 the benevolence of his auditors, till they had acquired a more 
 competent apprehension of him, and could by their own senses 
 find out something really good in his performance. Till this 
 were brought about, there would be little glory in the case, 
 and the musician, though ever so vain, would have little reason 
 to be contented. 
 
 They who affect praise the most, had rather not be taken 
 notice of than be impertinently applauded. I know not how 
 it comes about that he who is ever said to do good the most 
 disinterestedly should be thought desirous of being praised so 
 lavishly, and be supposed to set so high a rate upon so cheap 
 and low a thing as ignorant commendation and forced applause. 
 
 "Pis not the same with goodness as with other qualities, 
 which we may understand very well and yet not possess. We 
 may have an excellent ear in music, without being able to 
 perform in any kind. We may judge well of poetry, without 
 being poets or possessing the least of a poetic vein : but we 
 can have no tolerable notion of goodness, without being tolerably 
 good. So that if the praise of a divine being be so great a 
 part of his worship, we should, methinks, learn goodness, were 
 it for nothing else than that we might learn, in some tolerable 
 manner, how to praise. For the praise of goodness from an 
 unsound hollow heart must certainly make the greatest disso- 
 nance in the world. 
 
 30
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 SECTION VI 
 
 OTHER reasons, my lord, there are, why this plain home-spun 
 philosophy, of looking into ourselves, may do us wondrous 
 service, in rectifying our errors in religion. For there is a 
 sort of enthusiasm of second hand. And when men find no 
 original commotions in themselves, no prepossessing panic 
 which bewitches them, they are apt still, by the testimony of 
 others, to be imposed on, and led credulously into the belief 
 of many false miracles. And this habit may make them 
 variable, and of a very inconstant faith, easy to be carried 
 away with every wind of doctrine, and addicted to every up- 
 start sect or superstition. But the knowledge of our passions 
 in their very seeds, the measuring well the growth and progress 
 of enthusiasm, and the judging rightly of its natural force, 
 and what command it has over our very senses, may teach us 
 to oppose more successfully those delusions which come armed 
 with the specious pretext of moral certainty and matter of 
 fact. 
 
 The new prophesying sect I made mention of above, 
 pretend, it seems, among many other miracles, to have had a 
 most signal one, acted premeditately, and with warning, before 
 many hundreds of people, who actually give testimony to the 
 truth of it. But I would only ask, whether there were present, 
 among those hundreds, any one person, who having never been 
 of their sect, or addicted to their way, will give the same 
 testimony with them ? I must not be contented to ask, 
 whether such a one had been wholly free of that particular 
 enthusiasm ? but, whether, before that time, he was esteemed 
 of so sound a judgment, and clear a head, as to be wholly free 
 of melancholy, and in all likelihood incapable of all enthusiasm 
 besides ? For otherwise, the panic may have been caught ; 
 the evidence of the senses lost, as in a dream ; and the imagina- 
 tion so inflamed, as in a moment to have burnt up every 
 particle of judgment and reason. The combustible matters 
 
 31
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 lie prepared within, and ready to take fire at a spark ; but 
 chiefly in a multitude seized with the same spirit. 1 No wonder 
 if the blaze rises so of a sudden ; when innumerable eyes glow 
 with the passion, and heaving breasts are labouring with 
 inspiration ; when not the aspect only, but the very breath 
 and exhalations of men are infectious, and the inspiring disease 
 imparts itself by insensible transpiration. I am not a divine 
 good enough to resolve what spirit that was which proved so 
 catching among the ancient prophets, that even the profane 
 Saul was taken by it. But I learn from Holy Scripture, that 
 there was the evil as well as the good spirit of prophecy. 2 And 
 I find by present experience, as well as by all histories, sacred 
 and profane, that the operation of this spirit is everywhere 
 the same as to the bodily organs. 
 
 A gentleman who has writ lately in defence of revived 
 prophecy, and has since fallen himself into the prophetic 
 ecstasies, tells us "That the ancient prophets had the spirit 
 of God upon them under ecstasy, with divers strange gestures 
 of body denominating them madmen (or enthusiasts), as appears 
 evidently (says he) in the instances of Balaam, Saul, David, 
 Ezekiel, Daniel, etc." And he proceeds to justify this by the 
 practice of the apostolic times, and by the regulation which 
 the Apostle himself applies to these seemingly irregular gifts, 3 
 so frequent and ordinary (as our author pretends) in the primi- 
 tive church, on the first rise and spreading of Christianity. But 
 I leave it to him to make the resemblance as well as he can 
 between his own and the apostolic way. I only know that the 
 symptoms he describes, and which himself (poor gentleman ! ) 
 labours under, are as heathenish as he can possibly pretend 
 them to be Christian. And when I saw him lately under an 
 agitation (as they call it) uttering prophecy in a pompous 
 Latin style, of which, out of his ecstasy, it seems, he is wholly 
 
 1 See Misc. ii. ch. ii. [hereinafter]. 
 
 2 See 1 Kings xxii. 20, etc. ; 2 Chron. xviii. 19, etc. ; and [here- 
 inafter] Misc. ii. ch. iii. 3 1 Cor. xiv. 
 
 32
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 incapable, it brought into my mind the Latin poet's descrip- 
 tion of the Sibyl, whose agonies were so perfectly like these 
 
 Subito non vultus, non color unus, 
 Non comptae mansere comae, sed pectus anhelum, 
 Et rabie fera corda tument ; majorque videri 
 Nee mortale sonans : afflata est numine quando 
 Jam propiore dei. . . . l 
 
 And again presently after : 
 
 Immanis in antro 
 
 Bacchatur vates, magnum si pectore possit 
 Excussisse deum ; tanto magis ille fatigat 
 Os rabidum, fera corda domans,jingitquepremendo. 2 
 
 Which is the very style of our experienced author. " For the 
 inspired (says he) undergo a probation, wherein the spirit, by 
 frequent agitations, forms the organs, ordinarily for a month 
 or two before utterance. 11 
 
 The Roman historian, speaking of a most horrible enthusiasm 
 which broke out in Rome long before his days, describes this 
 spirit of prophecy : Viros, velut mente capta, cum jactatione 
 fanatica corporis vaticinari. 3 The detestable things which are 
 further related of these enthusiasts, I would not willingly tran- 
 scribe ; but the Senate's mild decree in so execrable a case, I 
 cannot omit copying ; being satisfied, that though your lordship 
 has read it before now, you can read it again and again with 
 admiration : In reliquum deinde (says Livy) S. C. cautum est, 
 etc. Si quis tale sacrum solenne et necessarium duceret, nee 
 
 1 [" Immediately her face changes, her colour flies, her hair falls in 
 disorder, her breast heaves and her heart swells with mad passion ; 
 greater her stature seems, and her voice not mortal, for she is breathed 
 upon by the god now imminent." Virgil, Aeneid, vi. 47-51.] 
 
 2 [" The prophetess rages monstrously in the cave, seeking to cast from 
 her breast the mighty God ; so much the more he compels the rabid 
 mouth, ruling the wild heart, and moulds her by his force." 76. 77-80.] 
 
 3 [" Men vaticinate as if out of their minds, with fanatical convulsions 
 of the body." Livy, xxxix. 13.] 
 
 VOL. I 33 D
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 sine religione et piaculo se id omittere posse ; apud praetorem 
 urbanum profiteretur : praetor senatum consuleret. Si ei per- 
 missum esset, cum in senatu centum non minus essent, ita id 
 sacrum faceret; dum ne plus quinque sacrificio interessent, 
 neu qua pecunia communis, neu quis magister sacrorum aut 
 sacerdos esset. 1 
 
 So necessary it is to give way to this distemper of enthusiasm, 
 that even that philosopher who bent the whole force of his 
 philosophy against superstition, appears to have left room for 
 visionary fancy, and to have indirectly tolerated enthusiasm. 
 For it is hard to imagine, that one who had so little religious 
 faith as Epicurus, should have so vulgar a credulity as to 
 believe those accounts of armies and castles in the air, and such 
 visionary phenomena. Yet he allows them ; and then thinks 
 to solve them by his effluvia, and aerial looking-glasses, and 
 I know not what other stuff; which his Latin poet, however, 
 sets off beautifully, as he does all 
 
 Rerum simulacra vagari 
 
 Multa modis multis in cunctas undique parteis 
 Tenuia, quae facile inter se junguntur in auris, 
 Obvia cum vem'unt, ut aranea bracteaque auri. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Centauros itaque et Scyllarum membra videmus 
 Cerbereasque canum facies simulacraque eorum 
 Quorum morte obita tellus amplectitur ossa : 
 Omne genus quoniam passim simulacra feruntur, 
 
 1 ["As to the future, the Senate enacted that if any one should believe 
 that such a cult was religiously necessary to him, and that he could not 
 without irreligion and impiety forego it, he should inform the praetor of 
 the city, who should consult the Senate. If, with not less than a hundred 
 present, the Senate should give permission, the rites might be performed ; 
 but there should not be more than five assisting at the sacrifice, nor should 
 there be any common fund, nor any master of the rites, nor any priest. " 
 Livy, xxxix. 18.] 
 
 34
 
 Partim sponte sua quae fiunt acre in ipso, 
 Partim quae variis ab rebus cumque recedunt. 1 
 
 Twas a sign this philosopher believed there was a good 
 stock of visionary spirit originally in human nature. He was 
 so satisfied that men were inclined to see visions, that rather 
 than they should go without, he chose to make them to their 
 hand. Notwithstanding he denied the principles of religion to 
 be natural, 2 he was forced tacitly to allow there was a wondrous 
 disposition in mankind towards supernatural objects ; and that 
 if these ideas were vain, they were yet in a manner innate, or 
 such as men were really born to, and could hardly by any means 
 avoid. From which concession, a divine, methinks, might raise 
 a good argument against him, for the truth as well as the 
 usefulness of religion. But so it is : whether the matter of 
 apparition be true or false, the symptoms are the same, and the 
 passion of equal force in the person who is vision-struck. The 
 tymphatki of the Latins were the nympholepti of the Greeks. 
 They were persons said to have seen some species of divinity, as 
 either some rural deity, or nymph, which threw them into such 
 transports as overcame their reason. The ecstasies expressed 
 themselves outwardly in quakings, tremblings, tossings of the 
 head and limbs, agitations, and (as Livy calls them) fanatical 
 throws or convulsions, extemporary prayer, prophecy, singing, 
 and the like. All nations have their lymphatics of some kind 
 or another ; and all churches, heathen as well as Christian, have 
 had their complaints against fanaticism. 
 
 One would think the ancients imagined this disease had 
 
 1 ["Many simulacra of things, thin, manifold in number and form, 
 wander about in all manner of ways, which when in the air they meet, 
 easily conjoin, like cobwebs or gold-leaf. . . . Thus we see Centaurs and 
 limbs of Scylla, and shapes of dogs like Cerberus, and the phantasms of 
 those passed away whose bones the earth enfolds ; since everywhere float 
 simulacra of every kind, partly those spontaneously shaped by the air 
 within itself, partly those thrown off by various things." Lucretius, iv. 
 724-737.] 
 
 2 Infra, Treatise u. part iii. 3. 
 
 35
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 some relation to that which they called hydrophoby. Whether 
 the ancient lymphatics had any way like that of biting, to 
 communicate the rage of their distemper, I cannot so positively 
 determine. But certain fanatics there have been since the ^time 
 of the ancients, who have had a most prosperous faculty of 
 communicating the appetite of the teeth. For since first the 
 snappish spirit got up in religion, all sects have been at it, as 
 the saying is, tooth and nail ; and are never better pleased than 
 in worrying one another without mercy. 
 
 So far indeed the innocent kind of fanaticism extends itself, 
 that when the party is struck by the apparition, there follows 
 always an itch of imparting it, and kindling the same fire in 
 other breasts. For thus poets are fanatics too. And thus 
 Horace either is or feigns himself lymphatic, and shows what an 
 effect the vision of the nymphs and Bacchus had on him 
 
 Bacchum * in remotis carmina rupibus 
 Vidi docentem, credite posteri, 
 
 Nymphasque discentes. . . . 
 Evoe ! recent! mens trepidat metu, 
 Plenoque Bacchi pectore turbidum 
 
 Lymphatur 2 .... 
 
 as Heinsius reads. 
 
 No poet (as I ventured to say at first to your lordship) can 
 do anything great in his own way without the imagination or 
 supposition of a divine presence, which may raise him to some 
 degree of this passion we are speaking of. Even the cold 
 
 1 [" Bacchus have I seen in far-off stony places teaching his songs (after- 
 comers, believe me !) and the nymphs conning them. . . . Evoe ! my 
 heart trembles with the still-felt fear, and wildly maddens (lymphatur) in a 
 breast filled with Bacchus." Horace, Odes, n. xix. The accepted reading 
 is laetatur, "exults."] 
 
 2 So again, Sat. i. v. 97, Gnatia lymphis iratis exstructa, where Horace 
 wittily treats the people of Gnatia as lymphatics and enthusiasts, for 
 believing a miracle of their priests : Credat Judaeus Apella, Hor. ibid. See 
 Heinsius and Torrentius ; and the quotation in the following notes, M 
 
 etc. 
 
 36
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 Lucretius makes use of inspiration, when he writes against it, 
 and is forced to raise an apparition of Nature, in a divine form, 
 to animate and conduct him in his very work of degrading 
 Nature, and despoiling her of all her seeming wisdom and 
 divinity 
 
 Alma Venus, caeli subter labentia signa 
 
 Quae mare navigerum, quae terras frugiferenteis 
 
 Concelebras. . . . 
 
 Quae quoniam rerum naturam sola gubernas 
 
 Nee sine te quidquam dias in luminis oras 
 
 Exoritur neque fit laetum neque amabile quidquam : 
 
 Te sociam studeo scribundis versibus esse 
 
 Quos ego de rerum natura pangere conor 
 
 Memmiadae nostro. 1 
 
 SECTION VII 
 
 THE only thing, my lord, I would infer from all this is, that 
 enthusiasm is wonderfully powerful and extensive ; that it is a 
 matter of nice judgment, and the hardest thing in the world 
 to know fully and distinctly ; since even atheism 2 is not exempt 
 from it. For, as some have well remarked, there have been 
 enthusiastical atheists. Nor can divine inspiration, by its out- 
 ward marks, be easily distinguished from it. For inspiration 
 is a real feeling of the Divine Presence, and enthusiasm a false 
 one. But the passion they raise is much alike. For when the 
 mind is taken up in vision, and fixes its view either on any real 
 object, or mere spectre of divinity ; when it sees, or thinks it 
 
 1 [" Nutrient Venus, who under the gliding signs of heaven fillest with 
 life the ship-bearing sea and the fruitful lands. . . . Since thou alone 
 rulest the nature of things, nor without thee ariseth aught to the holy 
 frontiers of light, nor groweth anything joyous or meet for love, thee 
 would I have for helper in framing the song I seek to build for this our 
 son of the Memmian line." Lucretius, i. 2-4, 22-26.] 
 
 2 See [hereinafter] Misc. ii. ch. ii. in the beginning. 
 
 37
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 sees, anything prodigious, and more than human ; its horror, 
 delight, confusion, fear, admiration, or whatever passion belongs 
 to it, or is uppermost on this occasion, will have something vast, 
 immane, and (as painters say) beyond life. And this is what 
 gave occasion to the name of fanaticism, as it was used by the 
 ancients in its original sense, for an apparition transporting the 
 mind. 
 
 Something there will be of extravagance and fury, when the 
 ideas or images received are too big for the narrow human 
 vessel to contain. So that inspiration may be justly called 
 divine enthusiasm ; for the word itself signifies divine presence, 
 and was made use of by the philosopher whom the earliest 
 Christian Fathers called divine, to express whatever was sublime 
 in human passions. 1 This was the spirit he allotted to heroes, 
 statesmen, poets, orators, musicians, and even philosophers them- 
 
 1 Up olffff' 8ri virb T&V NvfJKpwv K irpovoias cra^ws evOovffidffu . . . Tocravra /JLV ffoi 
 Kdl tri ir\elu ?x w navtas ytyvofj^vij^ airb OeCiv \tyeiv /raXci tpya, etc. Phaedr. 
 KCLI TOI)J 7ToXmKoi)j oi>x iJKiffTa To^iTtav <j>ai/j.ei> &j> Oetovs re elvcu K<d evOovcriafav. 
 Meno. tyvuv otiv &v Kal irepl TUI> TTOI^TWV 4v dXtyt^ rovro, Sri ov <ro<t>lq. iroto'ifv, dXXa 
 <t>tfftt TLvl K<d frBovffi&fovTes, wffirep ol 0eofJ.dvTfis /cal xpTj<Tfji.( t >8ol. Apol, In 
 particular as to philosophers, Plutarch tells us, 'twas the complaint of 
 some of the sour old Romans, when learning first came to them from 
 Greece, that their youth grew enthusiastic with philosophy. For speaking 
 of one of the philosophers of the Athenian Embassy, he says, fpura 
 e fJ.pt p\rjice rois ^ois v<p' oO rCov &\\wv i)Sovu>i> Kal diarpifiuv tKireabvT 
 irepl <t>i\offo<t>lai>. Plut. Cato Major. 
 
 [Plato, Phaedruft, 241 E, seems here misquoted. The accepted text 
 means : "I suppose you know that I shall he quite possessed (Mwrndm) by 
 the nymphs, to whom you have designedly exposed me." 
 
 Plato, Menon, 99 n : ( ' And, among them, we should say that the poli- 
 ticians were specially rapt and inspired " (Ma*n&[*u>). 
 
 Plsito, Apol. 22 B (slightly misquoted). The right version would 
 give : " So I observed also about poets in a short time that they did not 
 compose out of wisdom, but from an instinct and an inspiration (tvOov<n&ovTfs) 
 like seers and prophets." 
 
 Plutarch, Cato Major, 22 : " He put a spell upon young men, under 
 which they give up other pleasures and amusements, and are possessed by 
 philosophy" (tvdovai.G><rC). ] 
 
 38
 
 ENTHUSIASM 
 
 selves. Nor can we, of our own accord, forbear ascribing to a 
 noble enthusiasm 1 whatever is greatly performed by any of these. 
 So that almost all of us know something of this principle. But 
 to know it as we should do, and discern it in its several kinds, 
 both in ourselves and others ; this is the great work, and by 
 this means alone we can hope to avoid delusion. For to judge 
 the spirits whether they are of God, we must antecedently 
 judge our own spirit, whether it be of reason and sound sense ; 
 whether it be fit to judge at all, by being sedate, cool, and im- 
 partial, free of every biassing passion, every giddy vapour, or 
 melancholy fume. 2 This is the first knowledge and previous 
 judgment : "To understand ourselves, and know what spirit we 
 are of." Afterwards we may judge the spirit in others, consider 
 what their personal merit is, and prove the validity of their 
 testimony by the solidity of their brain. By this means we 
 may prepare ourselves with some antidote against enthusiasm. 
 And this is what I have dared affirm is best performed by 
 keeping to good-humour. For otherwise the remedy itself may 
 turn to the disease. 
 
 And now, my lord, having, after all, in some measure justified 
 enthusiasm, and owned the word, if I appear extravagant in 
 addressing to you after the manner I have done, you must allow 
 me to plead an impulse. You must suppose me (as with truth 
 you may) most passionately yours ; and with that kindness which 
 is natural to you on other occasions, you must tolerate your 
 enthusiastic friend, who, excepting only in the case of this over- 
 forward zeal, must ever appear, with the highest respect, my 
 lord, Your Lordship's, etc. 
 
 1 Of this passion, in the nobler and higher sense, see more [hereinafter] 
 in the Inquiry Concerning Virtue, bk. i. part iii. 3, end ; Moralists, part 
 iii. 2 ; Miscellaneous Reflections, Misc. ii. ch. i. 
 
 2 [Compare the more extended argument of Locke, Essay, bk. iv. ch. 
 xix., which is here condensed.] 
 
 39
 
 TREATISE II 
 
 C OM MUNIS ; 
 AN ESSAY ON THE FBEEDOM 
 
 OF 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUK 
 
 IN A LETTER TO A FRIEND 
 
 hac urget lupus, hac canis. . . . 
 
 HOR. Sat. ii. ii. 
 
 Printed first in the year MDCCIX.
 
 AN ESSAY ON THE FREEDOM OF WIT 
 AND HUMOUR 
 
 PART I 
 SECTION I 
 
 I HAVE been considering, my friend, what your fancy was, 
 to express such a surprise as you did the other day, when I 
 happened to speak to you in commendation of raillery. Was 
 it possible you should suppose me so grave a man as to dislike 
 all conversation of this kind ? or were you afraid I should not 
 stand the trial, if you put me to it, by making the experiment 
 in my own case ? 
 
 I must confess you had reason enough for your caution if 
 you could imagine me at the bottom so true a zealot as not to 
 bear the least raillery on my own opinions. Tis the case, I 
 know, with many. Whatever they think grave or solemn, they 
 suppose must never be treated out of a grave and solemn way ; 
 though what another thinks so, they can be contented to treat 
 otherwise ; and are forward to try the edge of ridicule against 
 any opinions besides their own. 
 
 The question is, whether this be fair or no? and, whether 
 it be not just and reasonable to make as free with our own 
 opinions as with those of other people ? For to be sparing in 
 this case may be looked upon as a piece of selfishness. We may 
 be charged perhaps with wilful ignorance and blind idolatry for 
 having taken opinions upon trust, and consecrated in ourselves 
 certain idol-notions, which we will never suffer to be unveiled 
 
 43
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 or seen in open light. They may perhaps be monsters, and not 
 divinities, or sacred truths, which are kept thus choicely in some 
 dark corner of our minds. The spectres may impose on us, 
 whilst we refuse to turn them every way, and view their shapes 
 and complexions in every light. For that which can be shown 
 only in a certain light is questionable. Truth, 'tis supposed, 
 may bear all lights ; and one of those principal lights, or natural 
 mediums, by which things are to be viewed, in order to a 
 thorough recognition, is ridicule itself, or that manner of proof 
 by which we discern whatever is liable to just raillery in any 
 subject. So much, at least, is allowed by all who at any time 
 appeal to this criterion. The gravest gentlemen, even in the 
 gravest subjects, are supposed to acknowledge this, and can 
 have no right, 'tis thought, to deny others the freedom of 
 this appeal ; whilst they are free to censure like other men, 
 and in their gravest arguments make no scruple to ask, Is it 
 not ridiculous ? 
 
 Of this affair, therefore, I design you should know fully 
 what my sentiments are. And by this means you will be able 
 to judge of me, whether I was sincere the other day in the 
 defence of raillery, and can continue still to plead for those 
 ingenious friends of ours, who are often censured for their 
 humour of this kind, and for the freedom they take in such an 
 airy way of conversation and writing. 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 IN good earnest, when one considers what use is sometimes 
 made of this species of wit, and to what an excess it has risen of 
 late in some characters of the age, one may be startled a little, 
 and in doubt what to think of the practice, or whither this 
 rallying humour will at length carry us. It has passed from 
 the men of pleasure to the men of business. Politicians have 
 been infected with it ; and the grave affairs of State have been 
 treated with an air of irony and banter. The ablest negotiators 
 
 44
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 have been known the notablest buffoons; the most celebrated 
 authors, the greatest masters of burlesque. 
 
 There is indeed a kind of defensive raillery (if I may so call 
 it) which I am willing enough to allow in affairs of whatever 
 kind ; when the spirit of curiosity would force a discovery of 
 more truth than can conveniently be told. For we can never 
 do more injury to truth than by discovering too much of it 
 on some occasions. 'Tis the same with understandings as with 
 eyes: to such a certain size and make just so much light is 
 necessary, and no more. Whatever is beyond, brings darkness 
 and confusion. 
 
 'Tis real humanity and kindness to hide strong truths from 
 tender eyes. And to do this by a pleasant amusement is easier 
 and civiller than by a harsh denial or remarkable reserve. But 
 to go about industriously to confound men, in a mysterious 
 manner, and to make advantage or draw pleasure from that 
 perplexity they are thrown into by such uncertain talk, is as 
 unhandsome in a way of raillery as when done with the greatest 
 seriousness, or in the most solemn way of deceit. It may be 
 necessary, as well now as heretofore, for wise men to speak in 
 parables, and with a double meaning, that the enemy may be 
 amused, and they only who have ears to hear may hear. But 
 ^tis certainly a mean, impotent, and dull sort of wit which 
 amuses all alike, and leaves the most sensible man, and even a 
 friend, equally in doubt, and at a loss to understand what one's 
 real mind is, upon any subject. 
 
 This is that gross sort of raillery which is so offensive in 
 good company. And indeed there is as much difference between 
 one sort and another as between fair-dealing and hypocrisy, or 
 between the genteelest wit and the most scurrilous buffoonery. 
 But by freedom of conversation this illiberal kind of wit will 
 lose its credit. For wit is its own remedy. Liberty and 
 commerce bring it to its true standard. The only danger 
 is, the laying an embargo. The same thing happens here, 
 as in the case of trade. Impositions and restrictions reduce 
 
 45
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 it to a low ebb. Nothing is so advantageous to it as a free 
 port. 1 
 
 We have seen in our own time the decline and ruin of a 
 false sort of wit, which so much delighted our ancestors, that 
 their poems and plays, as well as sermons, were full of it. All 
 humour had something of the quibble. The very language of 
 the Court was punning. But 'tis now banished the town, and 
 all good company : there are only some few footsteps of it in 
 the country ; and it seems at last confined to the nurseries of 
 youth, as the chief entertainment of pedants and their pupils. 
 And thus in other respects wit will mend upon our hands, and 
 humour will refine itself, if we take care not to tamper with it, 
 and bring it under constraint, by severe usage and rigorous 
 prescriptions. All politeness is owing to liberty. We polish 
 one another, and rub off our corners and rough sides by a sort 
 of amicable collision. To restrain this, is inevitably to bring 
 a rust upon men's understandings. 'Tis a destroying of civility, 
 good breeding, and even charity itself, under pretence of main- 
 taining it. 
 
 SECTION III 
 
 To describe true raillery would be as hard a matter, and perhaps 
 as little to the purpose, as to define good breeding. None can 
 understand the speculation, beside those who have the practice. 
 Yet every one thinks himself well-bred ; and the formallest 
 pedant imagines he can rally with a good grace and humour. 
 I have known some of those grave gentlemen undertake to correct 
 an author for defending the use of raillery, who at the same 
 
 1 [This is one of a number of passages in the literature of two or more 
 centuries ago showing a belief in Free Trade before it became a legislative 
 principle. Shaftesbury had doubtless profited by the teaching of Dudley 
 North, who in his economics was closely followed by Locke. Two genera- 
 tions earlier, Pepys (under date 1664, Feb. 29) cites Sir Philip Warwick 
 as ingeniously expounding the " paradox " that it does not impoverish the 
 nation to export less than it imports.] 
 
 46
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 time have upon every turn made use of that weapon, though 
 they were naturally so very awkward at it. And this I believe 
 may be observed in the case of many zealots, who have taken 
 upon them to answer our modern free-writers. The tragical 
 gentlemen, with the grim aspect and mien of true inquisitors, 
 have but an ill grace when they vouchsafe to quit their austerity, 
 and be jocose and pleasant with an adversary, whom they would 
 choose to treat in a very different manner. For to do them 
 justice, had they their wills, I doubt not but their conduct and 
 mien would be pretty much of a piece. They would in all 
 probability soon quit their farce, and make a thorough tragedy. 
 But at present there is nothing so ridiculous as this Janus-face 
 of writers, who with one countenance force a smile, and with 
 another show nothing beside rage and fury. Having entered the 
 lists, and agreed to the fair laws of combat by wit and argument, 
 they have no sooner proved their weapon, than you hear them 
 crying aloud for help, and delivering over to the secular arm. 
 
 There cannot be a more preposterous sight than an execu- 
 tioner and a merry -Andrew acting their part upon the same 
 stage. Yet I am persuaded any one will find this to be the real 
 picture of certain modem zealots in their controversial writings. 
 They are no more masters of gravity than they are of good- 
 humour. The first always runs into harsh severity, and the 
 latter into an awkward buffoonery. And thus between anger 
 and pleasure, zeal and drollery, their writing has much such a 
 grace as the play of humorsome children, who, at the same 
 instant, are both peevish and wanton, and can laugh and cry 
 almost in one and the same breath. 
 
 How agreeable such writings are like to prove, and of what 
 effect towards the winning over or convincing those who are 
 supposed to be in error, I need not go about to explain. Nor 
 can I wonder, on this account, to hear those public lamentations 
 of zealots, that whilst the books of their adversaries are so 
 current, their answers to them can hardly make their way into 
 the world, or be taken the least notice of. Pedantry and 
 
 47
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 bigotry are mill-stones able to sink the best book which carries 
 the least part of their dead weight. The temper of the peda- 
 gogue suits not with the age. And the world, however it may 
 be taught, will not be tutored. If a philosopher speaks, men 
 hear him willingly while he keeps to his philosophy. So is a 
 Christian heard while he keeps to his professed charity and 
 meekness. In a gentleman we allow of pleasantry and raillery 
 as being managed always with good breeding, and never gross or 
 clownish. But if a mere scholastic, intrenching upon all these 
 characters, and writing as it were by starts and rebounds from 
 one of these to another, appears upon the whole as little able 
 to keep the temper of Christianity as to use the reason of a 
 philosopher or the raillery of a man of breeding, what wonder 
 is it, if the monstrous product of such a jumbled brain be 
 ridiculous to the world ? 
 
 If you think, my friend, that by this description I have done 
 wrong to these zealot- writers in religious controversy, read only 
 a few pages in any one of them (even where the contest is not 
 abroad, but within their own pale) and then pronounce. 
 
 SECTION IV 
 
 Bur now that I have said thus much concerning authors and 
 writings, you shall hear my thoughts, as you have desired, upon 
 the subject of conversation, and particularly a late one of a free 
 kind, which you remember I was present at, with some friends 
 of yours, whom you fancied I should in great gravity have 
 condemned. 
 
 Twas, I must own, a very diverting one, and perhaps not 
 the less so for ending as abruptly as it did, and in such a sort of 
 confusion as almost brought to nothing whatever had been 
 advanced in the discourse before. Some particulars of this 
 conversation may not perhaps be so proper to commit to 
 paper. 'Tis enough that I put you in mind of the conversation 
 in general. A great many fine schemes, "'tis true, were destroyed ; 
 
 48
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 many grave reasonings overturned ; but this being done without 
 offence to the parties concerned, and with improvement to the 
 good-humour of the company, it set the appetite the keener to 
 such conversations. And I am persuaded, that had Reason herself 
 been to judge of her own interest, she would have thought she 
 received more advantage in the main from that easy and familiar 
 way, than from the usual stiff adherence to a particular opinion. 
 
 But perhaps you may still be in the same humour of not 
 believing me in earnest. You may continue to tell me I affect 
 to be paradoxical in commending a conversation as advantageous 
 to reason, which ended in such a total uncertainty of what reason 
 had seemingly so well established. 
 
 To this I answer, that according to the notion I have of 
 reason, neither the written treatises of the learned, nor the set 
 discourses of the eloquent, are able of themselves to teach the 
 use of it. 'Tis the habit alone of reasoning which can make a 
 reasoner. And men can never be better invited to the habit 
 than when they find pleasure in it. A freedom of raillery, 
 a liberty in decent language to question everything, and 
 an allowance of unravelling or refuting any argument, with- 
 out offence to the arguer, are the only terms which can 
 render such speculative conversations any way agreeable. For, 
 to say truth, they have been rendered burdensome to mankind 
 by the strictness of the laws prescribed to them, and by the 
 prevailing pedantry and bigotry of those who reign in them, 
 and assume to themselves to be dictators in these provinces. 
 
 Semper ego auditor tantum ? l is as natural a case of com- 
 plaint in divinity, in morals, and in philosophy, as it was of old 
 the satirist's in poetry. Vicissitude is a mighty law of discourse, 
 and mightily longed for by mankind. In matter of reason, more i 
 is done in a minute or two, by way of question and reply, than 
 by a continued discourse of whole hours. Orations are fit only 
 to move the passions ; and the power of declamation is to 
 terrify, exalt, ravish, or delight, rather than satisfy or instruct. 
 
 1 ["Must I always be a listener only?" Juvenal, Sat i. 1.] 
 VOL. I 49 E
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 A free conference is a close fight. The other way, in comparison 
 to it, is merely a brandishing or beating the air. To be 
 obstructed therefore and manacled in conferences, and to be 
 confined to hear orations on certain subjects, must needs give us 
 a distaste, and render the subjects so managed as disagreeable 
 as the managers. Men had rather reason upon trifles, so they 
 may reason freely, and without the imposition of authority, than 
 on the usefullest and best subjects in the world, where they 
 are held under a restraint and fear. 
 
 Nor is it a wonder that men are generally such faint 
 reasoners, and care so little to argue strictly on any trivial 
 subject in company, when they dare so little exert their reason 
 in greater matters, and are forced to argue lamely where they 
 have need of the greatest activity and strength. The same 
 thing therefore happens here as in strong and healthy bodies 
 which are debarred their natural exercise and confined in a 
 narrow space. They are forced to use odd gestures and 
 contortions. They have a sort of action, and move still, 
 though with the worst grace imaginable. For the animal 
 spirits in such sound and active limbs cannot lie dead or 
 without employment. And thus the natural free spirits of 
 ingenious men, if imprisoned and controlled, will find out 
 other ways of motion to relieve themselves in their constraint ; 
 and whether it be in burlesque, mimicry, or buffoonery, they 
 will be glad at any rate to vent themselves, and be revenged on 
 their constrainers. 
 
 If men are forbid to speak their minds seriously on certain 
 subjects, they will do it ironically. If they are forbid to speak 
 at all upon such subjects, or if they find it really dangerous 
 to do so, they will then redouble their disguise, involve them- 
 selves in mysteriousness, and talk so as hardly to be understood, 
 or at least not plainly interpreted, by those who are disposed 
 to do them a mischief. And thus raillery is brought more in 
 fashion, and runs into an extreme. 'Tis the persecuting spirit 
 has raised the bantering one ; and want of liberty may account 
 
 50
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 for want of a true politeness, and for the corruption or wrong > 
 use of pleasantry and humour. 
 
 If in this respect we strain the just measure of what we 
 call urbanity, and are apt sometimes to take a buffooning 
 rustic air, we may thank the ridiculous solemnity and sour 
 humour of our pedagogues ; or rather, they may thank them- 
 selves, if they in particular meet with the heaviest of this kind 
 of treatment. For it will naturally fall heaviest where the 
 constraint has been the severest. The greater the weight is, 
 the bitterer will be the satire. The higher the slavery, the 
 more exquisite the buffoonery. 
 
 That this is really so, may appear by looking on those 
 countries where the spiritual tyranny is highest. For the 
 greatest of buffoons are the Italians ; and in their writings, 
 in their freer sort of conversations, on their theatres, and in 
 their streets, buffoonery and burlesque are in the highest 
 vogue. Tis the only manner in which the poor cramped 
 wretches can discharge a free thought. We must yield to them 
 the superiority in this sort of wit. For what wonder is it if 
 we, who have more of liberty, have less dexterity in that 
 egregious way of raillery and ridicule ? 
 
 SECTION V 
 
 'Tis for this reason, I verily believe, that the ancients discover 
 so little of this spirit, and that there is hardly such a thing 
 found as mere burlesque in any authors of the politer ages. 
 The manner indeed in which they treated the very gravest 
 subjects was somewhat different from that of our days. Their 
 treatises were generally in a free and familiar style. They 
 chose to give us the representation of real discourse and 
 converse, by treating their subjects in the way of dialogue 1 
 and free debate. The scene was commonly laid at table, or 
 in the public walks or meeting-places ; and the usual wit and 
 
 1 See the following treatise, viz. Soliloquy, part i. 3. 
 
 51
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 humour of their real discourses appeared in those of their own 
 composing. And this was fair. For without wit and humour, 
 reason can hardly have its proof or be distinguished. The 
 magisterial voice and high strain of the pedagogue commands 
 reverence and awe. Tis of admirable use to keep under- 
 standings at a distance and out of reach. The other manner, 
 on the contrary, gives the fairest hold, and suffers an antagonist 
 to use his full strength hand to hand upon even ground. 
 
 'Tis not to be imagined what advantage the reader has 
 when he can thus cope with his author, who is willing to come 
 on a fair stage with him, and exchange the tragic buskin for 
 an easier and more natural gait and habit. Grimace and tone 
 are mighty helps to imposture. And many a formal piece of 
 sophistry holds proof under a severe brow, which would not 
 pass under an easy one. Twas the saying of an ancient sage, 1 
 " that humour was the only test of gravity ; and gravity of 
 humour. For a subject which would not bear raillery was 
 suspicious ; and a jest which would not bear a serious examina- 
 tion was certainly false wit." 
 
 But some gentlemen there are so full of the spirit of 
 bigotry and false zeal, that when they hear principles ex- 
 amined, sciences and arts inquired into, and matters of 
 importance treated with this frankness of humour, they imagine 
 presently that all professions must fall to the ground, all 
 establishments come to ruin, and nothing orderly or decent 
 be left standing in the world. They fear, or pretend to fear, 
 that religion itself will be endangered by this free way, and are 
 therefore as much alarmed at this liberty in private conversation, 
 
 1 Gorgias Leontinus apud Arist. Rhetor, iii. 18, rty nlv ffirovdty dia- 
 <t>6elptiv -yAwri rbv dt ytXwra. ffirovSy, which the translator renders, seria risu, 
 risum seriis discutere. [As is complained by Brown in his Essays on the 
 Characteristics (I 9), Shaftesbury here perverts the passage he cites. 
 The saying of Gorgias, endorsed by Aristotle, was simply that in 
 argument one should meet serious pleading with humour, and humour 
 with serious pleading. The second sentence put by Shaftesbury in 
 quotation marks is his own addendum. ] 
 
 52
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 and under prudent management, as if it were grossly used in 
 public company, or before the solemnest assembly. But the 
 case, as I apprehend it, is far different. For you are to 
 remember, my friend, that I am writing to you in defence 
 only of the liberty of the club, and of that sort of freedom 
 which is taken amongst gentlemen and friends who know one 
 another perfectly well. And that 'tis natural for me to defend 
 liberty with this restriction, you may infer from the very notion 
 I have of liberty itself. 
 
 'Tis surely a violation of the freedom of public assemblies 
 for any one to take the chair who is neither called nor invited 
 to it. To start questions, or manage debates, which offend 
 the public ear, is to be wanting in that respect which is due 
 to common society. Such subjects should either not be treated 
 at all in public, or in such a manner as to occasion no scandal 
 or disturbance. The public is not, on any account, to be 
 laughed at to its face ; or so reprehended for its follies as to 
 make it think itself contemned. And what is contrary to good 
 breeding is in this respect as contrary to liberty. It belongs ) 
 to men of slavish principles to affect a superiority over the 
 vulgar, and to despise the multitude. The lovers of mankind 
 respect and honour conventions and societies of men. And in 
 mixed company, and places where men are met promiscuously 
 on account of diversion or affairs, 'tis an imposition and hard- 
 ship to force them to hear what they dislike, and to treat of 
 matters in a dialect which many who are present have perhaps 
 been never used to. 'Tis a breach of the harmony of public 
 conversation to take things in such a key as is above the 
 common reach, puts others to silence, and robs them of their 
 privilege of turn. But as to private society, and what passes 
 in select companies, where friends meet knowingly, and with 
 that very design of exercising their wit, and looking freely into 
 all subjects, I see no pretence for any one to be offended at 
 the way of raillery and humour, which is the very life of such 
 conversations ; the only thing which makes good company, 
 
 53
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 and frees it from the formality of business, and the tutorage 
 
 and dogmaticalness of the schools. 
 
 SECTION VI 
 
 To return therefore to our argument. If the best of our modern 
 conversations are apt to run chiefly upon trifles; if rational 
 discourses (especially those of a deeper speculation) have lost 
 their credit, and are in disgrace because of their formality ; 
 there is reason for more allowance in the way of humour and 
 gaiety. An easier method of treating these subjects will make 
 them more agreeable and familiar. To dispute about them, 
 will be the same as about other matters. They need not spoil 
 good company, or take from the ease or pleasure of a polite 
 conversation. And the oftener these conversations are renewed, 
 the better will be their effect. We shall grow better reasoners, 
 by reasoning pleasantly, and at our ease ; taking up or laying 
 down these subjects as we fancy. So that, upon the whole, I 
 must own to you, I cannot be scandalised at the raillery you 
 took notice of, nor at the effect it had upon our company. 
 The humour was agreeable, and the pleasant confusion which 
 the conversation ended in, is at this time as pleasant to me 
 upon reflection, when I consider that instead of being dis- 
 couraged from resuming the debate, we were so much the 
 readier to meet again at any time, and dispute upon the same 
 subjects, even with more ease and satisfaction than before. 
 
 We had been a long while entertained, you know, upon the 
 subject of morality and religion. And amidst the different 
 opinions started and maintained by several of the parties, with 
 great life and ingenuity, one or other would every now and 
 then take the liberty to appeal to common sense. Every one 
 allowed the appeal, and was willing to stand the trial. No one 
 but was assured common sense would justify him. But when 
 issue was joined, and the cause examined at the bar, there could 
 be no judgment given. The parties however were not less 
 
 54
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 forward in renewing their appeal on the very next occasion 
 which presented. No one would offer to call the authority of 
 the court in question, till a gentleman, whose good under- 
 standing was never yet brought in doubt, desired the company, 
 very gravely, that they would tell him what common sense 
 was. 
 
 " If by the word sense we were to understand opinion and 
 judgment, and by the word common the generality or any 
 considerable part of mankind, 'twould be hard, he said, to 
 discover where the subject of common sense could lie. For that 
 which was according to the sense of one part of mankind, was 
 against the sense of another. And if the majority were to 
 determine common sense, it would change as often as men 
 changed. That which was according to common sense to-day, 
 would be the contrary to-morrow, or soon after." 
 
 But notwithstanding the different judgments of mankind in 
 most subjects, there were some however in which 'twas supposed 
 they all agreed, and had the same thoughts in common. The 
 question was asked still, Where ? " For whatever was of any 
 moment, 'twas supposed, might be reduced under the head of 
 religion, policy, or morals. 
 
 " Of the differences in religion there was no occasion to 
 speak ; the case was so fully known to all, and so feelingly 
 understood by Christians, in particular, among themselves. 
 They had made sound experiment upon one another; each 
 party in their turn. No endeavours had been wanting on the 
 side of any particular sect. Whichever chanced to have the 
 power, failed not of putting all means in execution, to make 
 their private sense the public one. But all in vain. Common 
 sense was as hard still to determine as catholic or orthodox. 
 What with one was inconceivable mystery, to another was of 
 easy comprehension. What to one was absurdity, to another 
 was demonstration. 
 
 "As for policy; what sense or whose could be called 
 common, was equally a question. If plain British or Dutch 
 
 55
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 sense were right, Turkish and French sense must certainly be 
 very wrong. And as mere nonsense as passive obedience 
 seemed, we found it to be the common sense of a great party 
 amongst ourselves, a greater party in Europe, and perhaps the 
 greatest part of all the world besides. 
 
 " As for morals ; the difference, if possible, was still wider. 
 For without considering the opinions and customs of the many 
 barbarous and illiterate nations, we saw that even the few who 
 had attained to riper letters, and to philosophy, could never as 
 yet agree on one and the same system, or acknowledge the same 
 moral principles. And some even of our most admired modern 
 philosophers had fairly told us, that virtue and vice had, after 
 all, no other law or measure than mere fashion and vogue." 
 
 It might have appeared perhaps unfair in our friends had 
 they treated only the graver subjects in this manner, and 
 suffered the lighter to escape. For in the gayer part of life, 
 our follies are as solemn as in the most serious. The fault is, 
 we carry the laugh but half-way. The false earnest is ridiculed, 
 but the false jest passes secure, and becomes as errant deceit as 
 the other. Our diversions, our plays, our amusements become 
 solemn. We dream of happiness and possessions, and enjoy- 
 ments in which we have no understanding, no certainty; and 
 yet we pursue these as the best known and most certain things 
 in the world. There is nothing so foolish and deluding as a 
 partial scepticism. 1 For whilst the doubt is cast only on one 
 side, the certainty grows so much stronger on the other. 
 Whilst only one face of folly appears ridiculous, the other 
 grows more solemn and deceiving. 
 
 But 'twas not thus with our friends. They seemed better 
 critics, and more ingenious and fair in their way of questioning 
 received opinions, and exposing the ridicule of things. And if 
 you will allow me to carry on their humour, I will venture to 
 make the experiment throughout ; and try what certain know- 
 ledge or assurance of things may be recovered, in that very way, 
 1 Moralists, part ii. 1. 
 
 56
 
 by which all certainty, you thought, was lost, and an endless 
 scepticism introduced. 
 
 PART II 
 
 SECTION I 
 
 IF a native of Ethiopia were on a sudden transported into 
 Europe, and placed either at Paris or Venice at a time of 
 carnival, when the general face of mankind was disguised, and 
 almost every creature wore a mask, 'tis probable he would for 
 some time be at a stand, before he discovered the cheat ; not 
 imagining that a whole people could be so fantastical as upon 
 agreement, at an appointed time, to transform themselves by 
 a variety of habits, and make it a solemn practice to impose 
 on one another, by this universal confusion of characters and 
 persons. Though he might at first perhaps have looked on 
 this with a serious eye, it would be hardly possible for him to 
 hold his countenance when he had perceived what was carrying 
 on. The Europeans, on their side, might laugh perhaps at this 
 simplicity. But our Ethiopian would certainly laugh with 
 better reason. 'Tis easy to see which of the two would be 
 ridiculous. For he who laughs and is himself ridiculous, bears 
 a double share of ridicule. However, should it so happen that 
 in the transport of ridicule, our Ethiopian, having his head still 
 running upon masks, and knowing nothing of the fair complexion 
 and common dress of the Europeans, should upon the sight of a 
 natural face and habit, laugh just as heartily as before, would 
 not he in his turn become ridiculous, by carrying the jest too 
 far ; when by a silly presumption he took nature for mere art, 
 and mistook perhaps a man of sobriety and sense for one of 
 those ridiculous mummers ? 
 
 There was a time when men were accountable only for their 
 actions and behaviour. Their opinions were left to themselves. 
 
 57
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 They had liberty to differ in these as in their faces. Every 
 one took the air and look which was natural to him. But in 
 process of time it was thought decent to mend men's counte- 
 nances, and render their intellectual complexions uniform and 
 of a sort. Thus the magistrate became a dresser, and in his 
 turn was dressed too, as he deserved, when he had given up his 
 power to a new order of tire-men. But though in this extra- 
 ordinary conjuncture 'twas agreed that there was only one certain 
 and true dress, one single peculiar air, to which it was necessary 
 all people should conform, yet the misery was, that neither the 
 magistrate nor the tire-men themselves could resolve which of 
 the various modes was the exact true one. Imagine, now, what 
 the effect of this must needs be ; when men became persecuted 
 thus on every side about their air and feature, and were put to 
 their shifts how to adjust and compose their mien, according to 
 the right mode ; when a thousand models, a thousand patterns 
 of dress were current, and altered every now and then, upon 
 occasion, according to fashion and the humour of the times. 
 Judge whether men's countenances were not like to grow con- 
 strained, and the natural visage of mankind, by this habit, 
 distorted, convulsed, and rendered hardly knowable. 
 
 But as unnatural or artificial as the general face of things 
 may have been rendered by this unhappy care of dress, and 
 over -tenderness for the safety of complexions, we must not 
 therefore imagine that all faces are alike besmeared or plastered. 
 All is not fucus or mere varnish. Nor is the face of Truth less 
 fair and beautiful, for all the counterfeit vizards which have 
 been put upon her. We must remember the Carnival, and what 
 the occasion has been of this wild concourse and medley ; who 
 were the institutors of it ; and to what purpose men were thus 
 set awork and amused. We may laugh sufficiently at the 
 original cheat ; and, if pity will suffer us, may make ourselves 
 diversion enough with the folly and madness of those who 
 are thus caught and practised on by these impostures; but 
 we must remember withal our Ethiopian, and beware lest by 
 
 58
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 taking plain Nature for a vizard, we become more ridiculous 
 than the people whom we ridicule. Now if a jest or ridicule 
 thus strained be capable of leading the judgment so far astray, 
 'tis probable that an excess of fear or horror may work the same 
 effect. 
 
 Had it been your fortune, my friend, to have lived in Asia 
 at the time when the Magi x by an egregious imposture got 
 possession of the empire, no doubt you would have had a de- 
 testation of the act ; and perhaps the very persons of the men 
 might have grown so odious to you that after all the cheats 
 and abuses they had committed, you might have seen them 
 dispatched with as relentless an eye as our later European 
 ancestors saw the destruction of a like politic body of conjurers, 
 the Knights Templars, who were almost become an over-match 
 for the civil sovereign. Your indignation perhaps might have 
 carried you to propose the razing all monuments and memorials 
 of these magicians. You might have resolved not to leave so 
 much as their houses standing. But if it had happened that 
 these magicians, in the time of their dominion, had made any 
 collection of books, or compiled any themselves, in which they 
 had treated of philosophy, or morals, or any other science, or 
 part of learning, would you have carried your resentment so far 
 as to have extirpated these also, and condemned every opinion 
 or doctrine they had espoused, for no other reason than merely 
 because they had espoused it? Hardly a Scythian, a Tartar, 
 or a Goth, would act or reason so absurdly. Much less would 
 you, my friend, have carried on this magophony, or priest- 
 massacre, with such a barbarous zeal. For, in good earnest, to 
 destroy a philosophy in hatred to a man, implies as errant a 
 Tartar-notion as to destroy or murder a man in order to 
 plunder him of his wit, and get the inheritance of his under- 
 standing. 
 
 I must confess indeed that had all the institutions, statutes, 
 and regulations of this ancient hierarchy resembled the funda- 
 
 1 Misc. ii. ch. i. 
 
 59
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 mental one of the Order itself, 1 they might with a great deal 
 of justice have been suppressed ; for one cannot, without some 
 abhorrence, read that law of theirs : 
 
 Narn magus ex matre et gnato gignatur oportet. 2 
 
 But the conjurers (as we 1 !! rather suppose) having considered 
 that they ought in their principle to appear as fair as possible 
 to the world, the better to conceal their practice, found it highly 
 for their interest to espouse some excellent moral rules, and 
 establish the very best maxims of this kind. They thought it 
 for their advantage perhaps, on their first setting out, to re- 
 commend the greatest purity of religion, the greatest integrity 
 of life and manners. They may perhaps, too, in general, have 
 preached up charity and good-will. They may have set to view 
 the fairest face of human nature ; and together with their bye- 
 laws and political institutions have interwove the honestest 
 morals and best doctrine in the world. 
 
 How therefore should we have behaved ourselves in this 
 affair? How should we have carried ourselves towards this 
 order of men, at the time of the discovery of their cheat, and 
 ruin of their empire ? Should we have fallen to work instantly 
 with their systems, struck at their opinions and doctrines without 
 distinction, and erected a contrary philosophy in their teeth ? 
 Should we have flown at every religious and moral principle, 
 denied every natural and social affection, and rendered men as 
 much wolves 3 as was possible to one another, whilst we described 
 them such ; and endeavoured to make them see themselves by 
 far more monstrous and corrupt than with the worst intentions 
 it was ever possible for the worst of them to become ? This, 
 
 8t xal /juiXiffra avruv ol ffo<f>iav dffxeiv doxovvres, ol 'M.dyoi, yapovo'i T&J 
 s. Sext. Empir. Pyrrh. iii. 24. 
 [" The Persians, and especially their Wise Men, the Magi, marry their 
 mothers."] 
 
 2 [" For a Magus must be born of a mother and her son." Catullus, 
 87 (90).] 
 
 3 Infra, part iii. 3, and Moralists, part ii. 5, at the end. 
 
 60
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 you'll say, doubtless would have been a very preposterous part, 
 and could never have been acted by other than mean spirits, 
 such as had been held in awe and over-frighted by the Magi. 1 
 
 And yet an able and witty philosopher 2 of our nation was, 
 we know, of late years, so possessed with a horror of this kind, 
 that both with respect to politics and morals he directly acted 
 in this spirit of massacre. The fright he took upon the sight 
 of the then governing powers who unjustly assumed the authority 
 of the people, gave him such an abhorrence of all popular 
 government, and of the very notion of liberty itself, that to 
 extinguish it for ever, he recommends the very extinguishing of 
 Letters, and exhorts princes not to spare so much as an ancient 
 Roman or Greek historian. ... Is not this in truth somewhat 
 Gothic? And has not our philosopher, in appearance, something 
 of the savage, that he should use philosophy and learning as 
 the Scythians are said to have used Anacharsis and others, for 
 having visited the wise of Greece, and learnt the manners of a 
 polite people ? 
 
 His quarrel with religion was the same as with liberty. 
 The same times gave him the same terror in this other kind. 
 He had nothing before his eyes beside the ravage of enthusiasm, 
 and the artifice of those who raised and conducted that spirit. 
 And the good sociable man, as savage and unsociable as he 
 would make himself and all mankind appear by his philosophy, 
 exposed himself during his life, and took the utmost pains that 
 after his death we might be delivered from the occasion of these 
 
 1 Misc. ii. ch. ii. in the notes. 
 
 2 Mr. Hobbes, who thus expresses himself: "By reading of these 
 Greek and Latin authors, men from their childhood have gotten a habit 
 (under a false show of liberty) of favouring tumults, and of licentious 
 controlling the actions of their sovereigns." Leviathan, part ii. ch. xxi. 
 p. 111. By this reasoning of Mr. Hobbes it should follow that there can 
 never be any tumults or deposing of sovereigns at Constantinople or in 
 Mogol. See again, pp. 171 and 377, and what he intimates to his prince 
 (p. 193) concerning this extirpation of ancient literature, in favour of his 
 Leviathan thesis and new philosophy. 
 
 61
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 terrors. He did his utmost to show us " that both in religion 
 and morals we were imposed on by our governors ; that there 
 was nothing which by nature inclined us either way ; nothing 
 which naturally drew us to the love of what was without or 
 beyond ourselves."" l Though the love of such great truths and 
 sovereign maxims, as he imagined these to be, made him the 
 most laborious of all men in composing systems of this kind for 
 our use ; and forced him, notwithstanding his natural fear, to 
 run continually the highest risk of being a martyr for our 
 deliverance. 
 
 Give me leave therefore, my friend, on this occasion, to 
 prevent your seriousness, and assure you that there is no such 
 mighty danger as we are apt to imagine from these fierce pro- 
 secutors of superstition, who are so jealous of every religious 
 or moral principle. Whatever savages they may appear in 
 philosophy, they are in their common capacity as civil persons 
 as one can wish. Their free communicating of their principles 
 may witness for them. 'Tis the height of sociableness to be 
 thus friendly and communicative. 
 
 If the principles, indeed, were concealed from us, and made 
 a mystery, they might become considerable. Things are often 
 made so by being kept as secrets of a sect or party ; and nothing 
 helps this more than the antipathy and shyness of a contrary 
 party. If we fall presently into horrors and consternation upon 
 the hearing maxims which are thought poisonous, we are in no 
 disposition to use that familiar and easy part of reason which 
 is the best antidote. The only poison to reason is passion. 
 For false reasoning is soon redressed where passion is removed. 
 But if the very hearing certain propositions of philosophy be 
 sufficient to move our passion, 'tis plain the poison has already 
 gained on us, and we are effectually prevented in the use of our 
 reasoning faculty. 
 
 Were it not for the prejudices of this kind, what should 
 hinder us from diverting ourselves with the fancy of one of 
 1 Inquiry Concerning Virtue, bk. ii. part i. 1, at the end. 
 
 62
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 these modern reformers we have been speaking of? What 
 should we say to one of these anti-zealots, who, in the zeal of 
 such a cool philosophy, should assure us faithfully "that we 
 were the most mistaken men in the world to imagine there was 
 any such thing as natural faith or justice? For that it was 
 only force and power which constituted right. That there was 
 no such thing in reality as virtue ; no principle of order in 
 things above or below ; no secret charm or force of nature by 
 which every one was made to operate willingly or unwillingly 
 towards public good, and punished and tormented if he did 
 otherwise."" ... Is not this the very charm itself? Is not the 
 gentleman at this instant under the power of it ? . . . " Sir ! 
 the philosophy you have condescended to reveal to us is most 
 extraordinary. We are beholden to you for your instruction. 
 But, pray, whence is this zeal in our behalf? What are we to 
 you ? Are you our father ? Or if you were, why this concern 
 for us? Is there then such a thing as natural affection? If 
 not, why all this pains, why all this danger on our account? 
 Why not keep this secret to yourself? Of what advantage is 
 it to you to deliver us from the cheat? The more are taken 
 in it the better. Tis directly against your interest to undeceive 
 us and let us know that only private interest governs you, and 
 that nothing nobler, or of a larger kind, should govern us whom 
 you converse with. Leave us to ourselves, and to that notable 
 art by which we are happily tamed, and rendered thus mild and 
 sheepish. Tis not fit we should know that by nature we are all 
 wolves. Is it possible that one who has really discovered him- 
 self such, should take pains to communicate such a discovery ? " 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 IN reality, my friend, a severe brow may well be spared on this 
 occasion, when we are put thus upon the defence of common 
 honesty by such fair honest gentlemen, who are in practice so 
 different from what they would appear in speculation. Knaves 
 
 63
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 I know there are in notion and principle, as well as in practice, 
 who think all honesty as well as religion a mere cheat, and by 
 a very consistent reasoning have resolved deliberately to do 
 whatever by power or art they are able for their private 
 advantage ; but such as these never open themselves in friend- 
 ship to others. They have no such passion for truth, or love for 
 mankind. They have no quarrel with religion or morals ; but 
 know what use to make of both upon occasion. If they ever 
 discover their principles, 'tis only at unawares. They are sure 
 to preach honesty and go to church. 
 
 On the other side, the gentlemen for whom I am apologising 
 cannot however be called hypocrites. They speak as ill of 
 themselves as they possibly can. If they have hard thoughts of 
 human nature, 'tis a proof still of their humanity that they 
 give such warning to the world. If they represent men by 
 nature treacherous and wild, 'tis out of care for mankind, lest 
 by being too tame and trusting, they should easily be caught. 
 
 Impostors naturally speak the best of human nature, that 
 they may the easier abuse it. These gentlemen, on the contrary, 
 speak the worst; and had rather they themselves should be 
 censured with the rest, than that a few should by imposture 
 prevail over the many. For 'tis opinion of goodness which 
 creates easiness of trust, and by trust we are betrayed to power ; 
 our very reason being thus captivated by those in whom we 
 come insensibly to have an implicit faith. But supposing one 
 another to be by nature such very savages, we shall take care to 
 come less in one another's power ; and apprehending power to be 
 insatiably coveted by all, we shall the better fence against the 
 evil ; not by giving all into one hand (as the champion of this 
 cause would have us), but, on the contrary, by a right division 
 and balance of power, and by the restraint of good laws and 
 limitations, which may secure the public liberty. 
 
 Should you therefore ask me, whether I really thought these 
 gentlemen were fully persuaded of the principles they so often 
 advance in company ? I should tell you, that though I would 
 
 64
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 not absolutely arraign the gentlemen's sincerity, yet there was 
 something of mystery in the case, more than was imagined. The 
 reason, perhaps, why men of wit delight so much to espouse these 
 paradoxical systems, is not in truth that they are so fully satisfied 
 with them, but in a view the better to oppose some other systems, 
 which by their fair appearance have helped, they think, to bring 
 mankind under subjection. They imagine that by this general 
 scepticism, which they would introduce, they shall better deal 
 with the dogmatical spirit which prevails in some particular 
 subjects. And when they have accustomed men to bear con- 
 tradiction in the main, and hear the nature of things disputed 
 at large, it may be safer (they conclude) to argue separately 
 upon certain nice points in which they are not altogether so well 
 satisfied. So that from hence, perhaps, you may still better 
 apprehend why, in conversation, the spirit of raillery prevails so 
 much, and notions are taken up for no reason besides their being 
 odd and out of the way. 
 
 SECTION III 
 
 Bur let who will condemn the humour thus described, for my 
 part I am in no such apprehension from this sceptical kind of 
 wit. Men indeed may, in a serious way, be so wrought on and 
 confounded, by different modes of opinion, different systems and 
 schemes imposed by authority that they may wholly lose all 
 notion or comprehension of truth. I can easily apprehend what 
 effect awe has over men's understandings. I can very well 
 suppose men may be frighted out of their wits, but I have no 
 apprehension they should be laughed out of them. I can hardly 
 imagine that in a pleasant way they should ever be talked out 
 of their love for society, or reasoned out of humanity and 
 common sense. A mannerly wit can hurt no cause or interest 
 for which I am in the least concerned; and philosophical specula- 
 tions, politely managed, can never surely render mankind more 
 unsociable or uncivilised. This is not the quarter from whence 
 VOL. I 65 F
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 I can possibly expect an inroad of savageness and barbarity. 
 And by the best of my observation I have learnt that virtue is 
 never such a sufferer, by being contested, as by being betrayed. 
 My fear is not so much from its witty antagonists, who give it 
 exercise, and put it on its defence, as from its tender nurses, 
 who are apt to overlay it, and kill it with excess of care and 
 cherishing. 
 
 I have known a building, which by the officiousness of the 
 workmen has been so shored and screwed up on the side where 
 they pretended it had a leaning, that it has at last been turned 
 the contrary way and overthrown. There has something, 
 perhaps, of this kind happened in morals. Men have not been 
 contented to show the natural advantages of honesty and virtue. 
 They have rather lessened these, the better, as they thought, 
 to advance another foundation. They have made virtue so 
 mercenary a thing, and have talked so much of its rewards, that 
 one can hardly tell what there is in it, after all, which can be 
 worth rewarding. For to be bribed only or terrified into an 
 honest practice, bespeaks little of real honesty or worth. We 
 may make, 'tis true, whatever bargain we think fit ; and may 
 bestow in favour what overplus we please ; but there can be no 
 excellence or wisdom in voluntarily rewarding what is neither 
 
 V CJ 
 
 estimable nor deserving. And if virtue be not really estimable 
 in itself, I can see nothing estimable in following it for the sake 
 of a bargain. 
 
 If the love of doing good be not, of itself, a good and right 
 inclination, I know not how there can possibly be such a thing 
 as goodness or virtue. If the inclination be right, 'tis a pervert- 
 ing of it, to apply it solely to the reward, and make us conceive 
 such wonders of the grace and favour which is to attend virtue, 
 when there is so little shown of the intrinsic worth or value of 
 the thing itself. 
 
 I could be almost tempted to think that the true reason 
 why some of the most heroic virtues have so little notice taken 
 of them in our holy religion, is because there would have been 
 
 6(5
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 no room left for disinterestedness had they been entitled to a 
 share of that infinite reward which Providence has by revelation 
 assigned to other duties. Private friendship, 1 and zeal for the 
 public and our country, are virtues purely voluntary in a 
 Christian. They are no essential parts of his charity. He is 
 not so tied to the affairs of this life, nor is he obliged to enter 
 into such engagements with this lower world, as are of no help 
 to him in acquiring a better. His conversation is in heaven. 
 Nor has he occasion for such supernumerary cares, or embarrass- 
 ments here on earth, as may obstruct his way thither, or retard 
 him in the careful task of working out his own salvation. If 
 nevertheless any portion of reward be reserved hereafter for the 
 generous part of a patriot, or that of a thorough friend, this is 
 
 1 By private friendship no fair reader can here suppose is meant that 
 common benevolence and charity which every Christian is obliged to show 
 towards all men, and in particular towards his fellow-Christians, his neigh- 
 bour, brother, and kindred, of whatever degree ; but that peculiar relation 
 which is formed by a consent and harmony of minds, by mutual esteem, 
 and reciprocal tenderness and affection ; and which we emphatically call a 
 friendship. Such was that between the two Jewish heroes after mentioned, 
 whose love and tenderness was surpassing that of women (2 Sam. L). 
 Such were those friendships described so frequently by poets, between 
 Pylades and Orestes, Theseus and Pirithous, with many others. Such 
 were those between philosophers, heroes, and the greatest of men ; between 
 Socrates and Antisthenes, Plato and Dion, Epaminondas and Pelopidas, 
 Scipio and Laelius, Cato and Brutus, Thrasea and Helvidius. And such 
 there may have lately been, and are still perhaps in our own age, though 
 envy suffers not the few examples of this kind to be remarked in public. 
 The author's meaning is indeed so plain of itself, that it needs no explanatory 
 apology to satisfy an impartial reader. As for others who object the 
 singularity of the assertion, as differing (they suppose) from what our 
 reverend doctors in religion commonly maintain, they may read what the 
 learned and pious Bishop Taylor says in his Treatise of Friendship. ' ' You 
 inquire," says he, " how far a dear and a perfect friendship is authorised by 
 the principles of Christianity ? To this I answer, that the word friendship 
 in the sense we commonly mean by it, is not so much as named in the 
 New Testament, and our religion takes no notice of it. You think it 
 strange ; but read on, before you spend so much as the beginning of a 
 passion or a wonder upon it. There is mention of friendship of the world ; 
 
 67
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 sSjll behind the curtain, and happily concealed from us ; that 
 we may be the more deserving of it when it comes. 
 
 It appears indeed under the Jewish dispensation that each 
 of these virtues had their illustrious examples, and were in some 
 manner recommended to us as honourable, and worthy our 
 imitation. Even Saul himself, as ill a prince as he is represented, 
 appears both living and dying to have been respected and 
 praised for the love he bore his native country. And the love 
 which was so remarkable between his son and his successor, gives 
 us a noble view of a disinterested friendship, at least on one side. 
 But the heroic virtue of these persons had only the common 
 reward of praise attributed to it, and could not claim a future 
 recompense under a religion which taught no future state, nor 
 exhibited any rewards or punishments, besides such as were 
 temporal, and had respect to the written law. 
 
 and it is said to be enmity with God ; but the word is nowhere else named, 
 or to any other purpose, in all the New Testament. It speaks of friends 
 often ; but by friends are meant our acquaintance, or our kindred, the 
 relatives of our family, or our fortune, or our sect, etc. And I think I 
 have reason to be confident, that the word friend (speaking of human 
 intercourse) is no other ways used in the Gospels, or Epistles, or Acts of 
 the Apostles. " And afterwards, " Christian charity," says he, " is friendship 
 to all the world ; and when friendships were the noblest things in 
 the world, charity was little, like the sun drawn in at a chink, or his 
 beams drawn into the centre of a burning-glass. But Christian charity is 
 friendship expanded like the face of the sun, when it mounts above the 
 eastern hills." In reality the good Bishop draws all his notions as well as 
 examples of private friendship from the heathen world, or from the times 
 preceding Christianity. And after citing a Greek author, he immediately 
 adds : " Of such immortal, abstracted, pure friendships, indeed, there is 
 no great plenty ; but they who are the same to their friend dir6trpo6fi>, when 
 he is in another country, or in another world, are fit to preserve the sacred 
 fire for eternal sacrifices, and to perpetuate the memory of those exemplary 
 friendships of the best men, which have filled the world with history and 
 wonder ; for in no other sense but this can it be true that friendships are 
 pure loves, regarding to do good more than to receive it. He that is a 
 friend after death, hopes not for a recompense from his friend, and makes 
 no bargain either for fame or love ; but is rewarded with the conscience 
 and satisfaction of doing bravely." 
 
 68
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 And thus the Jews as well as heathens were left to their 
 philosophy, to be instructed in the sublime part of virtue, and 
 induced by reason to that which was never enjoined them 
 by command. No premium or penalty being enforced in these 
 cases, the disinterested part subsisted, the virtue was a free 
 choice, and the magnanimity of the act was left entire. He 
 who would be generous had the means. He who would frankly 
 serve his friend, or country, at the expense even of his life, 1 
 might do it on fair terms. Dulce et decorum est 2 was his sole 
 reason. Twas inviting and becoming. "Twos good and honest. 
 And that this is still a good reason, and according to common 
 sense, I will endeavour to satisfy you. For I should think my- 
 self very ridiculous to be angry with any one for thinking me 
 dishonest, if I could give no account of my honesty, nor show 
 upon what principle I differed from a knave. 3 
 
 PART III 
 SECTION I 
 
 THE Roman satirist may be thought more than ordinarily 
 satirical, when speaking of the nobility and court ; he is so far 
 from allowing them to be the standard of politeness and good 
 sense, that he makes them in a manner the reverse 
 
 Rams enim ferine sensus communis in ilia 
 Fortuna. . . . 4 
 
 1 " Peradventure," says the holy Apostle, " for a good man some would 
 even dare to die," rdxa rls KO.I TO\U, etc., Rom. v. 7. This the Apostle 
 judiciously supposes to belong to human nature ; though he is so far from 
 founding any precept on it, that he ushers his private opinion with a very 
 dubious peradventure. 
 
 2 Hor. Od. iii. 2. 
 
 3 Infra, part iv. 1. Advice to an Author, part i. 2. 
 
 4 Juv. viii. 73. [Shaftesbury here takes it to mean " rare is common 
 sense in men of that rank."] 
 
 69
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 Some of the most ingenious commentators, 1 however, interpret 
 this very differently from what is generally apprehended. They 
 make this common sense of the poet, by a Greek derivation, 
 to signify sense of public weal, and of the common interest ; 
 love of the community or society, natural affection, humanity, 
 obligingness, or that sort of civility which rises from a just sense 
 of the common rights of mankind, and the natural equality 
 there is among those of the same species. 
 
 And indeed if we consider the thing nicely, it must seem 
 somewhat hard in the poet to have denied wit or ability to a 
 court such as that of Rome, even under a Tiberius or a Nero. 
 But for humanity or sense of public good, and the common 
 interest of mankind, "'twas no such deep satire to question 
 whether this was properly the spirit of a court. 'Twas difficult 
 to apprehend what community subsisted among courtiers, or 
 
 1 Viz. the two Casaubons, Is. and Mer. , Salmasius, and our English 
 Gataker : see the first in Capitolinus, Vit. M. Ant. sub fiuem ; the second 
 in his Comment on M. Ant i. 13, 1C ; Gataker on the same place, 
 and Salmasius in the same Life of Capitolinus, at the end of his annotations. 
 The Greek word is Koivovorifjuxrvvr), which Salmasius interprets, "moderatam, 
 usitatam et ordinariam hominis mentem quae in commune quodammodo 
 consulit, nee omnia ad commodum suum refert, respectumque etiam habet 
 eorum cum quibus versatur, modeste, modiceque de se sentiens. At contra 
 inflati et superbi omnes se sibi tantum suisque commodis natos arbitrantur, 
 et prae se caeteros contemnunt et negligunt ; et hi sunt qui sensum com- 
 munem non habere recte dici possunt. Nam ita sensum communem ac- 
 cipit Juvenalis Sat. viii. , Rarus enim ferme sensus communis, etc. <j>i\a.v0pu- 
 Triav et xP r ) ffr ( >rr r ra Galenus vocat, quam Marcus de se loquens KOIVOVO-WO- 
 ffvvriv ; et alibi, ubi de eadem re loquitur, nerpibfr-nra. KO.I evyvufj.offvvi)v, qua 
 gratiam illi fecerit Marcus simul eundi ad Germanicum bellum ac sequendi 
 se." In the same manner Isaac Casaubon : Herodianus, says he, calls this 
 the rb ij.irpi.ov Ka.1 Ifffyerpov. " Subjicit vero Antoninus quasi hanc vocem 
 interpretans, Kal rb t<ptiffQai. rots <f>l\ois pf)Te ffwdftirveiv airrip irdvTus, fj-ifrf avva.- 
 Trodrj/jittv tTrdvayxcs." This, I am persuaded, is the sensus communis of 
 Horace (1 Sat. iii.) which has been unobserved, as far as I can learn, 
 by any of his commentators ; it being remarkable withal, that in this early 
 Satire of Horace, before his latter days, and when his philosophy as yet 
 inclined to the less rigid assertors of virtue, he puts this expression (as may 
 
 70
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 what public between an absolute prince and his slave-subjects. 
 And for real society, there could be none between such as had 
 no other sense than that of private good. 
 
 Our poet therefore seems not so immoderate in his censure, 
 if we consider it is the heart, rather than the head, he takes to 
 task, when, reflecting on a court education, he thinks it unapt 
 to raise any affection towards a country, and looks upon young 
 princes and lords as the young masters of the world ; who being 
 indulged in all their passions, and trained up in all manner of 
 licentiousness, have that thorough contempt and disregard of 
 
 be seen by the whole Satire taken together) into the mouth of a Crispinus, 
 or some ridiculous mimic of that severe philosophy, to which the coinage of 
 the word icoivovori/j.offvi'r} properly belonged. For so the poet again (Sat. iv. 
 77) uses the word sensus, speaking of those who without sense of 
 manners, or common society, without the least respect or deference to 
 others, press rudely upon their friends, and upon all company in general, 
 without regard to time or place, or anything besides their selfish and 
 brutish humour : 
 
 Haud illud quaerentes num sine sensu, 
 Tempore num faciant alieno. 
 
 ava.iff6T)TCx, as old Lambin interprets it, though without any other explana- 
 tion, referring only to the sensus communis of Horace in that other Satire. 
 Thus Seneca (Epist. 105), Odium autem ex offensa sic vitabis, neminem laces- 
 sendo gratuito : a quo te sensus communis tuebitur. And Cicero accordingly, 
 Justitiae partes sunt, non violare homines: verecundiae, non offendere. 
 i. De Off. It may be objected possibly by some, particularly versed in- 
 the philosophy above-mentioned, that the Koivbs vovs, to which the KOIVO- 
 voijuoffvvr) seems to have relation, is of a different meaning. But they will 
 consider withal how small the distinction was in that philosophy between 
 the vir6\r)\J/is and the vulgar afoOrjo-is ; how generally passion was by those 
 philosophers brought under the head of opinion. And when they consider, 
 besides this, the very formation of the word Koivovorinoffijfij upon the model 
 of the other femalised virtues, the e&yvu/Mxrvvij, fftacfipoavvij, ducaioffiivr], etc. , 
 they will no longer hesitate on this interpretation. The reader may per- 
 haps by this note see better why the Latin title of sensus communis has 
 been given to this second treatise. He may observe, withal, how the same 
 poet Juvenal uses the word sensus in Sat. xv., Haec nostri pars optima 
 sensus. 
 
 71
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 mankind, which mankind in a manner deserves, where arbitrary 
 power is permitted and a tyranny adored 
 
 Haec satis ad juvenem, quern nobis fama superbum 
 Tradit et inflatum, plenumque Nerone propinquo. 1 
 
 A public spirit can come only from a social feeling or sense 
 of partnership with human kind. Now there are none so far 
 from being partners in this sense, or sharers in this common 
 affection, as they who scarcely know an equal, nor consider 
 themselves as subject to any law of fellowship or community. 
 And thus morality and good government go together. There 
 is no real love of virtue, without the knowledge of public good. 
 And where absolute power is, there is no public. 
 
 They who live under a tyranny, and have learnt to admire 
 its power as sacred and divine, are debauched as much in their 
 religion as in their morals. Public good, according to their 
 apprehension, is as little the measure or rule of government in 
 the universe as in the State. They have scarce a notion of 
 what is good or just, other than as mere will and power have 
 determined. Omnipotence, they think, would hardly be itself, 
 were it not at liberty to dispense with the laws of equity, 2 and 
 change at pleasure the standard of moral rectitude. 
 
 But notwithstanding the prejudices and corruptions of this 
 kind, 'tis plain there is something still of a public principle, 
 even where it is most perverted and depressed. The worst of 
 magistracies, the mere despotic kind, can show sufficient instances 
 of zeal and affection towards it. Where no other government 
 is known, it seldom fails of having that allegiance and duty paid 
 it which is owing to a better form. The Eastern countries, and 
 many barbarous nations, have been and still are examples of 
 this kind. The personal love they bear their prince, however 
 severe towards them, may show how natural an affection there 
 
 1 [" So much for the young man whom fame gives out as proud and 
 puffed-up, and full of his relationship to Nero." Juvenal, viii. 71 , 72.] 
 
 2 Infra, Advice to an Author, part iii. 1. 
 
 72
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 is towards government and order among mankind. If men 
 have really no public parent, no magistrate in common to 
 cherish and protect them, they will still imagine they have such 
 a one ; and, like new-born creatures who have never seen their 
 dam, will fancy one for themselves, and apply (as by Nature 
 prompted) to some like form, for favour and protection. In 
 the room of a true foster-father and chief, they will take after 
 a false one ; and in the room of a legal government and just 
 prince, obey even a tyrant, and endure a whole lineage and 
 succession of such. 
 
 As for us Britons, thank Heaven, we have a better sense of 
 government delivered to us from our ancestors. We have the 
 notion of a public, and a constitution ; how a legislative and 
 how an executive is modelled. We understand weight and 
 measure in this kind, and can reason justly on the balance of 
 power and property. The maxims we draw from hence, are as 
 evident as those in mathematics. Our increasing knowledge 
 shows us every day, more and more, what common sense is in 
 politics ; and this must of necessity lead us to understand a like 
 sense in morals, which is the foundation. 
 
 'Tis ridiculous to say there is any obligation on man to act 
 sociably or honestly in a formed government, and not in that 
 which is commonly called the state of nature. 1 For, to speak 
 in the fashionable language of our modern philosophy : " Society 
 being founded on a compact, the surrender made of every man's 
 private unlimited right, into the hands of the majority, or such 
 as the majority should appoint, was of free choice, and by a 
 promise." Now the promise itself was made in the state of 
 nature ; and that which could make a promise obligatory in the 
 state of nature, must make all other acts of humanity as much 
 our real duty and natural part. Thus faith, justice, honesty, 
 and virtue, must have been as early as the state of nature, or 
 they could never have been at all. The civil union, or con- 
 federacy, could never make right or wrong, if they subsisted not 
 1 Moralists, part ii. 4, latter end. 
 
 73
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 before. He who was free to any villainy before his contract, 
 will and ought to make as free with his contract when he 
 thinks fit. The natural knave has the same reason to be a civil 
 one, and may dispense with his politic capacity as oft as he 
 sees occasion. 'Tis only his word stands in his way. ... A man is 
 obliged to keep his word. Why ? Because he has given his 
 word to keep it. ... Is not this a notable account of the original 
 of moral justice, and the rise of civil government and allegiance ! 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 BUT to pass by these cavils of a philosophy which speaks so 
 \ii. much of nature with so little meaning, we may with justice 
 vt surely place it as a principle, " That if anything be natural, in 
 \\ any creature, or any kind, 'tis that which is preservative of the 
 kind itself, and conducing to its welfare and support." If in 
 original and pure nature it be wrong to break a promise, or be 
 treacherous, 'tis as truly wrong to be in any respect inhuman, 
 or any way wanting in our natural part towards human kind. 
 If eating and drinking be natural, herding is so too. If any 
 appetite or sense be natural, the sense of fellowship is the same. 
 If there be anything of nature in that affection which is between 
 the sexes, the affection is certainly as natural towards the con- 
 sequent offspring ; and so again between the offspring themselves, 
 as kindred and companions, bred under the same discipline and 
 economy. And thus a clan or tribe is gradually formed; a 
 public is recognised ; and besides the pleasure found in social 
 entertainment, language, and discourse, there is so apparent a 
 necessity for continuing this good correspondency and union, 
 that to have no sense or feeling of this kind, no love of country, 
 community, or anything in common, would be the same as to 
 be insensible even of the plainest means of self-preservation, and 
 most necessary condition of self-enjoyment. 
 
 IHow the wit of man should so puzzle this cause as to make 
 civil government and society appear a kind of invention and 
 
 74
 
 creature of art, I know not. For my own part, methinks, this 
 herding principle, and associating inclination, is seen so natural 
 and strong in most men, that one might readily affirm 'twas 
 even from the violence of this passion that so much disorder 
 arose in the general society of mankind. 
 
 Universal good, or the interest of the world in general, is a 
 kind of remote philosophical object. That greater community 
 falls not easily under the eye. Nor is a national interest, or that 
 of a whole people, or body politic, so readily apprehended. In 
 less parties, men may be intimately conversant and acquainted 
 with one another. They can there better taste society, and 
 enjoy the common good and interest of a more contracted public. 
 They view the whole compass and extent of their community, 
 and see and know particularly whom they serve, and to what 
 end they associate and conspire. All men have naturally their 
 share of this combining principle ; and they who are of the 
 sprightliest and most active faculties have so large a share of it, 
 that unless it be happily directed by right reason, it can never 
 find exercise for itself in so remote a sphere as that of the body 
 politic at large. For here perhaps the thousandth part of those 
 whose interests are concerned are scarce so much as known by 
 sight. No visible band is formed, no strict alliance ; but the 
 conjunction is made with different persons, orders, and ranks of 
 men ; not sensibly, but in idea, according to that general view or 
 notion of a state or commonwealth. 
 
 Thus the social aim is disturbed for want of certain scope. 
 The close sympathy and conspiring virtue is apt to lose itself, 
 for want of direction, in so wide a field. Nor is the passion 
 anywhere so strongly felt or vigorously exerted as in actual 
 conspiracy or war ; in which the highest geniuses are often known 
 the forwardest to employ themselves. For the most generous 
 spirits are the most combining. They delight most to move in 
 concert, and feel (if I may so say) in the strongest manner the 
 force of the confederating charm. 
 
 Tis strange to imagine that war, which of all things appears 
 
 75
 
 the most savage, should be the passion of the most heroic spirits. 
 But 'tis in war that the knot of fellowship is closest drawn. 'Tis 
 in war that mutual succour is most given, mutual danger run, 
 and common affection most exerted and employed. For heroism 
 and philanthropy are almost one and the same. Yet by a small 
 misguidance of the affection, a lover of mankind becomes a 
 ravager ; a hero and deliverer becomes an oppressor and destroyer. 
 
 Hence other divisions amongst men. Hence, in the way of 
 peace and civil government, that love of party and subdivision 
 by cabal. For sedition is a kind of cantonising already begun 
 within the State. To cantonise l is natural ; when the society 
 grows vast and bulky ; and powerful States have found other 
 advantages in sending colonies abroad than merely that of 
 having elbow-room at home, or extending their dominion into 
 distant countries. Vast empires are in many respects unnatural ; 
 but particularly in this, that be they ever so well constituted, 
 the affairs of many must, in such governments, turn upon a very 
 few, and the relation be less sensible, and in a manner lost, 
 between the magistrate and people, in a body so unwieldy in its 
 limbs, and whose members lie so remote from one another and 
 distant from the head. 
 
 "Pis in such bodies as these that strong factions are aptest to 
 engender. The associating spirits, for want of exercise, form 
 new movements, and seek a narrower sphere of activity, when 
 they want action in a greater. Thus we have wheels within 
 wheels. And in some national constitutions (notwithstanding 
 the absurdity in politics) we have one empire within another. 
 Nothing is so delightful as to incorporate. Distinctions of many 
 kinds are invented. Religious societies are formed. Orders are 
 erected, and their interests espoused and served with the utmost 
 zeal and passion. Founders and patrons of this sort are never 
 
 1 [This use of the term, and a general application of the substantive, 
 were common in the seventeenth century. E.g. Locke : " They canton 
 out to themselves a little Gosheu in the intellectual world." Conduct of 
 the Understanding.] 
 
 76
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 wanting. Wonders are performed, in this wrong social spirit, 
 by those members of separate societies. And the associating 
 genius of man is never better proved than in those very societies, 
 which are formed in opposition to the general one of mankind, 
 and to the real interest of the State. 
 
 In short, the very spirit of faction, for the greatest part, 
 seems to be no other than the abuse or irregularity of that social 
 love and common affection which is natural to mankind. 
 For the opposite of sociableness is selfishness. And of all 
 characters, the thorough selfish one is the least forward in taking 
 party. The men of this sort are, in this respect, true men of 
 moderation. They are secure of their temper, and possess them- 
 selves too well to be in danger of entering warmly into any cause, 
 or engaging deeply with any side or faction. 
 
 ^ SECTION III 
 
 You have heard it, my friend, as a common saying, that interest 
 governs the world. But, I believe, whoever looks narrowly into 
 the affairs of it will find that passion, humour, caprice, zeal, 
 faction, and a thousand other springs, which are counter to self- 
 interest, have as considerable a part in the movements of this 
 machine. There are more wheels and counterpoises in this 
 engine than are easily imagined. Tis of too complex a kind 
 to fall under one simple view, or be explained thus briefly in a 
 word or two. The studiers of this mechanism must have a very 
 partial eye to overlook all other motions besides those of the 
 lowest and narrowest compass. 'Tis hard that in the plan or 
 description of this clock-work no wheel or balance should be 
 allowed on the side of the better and more enlarged affections ; 
 that nothing should be understood to be done in kindness or 
 generosity, nothing in pure good-nature or friendship, or through 
 any social or natural affection of any kind ; when, perhaps, the 
 mainsprings of this machine will be found to be either these 
 
 77
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 very natural affections themselves, or a compound kind derived 
 from them, and retaining more than one half of their nature. 
 
 But here, my friend, you must not expect that I should 
 draw you up a formal scheme of the passions, 1 or pretend to 
 show you their genealogy and relation : how they are inter- 
 woven with one another, or interfere with our happiness and 
 interest. 'Twould be out of the genius and compass of 
 such a letter as this, to frame a just plan or model by which 
 you might, with an accurate view, observe what proportion 
 the friendly and natural affections seem to bear in this order 
 of architecture. 
 
 Modern projectors, I know, would willingly rid their hands 
 of these natural materials, and would fain build after a more 
 uniform way. They would new-frame the human heart, and 
 have a mighty fancy to reduce all its motions, balances, and 
 weights, to that one principle and foundation of a cool and 
 deliberate selfishness. Men, it seems, are unwilling to think 
 they can be so outwitted and imposed on by Nature, as to be 
 made to serve her purposes rather than their own. They are 
 ashamed to be drawn thus out of themselves, and forced from 
 what they esteem their true interest. 
 
 There has been in all times a sort of narrow - minded 
 philosophers, who have thought to set this difference to rights 
 by conquering Nature in themselves. A primitive father and 
 founder among these, saw well this power of Nature, 2 and 
 understood it so far, that he earnestly exhorted his followers 
 neither to beget children nor serve their country. There was 
 no dealing with Nature, it seems, while these alluring objects 
 stood in the way. Relations, friends, countrymen, laws, 
 politic constitutions, the beauty of order and government, and 
 the interest of society and mankind, were objects which, he 
 well saw, would naturally raise a stronger affection than any 
 which was grounded upon the narrow bottom of mere self. 
 
 1 See the fourth Treatise, viz. Inquiry Concerning Virtue. 
 
 2 Treatise i. 6 ; Treatise iv. ii. 1 ; and Treatise vi. ii. 1. 
 
 78
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 His advice, therefore, not to marry, nor engage at all in the 
 public, was wise, and suitable to his design. There was no 
 way to be truly a disciple of this philosophy, but to leave 
 family, friends, country, and society, to cleave to it. ... And, 
 in good earnest, who would not, if it were happiness to do 
 so? The philosopher, however, was kind in telling us his 
 thought. Twas a token of his fatherly love of mankind 
 
 Tu pater, et reruni inventor ! Tu patria nobis 
 Suppeditas praecepta ! l 
 
 But the revivers of this philosophy in latter days appear 
 to be of a lower genius. They seem to have understood less 
 of this force of Nature, and thought to alter the thing by 
 shifting a name. They would so explain all the social passions 
 and natural affections as to denominate them of the selfish 
 kind. Thus civility, hospitality, humanity towards strangers 
 or people in distress, is only a more deliberate selfishness. 
 An honest heart is only a more cunning one ; and honesty and 
 good-nature, a more deliberate or better-regulated self-love. 
 The love of kindred, children and posterity, is purely love of 
 self and of one's own immediate blood ; as if, by this reckoning, 
 all mankind were not included : all being of one blood, and 
 joined by inter-marriages and alliances, as they have been 
 transplanted in colonies and mixed one with another. And 
 thus love of one's country and love of mankind must also be 
 self-love. Magnanimity and courage, no doubt, are modifica- 
 tions of this universal self-love ! For courage, 2 says our 
 modern philosopher, is constant anger; and all men, says a 
 witty poet, 3 would be cowards if they durst. 
 
 That the poet and the philosopher both were cowards, 
 
 1 [" Thou, Father, art (es is the revised reading) discoverer of things ; 
 thou givest us fatherly precepts." Lucretius, iii. 9.] 
 
 2 Sudden courage (says Mr. Hobbes, Lev. vi.) is anger. Therefore 
 courage considered as constant, and belonging to a character, must, in 
 his account, be denned constant anger, or anger constantly returning. 
 
 3 Lord Rochester, Satire against Man. 
 
 79
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 may be yielded perhaps without dispute. They may have 
 spoken the best of their knowledge. But for true courage, it 
 has so little to do with anger, that there lies always the 
 strongest suspicion against it where this passion is highest. 
 The true courage is the cool and calm. The bravest of men 
 have the least of a brutal bullying insolence ; and in the very 
 time of danger are found the most serene, pleasant, and free. 
 Rage, we know, can make a coward forget himself and fight. 
 But what is done in fury or anger can never be placed to the 
 account of courage. Were it otherwise, womankind might 
 claim to be the stoutest sex ; for their hatred and anger have 
 ever been allowed the strongest and most lasting. 
 
 Other authors there have been of a yet inferior kind : a 
 sort of distributors and petty retailers of this wit, 1 who have 
 run changes, and divisions without end, upon this article of 
 self-love. You have the very same thought spun out a hundred 
 ways, and drawn into mottoes and devices to set forth this 
 riddle, that " act as disinterestedly or generously as you please, 
 self still is at the bottom, and nothing else. 1 ' Now if these 
 gentlemen who delight so much in the play of words, but are 
 cautious how they grapple closely with definitions, would tell 
 us only what self-interest was, 2 and determine happiness and 
 good, there would be an end of this enigmatical wit. For in 
 this we should all agree, that happiness was to be pursued, 
 and in fact was always sought after; but whether found in 
 following Nature, and giving way to common affection, or in 
 suppressing it, and turning every passion towards private 
 advantage, a narrow self-end, or the preservation of mere life, 
 
 1 The French translator supposes with good reason that our author, 
 in this passage, had an eye to those sentences or maxims which pass 
 under the name of the Duke de la Rochefoucault. He has added, withal, 
 the censure of this kind of wit, and of these maxims in particular, by some 
 authors of the same nation. The passages are too long to insert here, 
 though they are otherwise very just and entertaining. That which he 
 has cited of old Montaigne is from the first chapter of his second Essay. 
 
 2 Inquiry, bk. i. part ii. 2 ; bk. ii. part i. 1, 3, part ii. 2. 
 
 80
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 this would be the matter in debate between us. The question 
 would not be, " who loved himself, or who not," but " who 
 loved and served himself the rightest, and after the truest 
 manner."" 
 
 Tis the height of wisdom, no doubt, to be rightly selfish. 
 And to value life, as far as life is good, belongs as much to 
 courage as to discretion ; but a wretched life is no wise man's 
 wish. To be without honesty is, in effect, to be without 
 natural affection or sociableness of any kind. And a life with- 
 out natural affection, friendship, or sociableness would be found 
 a wretched one were it to be tried. Tis as these feelings and 
 affections are intrinsically valuable and worthy that self-interest 
 is to be rated and esteemed. A man is by nothing so much 
 himself as by his temper and the character of his passions and 
 affections. If he loses what is manly and worthy in these, he 
 is as much lost to himself as when he loses his memory and 
 understanding. The least step into villainy or baseness changes 
 the character and value of a life. He who would preserve 
 life at any rate must abuse himself more than any one can abuse 
 him. And if life be not a dear thing indeed, he who has 
 refused to live a villain and has preferred death to a base action 
 has been a gainer by the bargain. 
 
 SECTION IV 
 
 Tis well for you, my friend, that in your education you have 
 had little to do with the philosophy 1 or philosophers of our 
 days. A good poet and an honest historian may afford 
 learning enough for a gentleman ; and such a one, whilst he 
 reads these authors as his diversion, will have a truer relish of 
 their sense, and understand them better than a pedant with 
 all his labours and the assistance of his volumes of com- 
 
 1 Our author, it seems, writes at present as to a young 1 gentleman 
 chiefly of a court breeding. See, however, his further sentiments more 
 particularly in Treatise in. (viz. Soliloquy) infra, part iii. 3, etc. , in the 
 notes. 
 
 VOL. I 81 G
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 mentators. I am sensible that of old 'twas the custom to send 
 the youth of highest quality to philosophers to be formed. 
 'Twas in their schools, in their company, and by their precepts 
 and example that the illustrious pupils were inured to hard- 
 ship and exercised in the severest courses of temperance and 
 self-denial. By such an early discipline they were fitted for 
 the command of others; to maintain their country's honour 
 in war, rule wisely in the State, and fight against luxury and 
 corruption in times of prosperity and peace. If any of these 
 arts are comprehended in university learning, 'tis well. But as 
 some universities in the world are now modelled, they seem not 
 so very effectual to these purposes, nor so fortunate in pre- 
 paring for a right practice of the world, or a just knowledge 
 of men and things. Had you been thorough -paced in the 
 ethics or politics of the schools, I should never have thought 
 of writing a word to you upon common sense or the love of 
 mankind. I should not have cited the poet's duke et decorum ; 
 nor, if I had made a character for you, as he for his noble 
 friend, should I have crowned it with his 
 
 Non ille pro caris amicis 
 Aut patria timidus perire. 1 
 
 Our philosophy nowadays runs after the manner of that 
 able sophister who said, " Skin for skin : all that a man hath 
 will he give for his life." 2 "Tis orthodox divinity, as well as 
 sound philosophy, with some men to rate life by the number 
 and exquisiteness of the pleasing sensations. These they 
 constantly set in opposition to dry virtue and honesty ; and 
 upon this foot they think it proper to call all men fools who 
 would hazard a life or part with any of these pleasing sensations 
 except on the condition of being repaid in the same coin and 
 with good interest into the bargain. Thus, it seems, we are 
 
 ' l [" He fears not to die for his dear friends and fatherland." Horace, 
 Odes, iv. he. 51, 52.] * Job ii. 4. 
 
 82
 
 to learn virtue by usury, and enhance the value of life, and of 
 the pleasures of sense, in order to be wise and to live well. 
 
 But you, my friend, are stubborn in this point ; and instead 
 of being brought to think mournfully of death, or to repine at 
 the loss of what you may sometimes hazard by your honesty, 
 you can laugh at such maxims as these, and divert yourself 
 with the improved selfishness and philosophical cowardice of 
 these fashionable moralists. You will not be taught to value 
 life at their rate, or degrade honesty as they do, who make it 
 only a name. You are persuaded there is something more in 
 the thing than fashion or applause ; that worth and merit 
 are substantial, and no way variable by fancy or will ; and 
 that honour is as much itself when acting by itself and unseen, 
 as when seen and applauded by all the world. 
 
 Should one who had the countenance of a gentleman ask 
 me "Why I would avoid being nasty, when nobody was 
 present?" In the first place I should be fully satisfied that 
 he himself was a very nasty gentleman who could ask this 
 question, and that it would be a hard matter for me to make 
 him ever conceive what true cleanliness was. However, I 
 might, notwithstanding this, be contented to give him a slight 
 answer, and say "'twas because I had a nose." Should he 
 trouble me further and ask again, "what if I had a cold? 
 or what if naturally I had no such nice smell ? " I might 
 answer perhaps, " that I cared as little to see myself nasty as 
 that others should see me in that condition." But what if it 
 were in the dark ? Why even then, though I had neither nose 
 nor eyes, my sense of the matter would still be the same : my 
 nature would rise at the thought of what was sordid; or if it 
 ~3Id not, I should have a wretched nature indeed, and hate 
 myself for a beast. Honour myself I never could whilst I had 
 no better a sense of what in reality I owed myself, and what 
 became me as a human creature. 
 
 Much in the same manner have I heard it asked, Why 
 should a man be honest in the dark ? What a man must be 
 
 83
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 to ask this question I will not say. But for those who have no 
 better a reason for being honest than the fear of a gibbet or 
 a jail, I should not, I confess, much covet their company or 
 acquaintance. And if any guardian of mine who had kept 
 his trust, and given me back my estate when I came of age, had 
 been discovered to have acted thus through fear only of what 
 might happen to him, I should, for my own part, undoubtedly 
 continue civil and respectful to him ; but for my opinion of his 
 worth, it would be such as the Pythian God had of his votary, 
 who devoutly feared him, and therefore restored to a friend 
 what had been deposited in his hands 
 
 Reddidit ergo metu, non moribus ; et tamen omnem 
 Vocem adyti dignam templo, veramque probavit, 
 Extinctus tota pariter cum prole domoque. 1 
 
 I know very well that many services to the public are done 
 merely for the sake of a gratuity ; and that informers in par- 
 ticular are to be taken care of and sometimes made pensioners 
 of State. But I must beg pardon for the particular thoughts I 
 may have of these gentlemen's merit ; and shall never bestow 
 my esteem on any other than the voluntary discoverers of 
 villainy and hearty prosecutors of their country's interest. And 
 in this respect, I know nothing greater or nobler than the 
 undertaking and managing some important accusation, by which 
 some high criminal of State, or some formed body of con- 
 spirators against the public, may be arraigned and brought 
 to punishment through the honest zeal and public affection of 
 a private man. 
 
 I know, too, that the mere vulgar of mankind often stand in 
 need of such a rectifying object as the gallows before their eyes. 
 Yet I have no belief that any man of a liberal education, or 
 common honesty, ever needed to have recourse to this idea in 
 
 1 [" So he paid it back, from fear, not from principle. Yet still he 
 proved the oracle true and fit to be God's voice, for he and his house 
 perished root and branch." Juv. xiii. 204-206.] 
 
 84
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 his mind, the better to restrain him from playing the knave. 
 And if a saint had no other virtue than what was raised in him 
 by the same objects of reward and punishment, in a more distant 
 state, I know not whose love or esteem he might gain besides, 
 but for my own part I should never think him worthy of mine. 
 
 " Nee furtum feci nee fugi/' si mihi dicat 
 
 Servus : " habes pretium, loris non ureris/' aio. 
 
 " Non hominem occidi." " Non pasces in cruce corvos." 
 
 "Sum bonus et frugi." Renuit negitatque Sabellus. 1 
 
 PART IV 
 
 / SECTION I 
 
 BY this time, my friend, you may possibly, I hope, be satisfied 
 that as I am in earnest in defending raillery, so I can be 
 sober too in the use of it. Tis in reality a serious study to 
 learn to temper and regulate that humour which nature has 
 given us as a more lenitive remedy against vice, and a kind of 
 specific against superstition and melancholy delusion. There is 
 a great difference between seeking how to raise a laugh from 
 everything, and seeking in everything what justly may be 
 laughed at. For nothing is ridiculous except what is deformed ; 
 nor is anything proof against raillery except what is handsome 
 and just. And therefore 'tis the hardest thing in the world to 
 deny fair honesty the use of this weapon, which can never bear 
 an edge against herself, and bears against everything contrary. 
 
 If the very Italian buffoons were to give us the rule in these 
 cases, we should learn by them that in their lowest and most 
 
 1 [" If my slave tells me, ' 1 have not stolen, nor run away,' I answer, 
 ' You have your reward, you are not flogged. ' ' I have not killed a man ! ' 
 'The crows do not devour you on the cross.' ' I am good and honest !' 
 My Sabine bailiff shakes his head and denies it." Horace, Epist. i. xvi. 
 46-49.] 
 
 85
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 scurrilous way of wit, there was nothing so successfully to be 
 played upon as the passions of cowardice and avarice. One may 
 defy the world to turn real bravery or generosity into ridicule. 
 A glutton or mere sensualist is as ridiculous as the other two 
 characters. Nor can an unaffected temperance be made the 
 subject of contempt to any besides the grossest and most con- 
 temptible of mankind. Now these three ingredients make up 
 a virtuous character, as the contrary three a vicious one. How 
 therefore can we possibly make a jest of honesty ? To laugh 
 both ways is nonsensical. And if the ridicule lie against 
 sottishness, avarice, and cowardice, you see the consequence. 
 A man must be soundly ridiculous who, with all the wit imagin- 
 able, would go about to ridicule wisdom, or laugh at honesty, or 
 good manners. 
 
 A man of thorough good breeding, 1 whatever else he be, is 
 incapable of doing a rude or brutal action. He never deliberates 
 in this case, or considers of the matter by prudential rules of self- 
 interest and advantage. He acts from his nature, in a manner 
 necessarily, and without reflection ; and if he did not, it were 
 impossible for him to answer his character, or be found that 
 truly well-bred man on every occasion. 'Tis the same with 
 the honest man. He cannot deliberate in the case of a plain 
 villainy. A " plum " is no temptation to him. He likes and 
 loves himself too well to change hearts with one of those corrupt 
 miscreants, who amongst them gave that name to a round sum 
 of money gained by rapine and plunder of the commonwealth. 
 He who would enjoy a freedom of mind, and be truly possessor 
 of himself, must be above the thought of stooping to what is 
 villainous or base. He, on the other side, who has a heart to 
 stoop, must necessarily quit the thought of manliness, resolution, 
 friendship, merit, and a character with himself and others. But 
 to affect these enjoyments and advantages, together with the 
 privileges of a licentious principle ; to pretend to enjoy society 
 and a free mind in company with a knavish heart, is as ridiculous 
 1 Miscellaneous Reflections, Misc. iii. ch. i. 
 
 86
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 as the way of children, who eat their cake and afterwards cry for 
 it. When men begin to deliberate about dishonesty, and finding 
 it go less against their stomach, ask slily, "Why they should 
 stick at a good piece of knavery for a good sum ? " they should 
 be told, as children, that they cannot eat their cake and have it. 
 When men indeed are become accomplished knaves they are 
 past crying for their cake. They know themselves, and are 
 known by mankind. Tis not these who are so much envied or 
 admired. The moderate kind are the more taking with us. 
 Yet had we sense we should consider 'tis in reality the thorough 
 profligate knave, the very complete unnatural villain alone, who 
 can any way bid for happiness with the honest man. True 
 interest is wholly on one side or the other. All between is 
 inconsistency, 1 irresolution, remorse, vexation, and an ague fit: 
 from hot to cold ; from one passion to another quite contrary ; 
 a perpetual discord of life ; and an alternate disquiet and self- 
 dislike. The only rest or repose must be through one deter- 
 mined, considerate resolution, which when once taken must be 
 courageously kept; and the passions and affections brought 
 under obedience to it ; the temper steeled and hardened to the 
 mind; the disposition to the judgment. Both must agree, else 
 all must be disturbance and confusion. So that to think with 
 one's self in good earnest, "why may not one do this little 
 villainy, or commit this one treachery, and but for once," is 
 the most ridiculous imagination in the world, and contrary to 
 common sense. For a common honest man, whilst left to him- 
 self, and undisturbed by philosophy and subtle reasonings about 
 
 1 Our author's French translator cites, on this occasion, very aptly 
 those verses of Horace, Sat. u. vii. 18-20 : 
 
 Quanto constantior idem 
 In vitiis, tanto levius miser ac prior ille 
 Qui jam contento, jam laxo fune laborat. 
 
 [" At any rate he was so much the more consistent in vice, and so far 
 less miserable than that other, who pulls now on a loose and now on a 
 tight cord."] 
 
 87
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 his interest, gives no other answer to the thought of villainy 
 than that he cannot possibly find in his heart to set about it, or 
 conquer the natural aversion he has to it. And this is natural 
 and just. 
 
 The truth is, as notions stand now in the world with respect 
 to morals, honesty is like to gain little by philosophy, or deep 
 speculations of any kind. In the main, 'tis best to stick to 
 \ common sense and go no farther. Men's first thoughts in this 
 matter are generally better than their second : their natural 
 notions better than those refined by study or consultation with 
 casuists. According to common speech, as well as common 
 sense, honesty is the best policy ; but according to refined sense, 
 the only well-advised persons, as to this world, are errant knaves ; 
 and they alone are thought to serve themselves who serve their 
 passions, and indulge their loosest appetites and desires. Such, 
 it seems, are the wise, and such the wisdom of this world ! 
 
 An ordinary man talking of a vile action, in a way of 
 common sense, says naturally and heartily, "he would not be 
 guilty of such a thing for the whole world. 1 " But speculative 
 men find great modifications in the case ; many ways of evasion ; 
 many remedies; many alleviations. A good gift rightly applied; 
 a right method of suing out a pardon ; good alms-houses, and 
 charitable foundations erected for right worshippers, and a good 
 zeal shown for the right belief, may sufficiently atone for one 
 wrong practice, especially when it is such as raises a man to a 
 considerable power (as they say) of doing good, and serving the 
 true cause. 
 
 Many a good estate, many a high station has been gained 
 upon such a bottom as this. Some crowns too may have been 
 purchased on these terms ; and some great emperors (if I mistake 
 not) there have been of old, who were much assisted by these 
 or the like principles ; and in return were not ungrateful to the 
 cause and party which had assisted them. The forgers of such 
 morals have been amply endowed, and the world has paid 
 roundly for its philosophy, since the original plain principles of 
 
 88
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 humanity, and the simple honest precepts of peace and mutual 
 love, have, by a sort of spiritual chemists, been so sublimated 
 as to become the highest corrosives, and passing through their 
 limbecks, have yielded the strongest spirit of mutual hatred and 
 malignant persecution. 
 
 / SECTION II 
 
 Bur our humours, my friend, incline us not to melancholy 
 reflections. Let the solemn reprovers of vice proceed in the 
 manner most suitable to their genius and character. I am 
 ready to congratulate with them on the success of their labours, 
 in that authoritative way which is allowed them. 1 know not, 
 in the meanwhile, why others may not be allowed to ridicule 
 folly, and recommend wisdom and virtue (if possibly they can) 
 in a way of pleasantry and mirth. I know not why poets, or 
 such as write chiefly for the entertainment of themselves and 
 others, may not be allowed this privilege. And if it be the 
 complaint of our standing reformers that they are not heard 
 so well by the gentlemen of fashion ; if they exclaim against 
 those airy wits who fly to ridicule as a protection, and make 
 successful sallies from that quarter ; why should it be denied one, 
 who is only a volunteer in this cause, to engage the adversary 
 on his own terms, and expose himself willingly to such attacks, 
 on the single condition of being allowed fair play in the same 
 kind ? 
 
 By gentlemen of fashion, I understand those to whom a 
 natural good genius, or. the force of good education, has given 
 a sense of what is naturally graceful and becoming. Some by 
 mere nature, others by art and practice, are masters of an ear 
 in music, an eye in painting, a fancy in the ordinary things of 
 ornament and grace, a judgment in proportions of all kinds, 
 and a general good taste in most of those subjects which make 
 the amusement and delight of the ingenious people of the world. 
 Let such gentlemen as these be as extravagant as they please, 
 
 89
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 or as irregular in their morals, they must at the same time 
 discover their inconsistency, live at variance with themselves, 
 and in contradiction to that principle on which they ground 
 their highest pleasure and entertainment. 
 
 Of all other beauties which virtuosos pursue, poets celebrate, 
 musicians sing, and architects or artists, of whatever kind, 
 describe or form, the most delightful, the most engaging and 
 pathetic, is that which is drawn from real life, and from the 
 passions. Nothing affects the heart like that which is purely 
 from itself, and of its own nature ; such as the beauty of 
 sentiments, the grace of actions, the turn of characters, and 
 the proportions and features of a human mind. This lesson of 
 philosophy, even a romance, a poem, or a play may teach us ; 
 whilst the fabulous author leads us with such pleasure through 
 the labyrinth of the affections, and interests us, whether we will 
 or no, in the passions of his heroes and heroines : 
 
 Angit, 
 
 Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus iraplet, 
 Ut magus. 1 
 
 Let poets, or the men of harmony, deny, if they can, this 
 force of Nature, or withstand this moral magic. They, for their 
 parts, carry a double portion of this charm about them. For 
 in the first place, the very passion which inspires them is itself 
 the love of numbers, decency and proportion ; and this too, 
 not in a narrow sense, or after a selfish way (for who of them 
 composes for himself?), but in a friendly social view, for the 
 pleasure and good of others, even down to posterity and future 
 ages. And in the next place, 'tis evident in these performers 
 that their chief theme and subject, that which raises their 
 genius the most, and by which they so effectually move others, 
 is purely manners and the moral part. For this is the effect, 
 and this the beauty of their art ; " in vocal measures of syllables 
 
 1 [" Like a Mage, he tortures, enrages, soothes, fills us with false 
 terrors." Hor. Epwt. u. i. 211-213.] 
 
 90
 
 and sounds to express the harmony and numbers of an inward 
 kind, and represent the beauties of a human soul by proper foils 
 and contrarieties, which serve as graces in this limning, and 
 render this music of the passions more powerful and enchanting." 
 The admirers of beauty in the fair sex would laugh, perhaps, 
 to hear of a moral part in their amours. Yet what a stir is 
 made about a heart ! What curious search of sentiments and 
 tender thoughts ! What praises of a humour, a sense, a je ne s$ai 
 quoi of wit, and all those graces of a mind which these virtuoso- 
 lovers delight to celebrate ! Let them settle this matter among 
 themselves, and regulate, as they think fit, the proportions 
 which these different beauties hold one to another. They must 
 allow still, there is a beauty of the mind, and such as is essential 
 in the case. Why else is the very air of foolishness enough to 
 cloy a lover at first sight ? Why does an idiot-look and manner 
 destroy the effect of all those outward charms, and rob the 
 fair one of her power, though regularly armed in all the exact- 
 ness of features and complexion ? We may imagine what we 
 please of a substantial solid part of beauty; but were the subject 
 to be well criticised we should find, perhaps, that what we most 
 admired, even in the turn of outward features, was only a 
 mysterious expression, and a kind of shadow of something 
 inward in the temper; and that when we were struck with a 
 majestic air, a sprightly look, an Amazon bold grace, or a 
 contrary soft and gentle one, 'twas chiefly the fancy of these 
 characters or qualities which wrought on us : our imagination 
 being busied in forming beauteous shapes and images of this 
 rational kind, which entertained the mind and held it in ad- 
 miration, whilst other passions of a lower species were employed 
 another way. The preliminary addresses, the declarations, the 
 explanations, confidences, clearings, the dependence on something 
 mutual, something felt by way of return, the spes animi credida 
 mutui all these become necessary ingredients in the affair of 
 love, and are authentically established by the men of elegance 
 and art in this way of passion. 
 
 91
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 Nor can the men of cooler passions and more deliberate 
 pursuits withstand the force of beauty in other subjects. Every 
 one is a virtuoso of a higher or lower degree. Every one pursues 
 a Grace and courts a Venus of one kind or another. The venus- 
 tum, the honestum, the decorum of things will force its way. 
 They who refuse to give it scope in the nobler subjects of a 
 rational and moral kind will find its prevalency elsewhere in 
 an inferior order of things. They who overlook the main 
 springs of action, and despise the thought of numbers and pro- 
 portion in a life at large, will, in the mean particulars of it, be 
 no less taken up and engaged, as either in the study of common 
 arts, or in the care and culture of mere mechanic beauties. 
 The models of houses, buildings, and their accompanying orna- 
 ments ; the plans of gardens, and their compartments ; the 
 ordering of walks, plantations, avenues ; and a thousand other 
 symmetries, will succeed in the room of that happier and higher 
 symmetry and order of a mind. The species 1 of fair, noble, 
 handsome, will discover itself on a thousand occasions, and in 
 a thousand subjects. The spectre still will haunt us in some 
 shape or other ; and when driven from our cool thoughts, and 
 frighted from the closet, will meet us even at court, and fill our 
 heads with dreams of grandeur, titles, honours, and a false 
 magnificence and beauty, to which we are ready to sacrifice our 
 highest pleasure and ease, and for the sake of which we become 
 the merest drudges and most abject slaves. 
 
 The men of pleasure, who seem the greatest contemners of 
 this philosophical beauty, are forced often to confess her charms. 
 They can as heartily as others commend honesty ; and are as 
 much struck with the beauty of a generous part. They admire 
 the thing itself, though not the means. And, if possible, they 
 would so order it, as to make probity and luxury agree. But 
 the rules of harmony will not permit it. The dissonances are 
 too strong. However, the attempts of this kind are not un- 
 pleasant to observe. For though some of the voluptuous are 
 1 Misc. in. ch. ii. 
 
 92
 
 found sordid pleaders for baseness and corruption of every sort, 
 yet others, more generous, endeavour to keep measures with 
 honesty ; and understanding pleasure better, are for bringing it 
 under some rule. They condemn this manner ; they praise the 
 other. " So far was right ; but further, wrong. Such a case 
 was allowable; but such a one not to be admitted." They 
 introduce a justice and an order in their pleasures. They would 
 bring reason to be of their party, account in some manner for 
 their lives, and form themselves to some kind of consonancy 
 and agreement. Or should they find this impracticable on 
 certain terms, they would choose to sacrifice their other pleasures 
 to those which arise from a generous behaviour, a regularity of 
 conduct, and a consistency of life and manners : 
 
 Et verae numerosque modosque ediscere vitae. 1 
 
 Other occasions will put us upon this thought ; but chiefly 
 a strong view of merit, in a generous character, opposed to some 
 detestably vile one. Hence it is that among poets, the satirists 
 seldom fail in doing justice to virtue. Nor are any of the 
 nobler poets false to this cause. Even modern wits, whose turn 
 is all towards gallantry and pleasure, when bare-faced villainy 
 stands in their way, and brings the contrary species in view, 
 can sing in passionate strains the praises of plain honesty. 
 
 When we are highly friends with the world, successful with 
 the fair, and prosperous in the possession of other beauties, we 
 may perchance, as is usual, despise this sober mistress. But 
 when we see, in the issue, what riot and excess naturally produce 
 in the world ; when we find that by luxury's means, and for the 
 service of vile interests, knaves are advanced above us, and the 
 vilest of men preferred before the honestest ; we then behold 
 virtue in a new light, and by the assistance of such a foil, can 
 discern the beauty of honesty, and the reality of those charms 
 which before we understood not to be either natural or powerful. 
 
 1 ["To learn the measures and rules of the true life." Hor. Epist. n. 
 ii. 144.] 
 
 93
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 V SECTION III 
 
 AND thus, after all, the most natural beauty in the world is 
 honesty and moral truth. For all beauty is truth. True 
 features make the beauty of a face ; and true proportions the 
 beauty of architecture ; as true measures that of harmony and 
 music. In poetry, which is all fable, truth still is the perfection. 
 And whoever is scholar enough to read the ancient philosopher, 
 or his modern copyists, 1 upon the nature of a dramatic and epic 
 poem, will easily understand this account of truth. 2 
 
 A painter, if he has any genius, understands the truth and 
 unity of design ; and knows he is even then unnatural when he 
 follows Nature too close, and strictly copies Life. For his art 
 allows him not to bring all nature into his piece, but a part 
 only. However, his piece, if it be beautiful, and carries truth, 
 must be a whole, by itself, complete, independent, and withal as 
 great and comprehensive as he can make it. So that particulars, 
 on this occasion, must yield to the general design, and all things 
 be subservient to that which is principal ; in order to form a 
 certain easiness of sight, a simple, clear, and united view, 3 
 
 1 The French translator, no doubt, has justly hit our author's thought, 
 by naming in his margin the excellent Bossu Du pocme epique ; who in 
 that admirable comment and explanation of Aristotle, has perhaps not 
 only shown himself the greatest of the French critics, but presented the 
 world with a view of ancient literature and just writing beyond any other 
 modern of whatever nation. 
 
 2 Misc. iii. ch. ii. and v. ch. i. 
 
 3 The rb tiivuvoirTov , as the great Master of arts calls it in his Poetics, 
 ch. xxiii. but particularly ch. vii., where he shows "that the rb Ka.\6v, 
 the beautiful, or the sublime, in these above-mentioned arts, is from the 
 expression of greatness with order : that is to say, exhibiting the principal 
 or main of what is designed, in the very largest proportions in which it is 
 capable of being viewed. For when it is gigantic, 'tis in a manner out of 
 sight, and can be no way comprehended in that simple and united view. 
 As, on the contrary, when a piece is of the miniature kind ; when it runs 
 into the detail and nice delineation of every little particular ; 'tis as it 
 
 94
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 which would be broken and disturbed by the expression of any 
 thing peculiar or distinct. 
 
 Now the variety of Nature is such, as to distinguish every- 
 thing she forms, by a peculiar original character, which, if 
 strictly observed, will make the subject appear unlike to any- 
 
 were invisible, for the same reason ; because the summary beauty, the 
 whole itself, cannot be comprehended in that one united view ; which is 
 broken and lost by the necessary attraction of the eye to every small and 
 subordinate part. In a poetic system, the same regard must be had to the 
 memory as in painting to the eye. The dramatic kind is confined within 
 the convenient and proper time of a spectacle. The epic is left more at 
 large. Each work, however, must aim at vastness, and be as great, and 
 of as long duration as possible ; but so as to be comprehended (as to the 
 main of it) by one easy glance or retrospect of memory. And this the 
 philosopher calls, accordingly, the rb eupvij/jdvevrov." I cannot better 
 translate the passage than as I have done in these explanatory lines. For 
 besides what relates to mere art, the philosophical sense of the original is 
 so majestic, and the whole treatise so masterly, that when I find even the 
 Latin interpreters come so short, I should be vain to attempt anything in 
 our language. I would only add a small remark of my own, which may 
 perhaps be noticed by the studiers of statuary and painting : that the 
 greatest of the ancient as well as modern artists, were ever inclined to 
 follow this rule of the philosopher ; and when they erred in their designs, 
 or draughts, it was on the side of greatness, by running into the unsizable 
 and gigantic, rather than into the minute and delicate. Of this, Mich. 
 Angelo, the great beginner and founder among the moderns, and Zeuxis 
 the same among the ancients, may serve as instances. See Pliny, xxxv. 
 9, concerning Zeuxis, and the notes of Father Hardouin in his edition 
 in usum Delphini, p. 200, on the words, deprehenditur tamen Zeuxis, etc. 
 And again Pliny himself upon Euphranor, in the same book, ch. 11, p. 226, 
 docilis ac laboriosus ante omnes, et in quocumque genere excellens, ac 
 sibi aequalis. Hie primus videtur expressisse diguitates heroum, et 
 usurpasse symmetriam. Sed fuit universitate corporum exilior, capitibus 
 articulisque grandior. Volumina quoque composuit de symmetria et 
 coloribus, etc. [' ( A good learner and painstaking, uniformly excellent in 
 every branch. He is thought to have first done justice to the majesty of 
 heroes and first mastered proportion, but his bodies were over-slender, his 
 heads and limbs over-large. He wrote too on proportion and colouring." 
 Pliny, H. N. xxxv. 128.] Vide infra, Advice to an Author, part iii. 3, in 
 the notes. 
 
 95
 
 thing extant in the world besides. But this effect the good 
 poet and painter seek industriously to prevent. They hate 
 minuteness, and are afraid of singularity ; which would make 
 their images, or characters, appear capricious and fantastical. 
 The mere face-painter, indeed, has little in common with the 
 poet; but, like the mere historian, copies what he sees, and 
 minutely traces every feature and odd mark. 'Tis otherwise 
 with the men of invention and design. 'Tis from the many 
 objects of nature, and not from a particular one, that those 
 geniuses form the idea of their work. Thus the best artists are 
 said to have been indefatigable in studying the best statues : as 
 esteeming them a better rule than the perfectest human bodies 
 could afford. And thus some considerable wits 1 have recom- 
 mended the best poems as preferable to the best of histories ; 
 and better teaching the truth of characters and nature of 
 mankind. 
 
 Nor can this criticism be thought high-strained. Though 
 few confine themselves to these rules, few are insensible of them. 
 Whatever quarter we may give to our vicious poets, or other 
 composers of irregular and short-lived works, we know very 
 well that the standing pieces of good artists must be formed 
 after a more uniform way. Every just work of theirs comes 
 under those natural rules of proportion and truth. The 
 creature of their brain must be like one of Nature's formation. 
 It must have a body and parts proportionable ; or the very 
 vulgar will not fail to criticise the work when it has neither 
 head nor tail. For so common sense (according to just 
 philosophy) judges of those works which want the justness of 
 a whole, and show their author, however curious and exact in 
 particulars, to be in the main a very bungler 
 
 1 Thus the great Master himself in his Poetics above cited, viii. , Sii> Kal 
 ^n\offO(fxjrrepov Kal ffirovdaibrepov irolrjins Iffroplas 4<rriv T\ fjv yap iroiijcns /j.a\\ov 
 ra Ka06\ov, i) d' Iffropia ra KaO' ^Kacrrov \tyet. [" Poetry is both a more 
 philosophic and a more real thing than history ; for poetry tells rather the 
 universal, history the particular." Arist. Poet, xcvi.] 
 
 96
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Infelix operis summa, quia ponere totum 
 Nesciet. 1 
 
 Such is poetical and such (if I may so call it) graphical 
 or plastic truth. Narrative or historical truth must needs be 
 highly estimable ; especially when we consider how mankind, 
 who are become so deeply interested in the subject, have 
 suffered by the want of clearness in it. 'Tis itself a part of 
 moral truth. To be a judge in one, requires a judgment in 
 the other. The morals, the character, and genius of an author 
 must be thoroughly considered ; and the historian or relator of 
 things important to mankind must, whoever he be, approve 
 himself many ways to us, both in respect of his judgment, 
 candour, and disinterestedness, ere we are bound to take 
 anything on his authority. And as for critical truth, 2 or the 
 judgment and determination of what commentators, translators, 
 paraphrasts, grammarians and others have, on this occasion, 
 delivered to us ; in the midst of such variety of style, such 
 different readings, such interpolations and corruptions in the 
 originals ; such mistakes of copyists, transcribers, editors, and a 
 hundred such accidents to which ancient books are subject ; it 
 becomes, upon the whole, a matter of nice speculation, con- 
 sidering withal that the reader, though an able linguist, must 
 be supported by so many other helps from chronology, natural 
 philosophy, geography, and other sciences. 
 
 And thus many previous truths are to be examined and 
 understood in order to judge rightly of historical truth, and of 
 the past actions and circumstances of mankind, as delivered to 
 us by ancient authors of different nations, ages, times, and 
 different in their characters and interests. Some moral and 
 philosophical truths there are withal so evident in themselves, 
 that ^twould be easier to imagine half mankind to have run mad, 
 and joined precisely in one and the same species of folly, than 
 to admit anything as truth which should be advanced against 
 such natural knowledge, fundamental reason, and common sense. 
 1 Hor. De Arte Poet. 34. 2 Misc. v. ch. 'iiL 
 
 VOL. i 97 H
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 This I have mentioned, the rather because some modern 
 zealots appear to have no better knowledge of truth, nor better 
 manner of judging it, than by counting noses. By this rule, 
 if they can poll an indifferent number out of a mob ; if they 
 can produce a set of Lancashire noddles, remote provincial 
 headpieces, or visionary assemblers, to attest a story of a witch 
 upon a broomstick, and a flight in the air, they triumph in the 
 solid proof of their new prodigy, and cry, magna est veritcus 
 et praevalebit ! 
 
 Religion, no doubt, is much indebted to these men of 
 prodigy, who, in such a discerning age, would set her on the 
 foot of popular tradition, and venture her on the same bottom 
 with parish tales, and gossiping stories of imps, goblins, and 
 demoniacal pranks, invented to fright children, or make 
 practice for common exorcists and " cunning men " ! For by 
 that name, you know, country people are used to call those 
 dealers in mystery who are thought to conjure in an honest 
 way, and foil the devil at his own weapon. 
 
 And now, my friend, I can perceive 'tis time to put an end 
 to these reflections, lest by endeavouring to expound things 
 any further, I should be drawn from my way of humour to 
 harangue profoundly on these subjects. But should you find 
 I had moralised in any tolerable manner, according to common 
 sense, and without canting, I could be satisfied with my per- 
 formance, such as it is, without fearing what disturbance I 
 might possibly give to some formal censors of the age, whose 
 discourses and writings are of another strain. I have taken 
 the liberty, you see, to laugh upon some occasions; and if I 
 have either laughed wrong, or been impertinently serious, I can 
 be content to be laughed at in my turn. If contrariwise I am 
 railed at, I can laugh still, as before, and with fresh advantage 
 to my cause. For though, in reality, there could be nothing 
 less a laughing matter than the provoked rage, ill-will, and 
 fury of certain zealous gentlemen, were they armed as lately 
 they have been known ; yet as the magistrate has since taken 
 
 98
 
 FREEDOM OF WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 care to pare their talons, there is nothing very terrible in their 
 encounter. On the contrary, there is something comical in the 
 case. It brings to one^ mind the fancy of those grotesque 
 figures and dragon-faces, which are seen often in the frontis- 
 piece and on the corner-stones of old buildings. They seem 
 placed there as the defenders and supporters of the edifice ; but 
 with all their grimace, are as harmless to people without, as 
 they are useless to the building within. Great efforts of anger 
 to little purpose, serve for pleasantry and farce. Exceeding 
 fierceness, with perfect inability and impotence, make the 
 highest ridicule. I am, dear friend, affectionately yours, etc. 
 
 99
 
 TREATISE III 
 
 SOLILOQUY 
 
 OR 
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 Nee TE quaesiveris extra. 
 
 PEBS. Sat. i. 
 
 Printed first in the year MDCCX.
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 PART I 
 SECTION I 
 
 I HAVE often thought how ill-natured a maxim it was, which 
 on many occasions I have heard from people of good under- 
 standing, " that, as to what related to private conduct, no one 
 was ever the better for advice." But upon farther examination 
 I have resolved with myself that the maxim might be admitted 
 without any violent prejudice to mankind. For in the manner 
 advice was generally given, there was no reason, I thought, to 
 wonder it should be so ill received. Something there was which 
 strangely inverted the case, and made the giver to be the only 
 gainer. For by what I could observe in many occurrences of 
 our lives, that which we called giving advice was, properly, 
 taking an occasion to show our own wisdom at another's expense. 
 On the other side, to be instructed, or to receive advice on the 
 terms usually prescribed to us, was little better than tamely to 
 afford another the occasion of raising himself a character from 
 our defects. 
 
 In reality, however able or willing a man may be to advise, 
 'tis no easy matter to make advice a free gift. For to make a 
 gift free indeed, there must be nothing in it which takes from 
 another to add to ourself. In all other respects, to give and 
 to dispense is generosity and good- will ; but to bestow wisdom, 
 is to gain a mastery which cannot so easily be allowed us. Men 
 
 103
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 willingly learn whatever else is taught them. They can bear a 
 master in mathematics, in music, or in any other science, but 
 not in understanding and good sense. 
 
 'Tis the hardest thing imaginable for an author not to appear 
 assuming in this respect. For all authors at large are, in a 
 manner, professed masters of understanding to the age. And for 
 this reason, in early days, poets were looked upon as authentic 
 sages, for dictating rules of life, and teaching manners and good 
 sense. How they may have lost their pretension, I cannot say. 
 Tis their peculiar happiness and advantage not to be obliged 
 to lay their claim openly. And if whilst they profess only to 
 please, they secretly advise and give instruction, they may now 
 perhaps, as well as formerly, be esteemed with justice the best 
 and most honourable among authors. 
 
 Meanwhile, " if dictating and prescribing be of so dangerous 
 a nature in other authors, what must his case be who dictates 
 to authors themselves ? " 
 
 To this I answer : that my pretension is not so much to give 
 advice, as to consider of the way and manner of advising. My 
 science, if it be any, is no better than that of a language-master, 
 or a logician. For I have taken it strongly into my head, that 
 there is a certain knack or legerdemain in argument, by which 
 we may safely proceed to the dangerous part of advising, and 
 make sure of the good fortune to have our advice accepted if it 
 be anything worth. 
 
 My proposal is to consider of this affair as a case of surgery. 
 'Tis practice, we all allow, which makes a hand. " But who, on 
 this occasion, will be practised on ? Who will willingly be the 
 first to try our hand, and afford us the requisite experience ? " 
 Here lies the difficulty. For supposing we had hospitals for 
 this sort of surgery, and there were always in readiness certain 
 meek patients who would bear any incisions, and be probed or 
 tented at our pleasure, the advantage no doubt would be con- 
 siderable in this way of practice. Some insight must needs be 
 obtained. In time a hand too might be acquired ; but in all 
 
 104
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 likelihood a very rough one, which would by no means serve 
 the purpose of this latter surgery. For here, a tenderness of 
 hand is principally requisite. No surgeon will be called who 
 has not feeling and compassion. And where to find a subject 
 in which the operator is likely to preserve the highest tenderness, 
 and yet act with the greatest resolution and boldness, is certainly 
 a matter of no slight consideration. 
 
 I am sensible there is in all considerable projects, at first 
 appearance, a certain air of chimerical fancy and conceit, which 
 is apt to render the projectors somewhat liable to ridicule. I 
 would therefore prepare my reader against this prejudice, by 
 assuring him that in the operation proposed there is nothing 
 which can justly excite his laughter; or if there be, the laugh 
 perhaps may turn against him by his own consent and with 
 his own concurrence, which is a specimen of that very art or 
 science we are about to illustrate. 
 
 Accordingly, if it be objected against the above-mentioned 
 practice and art of surgery, " that we can nowhere find such a 
 meek patient, with whom we can in reality make bold, and for 
 whom nevertheless we are sure to preserve the greatest tenderness 
 and regard," I assert the contrary ; and say, for instance, that 
 we have each of us ourselves to practise on. " Mere quibble ! " 
 you will say; " for who can thus multiply himself into two persons 
 and be his own subject ? Who can properly laugh at himself, 
 or find in his heart to be either merry or severe on such an 
 occasion ? " Go to the poets, and they will present you with 
 many instances. Nothing is more common with them, than 
 this sort of soliloquy. A person of profound parts, or perhaps 
 of ordinary capacity, happens on some occasion to commit a 
 fault. He is concerned for it. He comes alone upon the stage ; 
 looks about him to see if anybody be near ; then takes himself 
 to task, without sparing himself in the least. You would 
 wonder to hear how close he pushes matters, and how thoroughly 
 he carries on the business of self-dissection. By virtue of this 
 soliloquy he becomes two distinct persons. He is pupil and 
 
 105
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 preceptor. He teaches, and he learns. And in good earnest, 
 had I nothing else to plead in behalf of the morals of our 
 modern dramatic poets, I should defend them still against their 
 accusers for the sake of this very practice, which they have taken 
 care to keep up in its full force. For whether the practice be 
 natural or no, in respect of common custom and usage, I take 
 upon me to assert, that it is an honest and laudable practice ; 
 and that if already it be not natural to us, we ought however to 
 make it so, by study and application. 
 
 " Are we to go therefore to the stage for edification ? Must 
 we learn our catechism from the poets ? And, like the players, 
 speak aloud what we debate at any time with ourselves alone ? ^ 
 Not absolutely so, perhaps. Though where the harm would be, 
 of spending some discourse, and bestowing a little breath and 
 clear voice purely upon ourselves, I cannot see. We might 
 peradventure be less noisy and more profitable in company, if 
 at convenient times we discharged some of our articulate sound, 
 and spoke to ourselves viva voce when alone. For company is 
 an extreme provocative to fancy, and, like a hot bed in garden- 
 ing, is apt to make our imaginations sprout too fast. But by 
 this anticipating remedy of soliloquy, we may effectually provide 
 against the inconvenience. 
 
 We have an account in history of a certain nation who 
 seem to have been extremely apprehensive of the effects of this 
 frothiness or ventosity in speech, and were accordingly resolved 
 to provide thoroughly against the evil. They carried this 
 remedy of ours so far, that it was not only their custom, but 
 their religion and law, to speak, laugh, use action, gesticulate, 
 and do all in the same manner when by themselves as when 
 they were in company. If you had stolen upon them unawares 
 at any time when they had been alone, you might have found 
 them in high dispute, arguing with themselves, reproving, 
 counselling, haranguing themselves, and in the most florid 
 manner accosting their own persons. In all likelihood they had 
 been once a people remarkably fluent in expression, much 
 
 106
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 pestered with orators and preachers, and mightily subject to 
 that disease which has been since called the leprosy of eloquence, 
 till some sage legislator arose amongst them, who, when he could 
 not oppose the torrent of words and stop the flux of speech by 
 any immediate application, found means to give a vent to the 
 loquacious humour, and broke the force of the distemper by 
 eluding it. 
 
 Our present manners, I must own, are not so well calculated 
 for this method of soliloquy as to suffer it to become a national 
 practice. 'Tis but a small portion of this regimen which I 
 would willingly borrow and apply to private use, especially in 
 the case of authors. I am sensible how fatal it might prove to 
 many honourable persons, should they acquire such a habit as 
 this, or offer to practise such an art within reach of any mortal 
 ear. For 'tis well known we are not many of us like that 
 Roman who wished for windows to his breast, that all might be 
 as conspicuous there as in his house, which for that very reason 
 he had built as open as was possible. I would therefore advise 
 our probationer upon his first exercise to retire into some thick 
 wood, or rather take the point of some high hill, where, besides 
 the advantage of looking about him for security, he would find 
 the air perhaps more rarefied and suitable to the perspiration 
 required, especially in the case of a poetical genius 
 
 Scriptorum chorus omnis amat nemus et fugit urbes. 1 
 
 Tis remarkable in all great wits, that they have owned this 
 practice of ours, and generally described themselves as a people 
 liable to sufficient ridicule for their great loquacity by them- 
 selves, and their profound taciturnity in company. Not only 
 the poet and philosopher, but the orator himself was wont to 
 have recourse to our method. And the prince of this latter 
 tribe may be proved to have been a great frequenter of the 
 woods and river-banks, where he consumed abundance of his 
 
 1 [" The whole band of authors loves a wood and shuns a city. " Hor. 
 Epist. ii. ii. 77.] 
 
 107
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 breath, suffered his fancy to evaporate, and reduced the vehe- 
 mence both of his spirit and voice. If other authors find 
 nothing which invites them to these recesses, 'tis because their 
 genius is not of force enough ; or though it be, their character, 
 they may imagine, will hardly bear them out. For to be 
 surprised in the odd actions, gestures, or tones, which are proper 
 to such ascetics, I must own would be an ill adventure for a 
 man of the world. But with poets and philosophers 'tis a 
 known case : 
 
 Aut insanit homo, aut versus facit. 1 
 
 Composing and raving must necessarily, we see, bear a 
 
 resemblance. And for those composers who deal in systems and 
 
 airy speculations, they have vulgarly passed for a sort of prose 
 
 poets. Their secret practice and habit has been as frequently 
 
 - noted : 
 
 Murmura cum secum et rabiosa silentia rodunt. 2 
 
 Both these sorts are happily indulged in this method of evacua- 
 tion. They are thought to act naturally and in their proper 
 way when they assume these odd manners. But of other 
 authors 'tis expected they should be better bred. They are 
 obliged to preserve a more conversible habit, which is no small 
 misfortune to them. For if their meditation and reverie be 
 obstructed by the fear of a nonconforming mien in conversation, 
 they may happen to be so much the worse authors for being 
 finer gentlemen. Their fervency of imagination may possibly 
 be as strong as either the philosopher's or the poet's. But being 
 denied an equal benefit of discharge, and withheld from the 
 wholesome manner of relief in private, 'tis no wonder if they 
 appear with so much froth and scum in public. 
 
 Tis observable that the writers of memoirs and essays are 
 chiefly subject to this frothy distemper. Nor can it be doubted 
 that this is the true reason why these gentlemen entertain the 
 
 1 ["The man is either raving or composing." Hor. Sat. n. vii. 118.] 
 
 2 Pers. Sat. iii. 
 
 108
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 world so lavishly with what relates to themselves. For having 
 had no opportunity of privately conversing with themselves, or 
 exercising their own genius so as to make acquaintance with it 
 or prove its strength, they immediately fall to work in a wrong 
 place, and exhibit on the stage of the world that practice which 
 they should have kept to themselves, if they designed that 
 either they or the world should be the better for their moralities. 
 Who indeed can endure to hear an empiric talk of his own 
 constitution, how he governs and manages it, what diet agrees 
 best with it, and what his practice is with himself? The 
 proverb, no doubt, is very just, Physician cure thyself. Yet 
 methinks one should have but an ill time to be present at these 
 bodily operations. Nor is the reader in truth any better 
 entertained when he is obliged to assist at the experimental 
 discussions of his practising author, who all the while is in 
 reality doing no better than taking his physic in public. 
 
 For this reason I hold it very indecent for any one to publish 
 his meditations, occasional reflections, solitary thoughts, or other 
 such exercises as come under the notion of this self-discoursing 
 practice. And the modestest title I can conceive for such 
 works would be that of a certain author who called them his 
 crudities. 'Tis the unhappiness of those wits who conceive 
 suddenly, but without being able to go out their full time, that 
 after many miscarriages and abortions, they can bring nothing 
 well-shapen or perfect into the world. They are not, however, 
 the less fond of their offspring, which in a manner they beget 
 in public. For so public-spirited they are, that they can never 
 afford themselves the least time to think in private for their 
 own particular benefit and use. For this reason, though they 
 are often retired, they are never by themselves. The world is 
 ever of the party. They have their author-character in view, 
 and are always considering how this or that thought would 
 serve to complete some set of contemplations, or furnish out the 
 commonplace book from whence these treasured riches are to 
 flow jn plenty on the necessitous world. 
 
 109
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 But if our candidates for authorship happen to be of the 
 sanctified kind, 'tis not to be imagined how much farther still 
 their charity is apt to extend. So exceeding great is their 
 indulgence and tenderness for mankind, that they are unwilling 
 the least sample of their devout exercise should be lost. Though 
 there are already so many formularies and rituals appointed for 
 this species of soliloquy, they can allow nothing to lie concealed 
 which passes in this religious commerce and way of dialogue 
 between them and their soul. 
 
 These may be termed a sort of pseudo-ascetics, who can have 
 no real converse either with themselves, or with heaven, whilst 
 they look thus asquint upon the world, and carry titles and 
 editions along with them in their meditations. And although 
 the books of this sort, by a common idiom, are called good 
 books, the authors, for certain, are a sorry race ; for religious 
 crudities are undoubtedly the worst of any. A saint-author of 
 all men least values politeness. 1 He scorns to confine that spirit 
 in which he writes to rules of criticism and profane learning. 
 Nor is he inclined in any respect to play the critic on himself, 
 or regulate his style or language by the standard of good 
 company, and people of the better sort. He is above the 
 consideration of that which in a narrow sense we call manners. 
 Nor is he apt to examine any other faults than those which he 
 calls sins ; though a sinner against good-breeding and the laws 
 of decency will no more be esteemed a good author, than will 
 a sinner against grammar, good argument, or good sense. And 
 if moderation and temper are not of the party with a writer, 
 let his cause be ever so good, I doubt whether he will be able to 
 recommend it with great advantage to the world. 
 
 On this account, I would principally recommend our exercise 
 of self-converse to all such persons as are addicted to write after 
 the manner of holy advisers, especially if they lie under an 
 indispensable necessity of being talkers or haranguers in the 
 same kind. For to discharge frequently and vehemently in 
 1 Alive, v. ch. i. iu the notes. 
 110
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 public, is a great hindrance to the way of private exercise, 
 which consists chiefly in control. But where, instead of control, 
 debate, or argument, the chief exercise of the wit consists in 
 uncontrollable harangues and reasonings, which must neither 
 be questioned nor contradicted, there is great danger lest the 
 party, through this habit, should suffer much by crudities, 
 indigestions, choler, bile, and particularly by a certain tumour 
 or flatulency, which renders him of all men the least able to 
 apply the wholesome regimen of self-practice. Tis no wonder 
 if such quaint practitioners grow to an enormous size of 
 absurdity, whilst they continue in the reverse of that practice 
 by which alone we correct the redundancy of humours, and 
 chasten the exuberance of conceit and fancy. 
 
 A remarkable instance of the want of this sovereign remedy 
 may be drawn from our common great talkers, who engross the 
 greatest part of the conversations of the world, and are the 
 forwardest to speak in public assemblies. Many of these have 
 a sprightly genius, attended with a mighty heat and ebullition 
 of fancy. But 'tis a certain observation in our science, that 
 they who are great talkers in company have never been any 
 talkers by themselves, nor used to these private discussions of 
 our home regimen. For which reason their froth abounds. 
 Nor can they discharge anything without some mixture of it. 
 But when they carry their attempts beyond ordinary discourse, 
 and would rise to the capacity of authors, the case grows worse 
 with them. Their page can carry none of the advantages of 
 their person. They can no way bring into paper those airs they 
 give themselves in discourse. The turns of voice and action, 
 with which they help out many a lame thought and incoherent 
 sentence, must here be laid aside, and the speech taken to 
 pieces, compared together, and examined from head to foot. 
 So that unless the party has been used to play the critic 
 thoroughly upon himself, he will hardly be found proof against 
 the criticisms of others. His thoughts can never appear very 
 correct, unless they have been used to sound correction by them- 
 
 111
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 selves, and been well formed and disciplined before they are 
 brought into the field. 'Tis the hardest thing in the world to 
 be a good thinker without being a strong self-examiner and 
 thorough-paced dialogist in this solitary way. 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 Bui' to bring our case a little closer still to morals. I might 
 perhaps very justifiably take occasion here to enter into a 
 spacious field of learning, to show the antiquity of that opinion : 
 " That we have each of us a daemon, genius, angel, or guardian- 
 spirit, to whom we were strictly joined and committed from 
 our earliest dawn of reason, or moment of our birth. 11 This 
 opinion, were it literally true, might be highly serviceable, no 
 doubt, towards the establishment of our system and doctrine. 
 For it would infallibly be proved a kind of sacrilege or impiety 
 to slight the company of so divine a guest, and in a manner 
 banish him our breast, by refusing to enter with him into those 
 secret conferences by which alone he could be enabled to become 
 our adviser and guide. But I should esteem it unfair to proceed 
 upon such an hypothesis as this, when the very utmost the wise 
 ancients ever meant by this daemon companion I conceive to 
 have been no more than enigmatically to declare, " that we had 
 each of us a patient in ourself ; that we were properly our own 
 subjects of practice ; and that we then became due practitioners, 
 when by virtue of an intimate recess we could discover a certain 
 duplicity of soul, and divide ourselves into two parties. 11 One 
 of these, as they supposed, would immediately approve himself 
 a venerable sage ; and with an air of authority erect himself our 
 counsellor and governor, whilst the other party, who had nothing 
 in him besides what was base and servile, would be contented 
 to follow and obey. 
 
 According therefore as this recess was deep and intimate, 
 and the dual number practically formed in us, we were supposed 
 to advance in morals and true wisdom. This, they thought, 
 
 112
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 was the only way of composing matters in our breast, and 
 establishing that subordinacy which alone could make us agree 
 with ourselves and be of a piece within. They esteemed this 
 a more religious work than any prayers, or other duty in the 
 temple. And this they advised us to carry thither, as the best 
 offering which could be made 
 
 Compositum jus, fasque animi, sanctosque recessus 
 Mentis. . . . l 
 
 This was, among the ancients, that celebrated Delphic 
 inscription, Recognise yourself; which was as much as to say, 
 divide yourself, or be two. For if the division were rightly 
 made, all within would of course, they thought, be rightly 
 understood and prudently managed. Such confidence they had 
 in this home-dialect of soliloquy. For it was accounted the 
 peculiar of philosophers and wise men, to be able to hold them- 
 selves in talk. And it was their boast on this account, " that 
 they were never less alone than when by themselves. 1 " A knave, 
 they thought, could never be by himself. Not that his conscience 
 was always sure of giving him disturbance; but he had not, 
 they supposed, so much interest with himself as to exert this 
 generous faculty, and raise himself a companion, who being 
 fairly admitted into partnership, would quickly mend his 
 partner, and set his affairs on a right foot. 
 
 One would think there was nothing easier for us than to 
 know our own minds, and understand what our main scope 
 was ; what we plainly drove at, and what we proposed to our- 
 selves, as our end, in every occurrence of our lives. But our 
 thoughts have generally such an obscure implicit language, that 
 'tis the hardest thing in the world to make them speak out 
 distinctly. For this reason, the right method is to give them 
 voice and accent. And this, in our default, is what the 
 moralists or philosophers endeavour to do to our hand, when, 
 
 1 [ ' ' Duty to God and man well blended in the mind, purity in the 
 shrine of the heart." Persius, Sat. ii. 73 : Conington's translation.] 
 VOL. I 113 I
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 as is usual, they hold us out a kind of vocal looking-glass, draw 
 sound out of our breast, and instruct us to personate ourselves 
 in the plainest manner. 
 
 Ilia sibi introrsum, et sub lingua immurmurat ; o si 
 Ebullit patrui praeclarum funus ! l 
 
 A certain air of pleasantry and humour, which prevails 
 nowadays in the fashionable world, gives a son the assurance 
 to tell a father he has lived too long ; and a husband the 
 privilege of talking of his second wife before his first. But let 
 the airy gentleman, who makes thus bold with others, retire 
 awhile out of company, and he scarce dares tell himself his 
 wishes. Much less can he endure to carry on his thought, as 
 he necessarily must, if he enters once thoroughly into himself, 
 and proceeds by interrogatories to form the home acquaintance 
 and familiarity required. For thus, after some struggle, we 
 may suppose him to accost himself : " Tell me now, my honest 
 heart ! am I really honest, and of some worth ? or do I only 
 make a fair show, and am intrinsically no better than a rascal ? 
 As good a friend, a countryman, or a relation, as I appear 
 outwardly to the world, or as I would willingly perhaps think 
 myself to be, should I not in reality be glad they were hanged, 
 any of them, or broke their necks, who happened to stand 
 between me and the least portion of an estate ? Why not ? 
 since 'tis my interest. Should I not be glad therefore to help 
 this matter forwards, and promote my interest, if it lay fairly 
 in my power ? No doubt ; provided I were sure not to be 
 punished for it. And what reason has the greatest rogue in 
 nature for not doing thus? The same reason, and no other. 
 Am I not then, at the bottom, the same as he ? The same : 
 an arrant villain, though perhaps more a coward, and not so 
 perfect in my kind. If interest therefore points me out this 
 
 1 [This passage is from Persius, Sat. ii. 10, but the reading which Shaftes- 
 bury followed is not now generally accepted. It might mean that the 
 prayer which a man utters within and secretly, when he has prayed aloud 
 for sound mind and credit, is for the speedy death of a rich uncle.] 
 
 114
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 road, whither would humanity and compassion lead me ? 
 Quite contrary. Why therefore do I cherish such weaknesses ? 
 Why do I sympathise with others ? Why please myself in the 
 conceit of worth and honour ? a character, a memory, an issue, 
 or a name ? What else are these but scruples in my way ? 
 Wherefore do I thus belie my own interest, and by keeping 
 myself half-knave, approve myself a thorough fool ? " 
 
 This is a language we can by no means endure to hold with 
 ourselves, whatever raillery we may use with others. We may 
 defend villainy, or cry up folly, before the world ; but to appear 
 fools, madmen, or varlets to ourselves, and prove it to our 
 own faces that we are really such, is insupportable. For so 
 true a reverence has every one for himself when he comes clearly 
 to appear before his close companion, that he had rather profess 
 the vilest things of himself in open company than hear his 
 character privately from his own mouth. So that we may 
 readily from hence conclude that the chief interest of ambition, 
 avarice, corruption, and every sly insinuating vice is to prevent 
 this interview and familiarity of discourse which is consequent 
 upon close retirement and inward recess. ""Tis the grand artifice 
 of villainy and lewdness, as well as of superstition and bigotry, to 
 put us upon terms of greater distance and formality with our- 
 selves, and evade our proving method of soliloquy. And for 
 this reason, how specious soever may be the instruction and 
 doctrine of formalists, their very manner itself is a sufficient 
 blind or remora in the way of honesty and good sense. 
 
 I am sensible that should my reader be peradventure a 
 lover, after the more profound and solemn way of love, he 
 would be apt to conclude that he was no stranger to our 
 proposed method of practice ; being conscious to himself of 
 having often made vigorous excursions into those solitary 
 regions above-mentioned, where soliloquy is upheld with most 
 advantage. He may chance to remember how he has many 
 times addressed the woods and rocks in audible articulate sounds, 
 and seemingly expostulated with himself in such a manner as 
 
 115
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 if he had really formed the requisite distinction, and had the 
 power to entertain himself in due form. But it is very apparent, 
 that though all were true we have here supposed, it can no way 
 reach the case before us. For a passionate lover, whatever 
 solitude he may affect, can never be truly by himself. His case 
 is like the author's who has begun his courtship to the public, 
 and is embarked in an intrigue which sufficiently amuses and 
 takes him out of himself. Whatever he meditates alone, is 
 interrupted still by the imagined presence of the mistress he 
 pursues. Not a thought, not an expression, not a sigh, which 
 is purely for himself. All is appropriated, and #11 devoutly 
 tendered to the object of his passion. Insomuch that there is 
 nothing ever so trivial or accidental of this kind, which he is 
 not desirous should be witnessed by the party whose grace and 
 favour he solicits. 
 
 Tis the same reason which keeps the imaginary saint, or 
 mystic, from being capable of this entertainment. Instead of 
 looking narrowly into his own nature and mind, that he may 
 be no longer a mystery to himself, he is taken up with the con- 
 templation of other mysterious natures, which he can never 
 explain or comprehend. He has the spectres of his zeal before 
 his eyes, and is as familiar with his modes, essences, personages, 
 and exhibitions of deity, as the conjuror with his different 
 forms, species, and orders of genii or daemons. So that we 
 make no doubt to assert that not so much as a recluse reli- 
 gionist, a votary, or hermit, was ever truly by himself. And 
 thus since neither lover, author, mystic, nor conjuror (who are 
 the only claimants) can truly or justly be entitled to a share in 
 this self-entertainment, it remains that the only person entitled 
 is the man of sense, the sage, or philosopher. However, since 
 of all other characters we are generally the most inclined to 
 favour that of a lover, it may not, we hope, be impertinent, on 
 this occasion, to recite the story of an amour. 
 
 A virtuous young prince of a heroic soul, capable of love 
 and friendship, made war upon a tyrant, who was in every 
 
 116
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 respect his reverse. 'Twos the happiness of our prince to be as 
 great a conqueror by his clemency and bounty as by his arms 
 and military virtue. Already he had won over to his party 
 several potentates and princes, who before had been subject to 
 the tyrant. Among those who adhered still to the enemy, 
 there was a prince who, having all the advantage of person and 
 merit, had lately been made happy in the possession and mutual 
 love of the most beautiful princess in the world. It happened 
 that the occasions of the war called the new-married prince 
 to a distance from his beloved princess. He left her secure, 
 as he thought, in a strong castle, far within the country ; but 
 in his absence the place was taken by surprise, and the princess 
 brought a captive to the quarters of our heroic prince. 
 
 There was in the camp a young nobleman, favourite of the 
 prince; one who had been educated with him, and was still 
 treated by him with perfect familiarity. Him he immediately 
 sent for, and with strict injunctions committed the captive 
 princess to his charge ; resolving she should be treated with 
 that respect which was due to her high rank and merit. Twas 
 the same young lord who had discovered her disguised among 
 the prisoners, and learnt her story ; the particulars of which he 
 now related to the prince. He spoke in ecstasy on this occasion ; 
 telling the prince how beautiful she appeared, even in the midst 
 of SOITOW ; and though disguised under the meanest habit, yet 
 how distinguishable, by her air and manner, from every other 
 beauty of her sex. But what appeared strange to our young 
 nobleman was that the prince, during this whole relation, 
 discovered not the least intention of seeing the lady, or satisfying 
 that curiosity which seemed so natural on such an occasion. 
 He pressed him ; but without success. " Not see her, sir ! " said 
 he, wondering, " when she is so handsome, beyond what you have 
 
 ever seen 
 
 "For that very reason," replied the prince, "I would the 
 rather decline the interview. For should I, upon the bare 
 report of her beauty, be so charmed as to make the first visit 
 
 117
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 at this urgent time of business, I may upon sight, with better 
 reason, be induced perhaps to visit her when I am more at 
 leisure; and so again and again, till at last I may have no 
 leisure left for my affairs.''' 1 
 
 " Would you, sir, persuade me then," said the young noble- 
 man, smiling, " that a fair face can have such power as to force 
 the will itself, and constrain a man in any respect to act contrary 
 to what he thinks becoming him ? Are we to hearken to the 
 poets in what they tell us of that incendiary love, and his 
 irresistible flames ? A real flame, we see, burns all alike. But 
 that imaginary one of beauty hurts only those who are consent- 
 ing. It affects no otherwise than as we ourselves are pleased to 
 allow it. In many cases we absolutely command it : as where 
 relation and consanguinity are in the nearest degree. Authority 
 and law, we see, can master it. But 'twould be vain as well as 
 unjust for any law to intermeddle or prescribe, were not the 
 case voluntary and our will entirely free. 11 
 
 " How comes it then, 11 replied the prince, " that if we are 
 thus masters of our choice, and free at first to admire and love 
 where we approve, we cannot afterwards as well cease to love 
 whenever we see cause ? This latter liberty you will hardly 
 defend. For I doubt not you have heard of many who, though 
 they were used to set the highest value upon liberty before they 
 loved, yet afterwards were necessitated to serve in the most 
 abject manner, finding themselves constrained and bound by a 
 stronger chain than any of iron or adamant. 11 
 
 " Such wretches, 11 replied the youth, " I have often heard 
 complain ; who, if you will believe them, are wretched indeed, 
 without means or power to help themselves. You may hear 
 them in the same manner complain grievously of life itself. 
 But though there are doors enough to go out of life, they find 
 it convenient to keep still where they are. They are the very 
 same pretenders, who through this plea of irresistible necessity 
 make bold with what is another's, and attempt unlawful beds. 
 But the law, I perceive, makes bold with them in its turn, 
 
 118
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 as with other invaders of property. Neither is it your custom, 
 sir, to pardon such offences. So that beauty itself, you must 
 allow, is innocent and harmless, and can compel no one to do 
 anything amiss. The debauched compel themselves, and unjustly 
 charge their guilt on love. They who are honest and just, can 
 admire and love whatever is beautiful, without offering at any- 
 thing beyond what is allowed. How then is it possible, sir, that 
 one of your virtue should be in pain on any such account, or fear 
 such a temptation ? You see, sir, I am sound and whole, after 
 having beheld the princess. I have conversed with her ; I have 
 admired her in the highest degree ; yet am myself still, and 
 in my duty; and shall be ever in the same manner at your 
 command." 
 
 " 'Tis well," replied the prince ; " keep yourself so. Be ever 
 the same man ; and look to your charge carefully, as becomes 
 you. For it may so happen in the present posture of the war 
 that this fair captive may stand us in good stead." 
 
 With this the young nobleman departed to execute his 
 commission ; and immediately took such care of the captive 
 princess and her household, that she seemed as perfectly obeyed, 
 and had everything which belonged to her in as great splendour 
 now, as in her principality, and in the height of fortune. He 
 found her in every respect deserving, and saw in her a generosity 
 of soul which was beyond her other charms. His study to oblige 
 her, and soften her distress, made her in return desirous to 
 express a gratitude, which he easily perceived. She showed on 
 every occasion a real concern for his interest; and when he 
 happened to fall ill, she took such tender care of him herself, 
 and by her servants, that he seemed to owe his recovery to her 
 friendship. 
 
 From these beginnings, insensibly, and by natural degrees 
 (as may easily be conceived) the youth fell desperately in love. 
 At first he offered not to make the least mention of his passion 
 to the princess ; for he scarce dared tell it to himself. But 
 afterwards he grew bolder. She received his declaration with 
 
 119
 
 an unaffected trouble and concern, spoke to him as a friend, to 
 dissuade him as much as possible from such an extravagant 
 attempt. But when he talked to her of force, she immediately 
 sent away one of her faithful domestics to the prince to implore 
 his protection. The prince received the message with the 
 appearance of more than ordinary concern ; sent instantly for 
 one of his first Ministers ; and bid him go with that domestic to 
 the young nobleman, and let him understand "that force was 
 not to be offered to such a lady ; persuasion he might use, if he 
 thought fit." 
 
 The Minister, who was no friend to the young nobleman, 
 failed not to aggravate the message, inveighed publicly against 
 him on this occasion, and to his face reproached him as a traitor 
 and dishonourer of his prince and nation, with all else which 
 could be said against him, as guilty of the highest sacrilege, 
 perfidiousness, and breach of trust. So that in reality the 
 youth looked upon his case as desperate, fell into the deepest 
 melancholy, and prepared himself for that fate which he thought 
 he well deserved. 
 
 In this condition the prince sent to speak with him alone ; 
 and when he saw him in the utmost confusion, " I find," said he, 
 " my friend, I am now become dreadful to you indeed ; since you 
 can neither see me without shame, nor imagine me to be without 
 resentment. But away with all those thoughts from this time 
 forwards. I know how much you have suffered on this occasion. 
 I know the power of love, and am no otherwise safe myself, than 
 by keeping out of the way of beauty.. 'Twas I who was in fault ; 
 'twas I who unhappily matched you with that unequal adversary, 
 and gave you that impracticable task and hard adventure, which 
 no one yet was ever strong enough to accomplish. 1 ' 
 
 " In this, sir,"" replied the youth, " as in all else, you express 
 that goodness which is so natural to you. You have com- 
 passion, and can allow for human frailty; but the rest of 
 mankind will never cease to upbraid me. Nor shall I ever be 
 forgiven, were I able ever to forgive myself. I am reproached 
 
 120
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 by my nearest friends. I must be odious to all mankind 
 wherever I am known. The least punishment I can think 
 due to me, is banishment for ever from your presence. 11 
 
 "Think not of such a thing for ever,"" said the prince, 
 " but trust me ; if you retire only for a while, I shall so order 
 it, that you shall soon return again with the applause even of 
 those who are now your enemies, when they find what a 
 considerable service you shall have rendered both to them 
 and me."" 
 
 Such a hint was sufficient to revive the spirits of our 
 despairing youth. He was transported to think that his 
 misfortunes could be turned any way to the advantage of his 
 prince : he entered with joy into the scheme the prince had 
 laid for him, and appeared eager to depart and execute what 
 was appointed him. " Can you, then,"" said the prince, 
 " resolve to quit the charming princess ? "" 
 
 " Oh sir ! " replied the youth, " well am I now satisfied that 
 I have in reality within me two distinct separate souls. This 
 lesson of philosophy I have learnt from that villainous sophister 
 Love. For 'tis impossible to believe that, having one and the 
 same soul, it should be actually both good and bad, passionate 
 for virtue and vice, desirous of contraries. No. There must of 
 necessity be two : and when the good prevails, 'tis then we 
 act handsomely ; when the ill, then basely and villainously. 
 Such was my case. For lately the ill soul was wholly master. 
 But now the good prevails by your assistance, and I am 
 plainly a new creature, with quite another apprehension, another 
 reason, another will." 
 
 Thus it may appear how far a lover by his own natural 
 strength may reach the chief principle of philosophy, and 
 understand our doctrine of two persons in one individual 
 self. Not that our courtier, we suppose, was able of himself 
 to form this distinction justly and according to art. For 
 could he have effected this, he would have been able to cure 
 himself without the assistance of his prince. However, he 
 
 121
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 was wise enough to see in the issue that his independency and 
 freedom were mere glosses, and resolution a nose of wax. 
 For let Will be ever so free, Humour and Fancy, we see, 
 govern it. And these, as free as we suppose them, are often 
 changed we know not how, without asking our consent, or 
 giving us any account. If opinion be that which governs and 
 makes the change, 'tis itself as liable to be governed and varied 
 in its turn. And by what I can observe of the world, fancy 
 and opinion stand pretty much upon the same bottom. So 
 that if there be no certain inspector or auditor established 
 within us to take account of these opinions and fancies in 
 due form, and minutely to animadvert upon their several 
 growths and habits, we are as little like to continue a day in 
 the same will as a tree, during a summer, in the same shape, 
 without the gardener's assistance, and the vigorous application 
 of the shears and pruning-knife. 
 
 As cruel a court as the Inquisition appears, there must, it 
 seems, be full as formidable a one erected in ourselves, if we 
 would pretend to that uniformity of opinion which is necessary 
 to hold us to one will, and preserve us in the same mind from 
 one day to another. Philosophy, at this rate, will be thought 
 perhaps little better than persecution ; and a supreme judge 
 in matters of inclination and appetite must needs go exceedingly 
 against the heart. Every pretty fancy is disturbed by it ; 
 every pleasure interrupted by it. The course of good-humour 
 will hardly allow it, and the pleasantry of wit almost absolutely 
 rejects it. It appears, besides, like a kind of pedantry to be 
 thus magisterial with ourselves, thus strict over our imagina- 
 tions, and with all the airs of a real pedagogue to be solicitously 
 taken up in the sour care and tutorage of so many boyish 
 fancies, unlucky appetites and desires, which are perpetually 
 playing truant and need correction. 
 
 We hope, however, that by our method of practice and 
 the help of the grand arcanum which we have professed to 
 reveal, this regimen or discipline of the fancies may not in 
 
 122
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 the end prove so severe or mortifying as is imagined. We 
 hope also that our patient (for such we naturally suppose 
 our reader) will consider duly with himself that what he 
 endures in this operation is for no inconsiderable end, since 
 'tis to gain him a Will, and ensure him a certain resolution, 
 by which he shall know where to find himself; be sure of his 
 own meaning and design ; and as to all his desires, opinions, and 
 inclinations, be warranted one and the same person to-day as 
 yesterday, and to-morrow as to-day. 
 
 This, perhaps, will be thought a miracle by one who well 
 considers the nature of mankind, and the growth, variation, 
 and inflection of Appetite and Humour. For Appetite, which 
 is elder brother to Reason, being the lad of stronger growth, 
 is sure, on every contest, to take the advantage of drawing all 
 to his own side. And Will, so highly boasted, is at best 
 merely a top or football between these youngsters, who prove 
 very unfortunately matched ; till the youngest, instead of now 
 and then a kick or lash bestowed to little purpose, forsakes 
 the ball or top itself, and begins to lay about his elder brother. 
 'Tis then that the scene changes. For the elder, like an arrant 
 coward, upon this treatment, presently grows civil, and affords 
 the younger as fair play afterwards as he can desire. 
 
 And here it is that our sovereign remedy and gymnastic 
 method of soliloquy takes its rise ; when by a certain powerful 
 figure of inward rhetoric the mind apostrophises its own 
 fancies, raises them in their proper shapes and personages, 
 and addresses them familiarly, without the least ceremony or 
 respect. By this means it will soon happen that two formed 
 parties will erect themselves within. For the imaginations 
 or fancies being thus roundly treated are forced to declare 
 themselves and take party. Those on the side of the elder 
 brother Appetite are strangely subtle and insinuating. They 
 have always the faculty to speak by nods and winks. By this 
 practice they conceal half their meaning, and, like modern 
 politicians, pass for deeply wise, and adorn themselves with 
 
 123
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 the finest pretexts and most specious glosses imaginable ; till, 
 being confronted with their fellows of a plainer language and 
 expression, they are forced to quit their mysterious manner, and 
 discover themselves mere sophisters and impostors who have 
 not the least to do with the party of reason and good sense. 
 
 Accordingly we might now proceed to exhibit distinctly, 
 and in due method, the form and manner of this probation or 
 exercise as it regards all men in general. But the case of 
 authors in particular being, as we apprehend, the most urgent, 
 we shall apply our rule in the first place to these gentlemen, 
 whom it so highly imports to know themselves, and understand 
 the natural strength and powers as well as the weaknesses of a 
 human mind. For without this understanding, the historian's 
 judgment will be very defective ; the politician's views very 
 narrow and chimerical ; and the poet's brain, however stocked 
 with fiction, will be but poorly furnished, as in the sequel we 
 shall make appear. He who deals in characters must of 
 necessity know his own, or he will know nothing. And he 
 who would give the world a profitable entertainment of this 
 sort, should be sure to profit, first, by himself. For in this 
 sense, Wisdom as well as Charity may be honestly said to begin 
 at home. There is no way of estimating manners, or apprising 
 the different humours, fancies, passions, and apprehensions of 
 others, without first taking an inventory of the same kind of 
 goods within ourselves, and surveying our domestic fund. A 
 little of this home practice will serve to make great discoveries 
 Tecum habita et noris quam sit tibi curta suppellex. 1 
 
 SECTION III 
 
 WHOEVER has been an observer of action and grace in human 
 bodies must of necessity have discovered the great difference in 
 this respect between such persons as have been taught by nature 
 
 1 [" Live at home and learn how slenderly furnished your apartments 
 are." Persius, Sat. iv. 52 : Conington's translation.] 
 
 124
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 only, and such as by reflection and the assistance of art have 
 learnt to form those motions which on experience are found the 
 easiest and most natural. Of the former kind are either those 
 good rustics who have been bred remote from the formed 
 societies of men, or those plain artisans and people of lower 
 rank who, living in cities and places of resort, have been 
 necessitated however to follow mean employments, and wanted 
 the opportunity and means to form themselves after the better 
 models. There are some persons indeed so happily formed by 
 Nature herself, that with the greatest simplicity or rudeness of f. 
 education they have still something of a natural grace and s t _< 
 comeliness in their action ; and there are others of a better 
 education who, by a wrong aim and injudicious affectation of f 
 grace, are of all people the farthest removed from it. 'Tis 
 undeniable, however, that the perfection of grace and comeliness 
 in action and behaviour can be found only among the people 
 of a liberal education. And even among the graceful of this 
 kind, those still are found the gracefullest who early in their 
 youth have learnt their exercises, and formed their motions 
 under the best masters. 
 
 Now such as these masters and their lessons are to a fine 
 gentleman, such are philosophers and philosophy to an author. 
 The case is the same in the fashionable and in the literate 
 world. In the former of these it is remarked that by the help 
 of good company, and the force of example merely, a decent 
 carriage is acquired, with such apt motions and such a freedom 
 of limbs as on all ordinary occasions may enable the party to 
 demean himself like a gentleman. But when, upon further 
 occasion, trial is made in an extraordinary way when exercises 
 of the genteeler kind are to be performed in public 'twill easily 
 appear who of the pretenders have been formed by rudiments, 
 and had masters in private, and who, on the other side, have 
 contented themselves with bare imitation, and learnt their part 
 casually and by rote. The parallel is easily made on the side 
 of writers. They have at least as much need of learning the 
 
 125
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 several motions, counterpoises and balances of the mind and 
 passions, as the other students those of the body and limbs 
 
 Scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fons ; 
 Rem tibi Socraticae poterunt ostendere chartae. 1 
 
 The gallant, no doubt, may pen a letter to his mistress, as 
 the courtier may a compliment to the Minister, or the Minister 
 to the favourite above him, without going such vast depths into 
 learning or philosophy. But for these privileged gentlemen, 
 
 1 Hor. de Arte Poet. See even the dissolute Petronius's judgment of a 
 writer : 
 
 Artis severae si quis amat effectus, 
 Mentemque magnis applicat ; prius more 
 Frugalitatis lege polleat exacta ; 
 
 Nee curet alto regiam trucem vultu. 
 
 ***** 
 
 neve plausor in scaena 
 Sedeat redemptus, histrioniae addictus. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Mox et Socratico plenus grege, mutet habenas 
 Liber, et ingentis quatiat Demosthenis arma. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 His animum succinge bonis, sic flumine large 
 Plenus, Pierio defundes pectore verba. 
 
 1 [(0 " Sound knowledge is the first requisite for writing well ; the books 
 of Socrates' school will yield you the matter." Hor. Ars Poet. 309, 310.] 
 [(ii) Petron. c. v. The readings followed by Shaftesbury are not very 
 good. The general sense is given thus by Wilson (translation of the 
 Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter, 1J08 : reprinted for private circulation, 
 1899): 
 
 By liberal arts would you acquire renown, 
 And rise to power by honours of the gown ? 
 Strict in your life, of conversation chaste, 
 Far from the court with just precaution haste, 
 The haughty great but very rare attend, 
 ***** 
 
 And fly the luscious accents of the stage, 
 ***** 
 
 Next let philosophy employ your thought, 
 
 And maxims learn the wise Athenian taught, etc.] 
 
 126
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 though they set fashions and prescribe rules in other cases, they 
 are no controllers in the commonwealth of Letters. Nor are they 
 presumed to write to the age, or for remote posterity. Their 
 works are not of a nature to entitle them to hold the rank of 
 authors, or be styled writers by way of excellence in the kind. 
 Should their ambition lead them into such a field, they would 
 be obliged to come otherwise equipped. They who enter the 
 public lists must come duly trained and exercised, like well- 
 appointed cavaliers expert in arms, and well instructed in the 
 use of their weapon and management of their steed. For to 
 be well accoutred and well mounted is not sufficient. The 
 horse alone can never make the horseman, nor limbs the 
 wrestler or the dancer. No more can a genius alone make a 
 poet, or good parts a writer in any considerable kind. The 
 skill and grace of writing is founded, as our wise poet tells us, 
 in knowledge and good sense ; and not barely in that knowledge 
 which is to be learnt from common authors, or the general 
 conversation of the world; but from those particular rules of 
 art which philosophy alone exhibits. 
 
 The philosophical writings to which our poet in his Art of 
 Poetry refers, were in themselves a kind of poetry, like the 
 mimes, 1 or personated pieces of early times, before philosophy 
 was in vogue, and when as yet dramatical imitation was scarce 
 formed ; or at least, in many parts, not brought to due per- 
 fection. They were pieces which, besides their force of style 
 and hidden numbers, earned a sort of action and imitation, the 
 same as the epic and dramatic kinds. They were either real 
 dialogues, or recitals of such personated discourses ; where the 
 persons themselves had their characters preserved throughout, 
 their manners, humours, and distinct turns of temper and 
 understanding maintained, according to the most exact poetical 
 truth. 'Twas not enough that these pieces treated funda- 
 mentally of morals, and in consequence pointed out real 
 characters and manners : they exhibited them alive, and set the 
 1 Infra, part ii. 2, in the notes. 
 
 127
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 countenances and complexions of men plainly in view. And by 
 this means they not only taught us to know others, but, what 
 was principal and of highest virtue in them, they taught us to 
 know ourselves. 
 
 The philosophical hero of these poems, whose name they 
 carried both in their body and front, and whose genius and 
 manner they were made to represent, was in himself a perfect 
 character ; yet in some respects so veiled and in a cloud, that 
 to the unattentive surveyor he seemed often to be very different 
 from what he really was ; and this chiefly by reason of a certain 
 exquisite and refined raillery which belonged to his manner, and 
 by virtue of which he could treat the highest subjects and those 
 of the commonest capacity both together, and render them 
 explanatory of each other. So that in this genius of writing 
 there appeared both the heroic and the simple, the tragic and 
 the comic vein. However, it was so ordered that, notwithstand- 
 ing the oddness or mysteriousness of the principal character, the 
 under -parts or second characters showed human nature more 
 distinctly and to the life. We might here, therefore, as in a 
 looking-glass, discover ourselves, and see our minutest features 
 nicely delineated, and suited to our own apprehension and 
 cognizance. No one who was ever so little a while an inspector, 
 could fail of becoming acquainted with his own heart. And, 
 what was of singular note in these magical glasses, it would 
 happen that, by constant and long inspection, the parties 
 accustomed to the practice would acquire a peculiar speculative 
 habit, so as virtually to carry about with them a sort of pocket- 
 mirror, always ready and in use. In this, there were two faces 
 which would naturally present themselves to our view : one of 
 them, like the commanding genius, the leader and chief above- 
 mentioned ; the other like that rude, undisciplined, and head- 
 strong creature whom we ourselves in our natural capacity most 
 exactly resembled. Whatever we were employed in, whatever 
 we set about, if once we had acquired the habit of this mirror 
 we should, by virtue of the double reflection, distinguish 
 
 128
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 ourselves into two different parties. And in this dramatic 
 method, the work of self-inspection would proceed with 
 admirable success. 
 
 "Pis no wonder that the primitive poets were esteemed such 
 sages in their times, since it appears they were such well- 
 practised dialogists, and accustomed to this improving method, 
 before ever philosophy had adopted it. Their mimes or char- 
 acterised discourses were as much relished as their most regular 
 poems ; and were the occasion perhaps that so many of these 
 latter were formed in such perfection. For poetry itself was 
 defined an imitation chiefly of men and manners ; and was that 
 in an exalted and noble degree which in a low one we call 
 mimicry. 'Tis in this that the great mimographer, 1 the father 
 and prince of poets, excels so highly ; his characters being 
 wrought to a likeness beyond what any succeeding masters were 
 ever able to describe. Nor are his works, which are so full of 
 action, any other than an artful series or chain of dialogues, 
 which turn upon one remarkable catastrophe or event. He 
 describes no qualities or virtues ; censures no manners ; makes 
 no encomiums, nor gives characters himself ; but brings his actors 
 still in view. Tis they who show themselves. 'Tis they who 
 speak in such a manner as distinguishes them in all things from 
 all others, and makes them ever like themselves. Their different 
 compositions and allays so justly made, and equally carried on 
 through every particle of the action, give more instruction than 
 all the comments or glosses in the world. The poet, instead of 
 
 1 "0/w?/>oj 5 dtXXa re TroXXa agios 4watveiff6ai, /cat STJ /ral &ri fj.6vos TUI> jroiyTuv, 
 OVK a/yvofl 6 Set Troielv avrbv. afrrbv yap dei rbv TTOMJTTJJ' iXa-xiffra, \tyetv ' ov yap 
 tffri Kara ravra /xt/uTpnjj ol ntv o8t> aXXoi avrol yv 6t' S\ov dyuvlfovrai, /LU/xoCvrcu 
 3 6\tya Kal 6\iydKtt. 
 
 [" Homer, excellent in many other respects, is specially so because he 
 is the only poet who knows what part to take himself. For the poet in 
 his own person should speak as little as may be, for it is not his speaking 
 which makes him an imitator. Now, other poets are on the stage them- 
 selves all the time, but their imitations are short and few." Arist. 
 Poet, xxiv.] 
 
 VOL* I 129 K
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 giving himself those dictating and masterly airs of wisdom, 
 makes hardly any figure at all, and is scarce discoverable in his 
 poem. This is being truly a master. He paints so as to need 
 no inscription over his figures to tell us what they are or what 
 he intends by them. A few words let fall on any slight occasion, 
 from any of the parties he introduces, are sufficient to denote 
 their manners and distinct character. From a finger or a toe 
 he can represent to our thoughts the frame and fashion of a 
 whole body. He wants no other help of art to personate his 
 heroes and make them living. There was no more left for 
 tragedy to do after him than to erect a stage and draw his 
 dialogues and characters into scenes; turning, in the same 
 manner, upon one principal action or event, with that regard 
 to place and time which was suitable to a real spectacle. Even 
 comedy itself was adjudged to this great master; 1 it being 
 derived from those parodies or mock-humours of which he had 
 given the specimen 2 in a concealed sort of raillery intermixed 
 with the sublime. ... A dangerous stroke of art ! and which 
 required a masterly hand, like that of the philosophical hero 
 whose character was represented in the dialogue writings 
 above mentioned. 
 
 From hence possibly we may form a notion of that re- 
 semblance which on so many occasions was heretofore remarked 
 between the prince of poets and the divine philosopher who 
 was said to rival him, and who, together with his contemporaries 
 of the same school, writ wholly in that manner of dialogue 
 above described. From hence too we may comprehend perhaps 
 why the study of dialogue was heretofore thought so advan- 
 tageous to writers, and why this manner of writing was judged 
 so difficult, which at first sight, it must be owned, appeal's the 
 easiest of any. 
 
 I have formerly wondered indeed why a manner, which was 
 familiarly used in treatises upon most subjects with so much 
 
 1 Infra, part ii. 2, in the notes. 
 
 2 Not only in his Margites, but even in his Iliad and Odyssey. 
 
 130
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 success among the ancients, should be so insipid and of little 
 esteem with us moderns. But I afterwards perceived that, 
 besides the difficulty of the manner itself, and that mirror 
 faculty which we have observed it to carry in respect of 
 ourselves, it proves also of necessity a kind of mirror or 
 looking-glass to the age. If so, it should of consequence 
 (you will say) be the more agreeable and entertaining. 
 
 True, if the real view of ourselves be not perhaps displeasing 
 to us. But why more displeasing to us than to the ancients ? 
 Because perhaps they could with just reason bear to see their 
 natural countenances represented. And why not we the same ? 
 What should discourage us ? For are we not as handsome, at 
 least in our own eyes ? Perhaps not, as we shall see when we 
 have considered a little further what the force is of this mirror- 
 writing, and how it differs from that more complacent modish 
 way in which an author, instead of presenting us with other 
 natural characters, sets oft' his own with the utmost art, and 
 purchases his reader's favour by all imaginable compliances and 
 condescensions. 
 
 An author who writes in his own person has the advantage 
 of being who or what he pleases. He is no certain man, nor 
 has any certain or genuine character; but suits himself on 
 every occasion to the fancy of his reader, whom, as the fashion 
 is nowadays, he constantly caresses and cajoles. All turns 
 upon their two persons. And as in an amour or commerce of 
 love-letters, so here the author has the privilege of talking 
 eternally of himself, dressing and sprucing himself up, whilst 
 he is making diligent court, and working upon the humour of 
 the party to whom he addresses. This is the coquetry of a 
 modern author, whose epistles dedicatory, prefaces, and addresses 
 to the reader are so many affected graces, designed to draw 
 the attention from the subject towards himself, and make it 
 be generally observed, not so much what he says, as what he 
 appears, or is, and what figure he already makes, or hopes to 
 make, in the fashionable world. 
 
 131
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 These are the airs which a neighbouring nation give them- 
 selves, more particularly in what they call their memoirs. 
 Their very essays on politics, their philosophical and critical 
 works, their comments upon ancient and modern authors, all 
 their treatises are memoirs. The whole writing of this age is 
 become indeed a sort of memoir-writing. Though in the real 
 memoirs of the ancients, even when they writ at any time 
 concerning themselves, there was neither the / nor thou 
 throughout the whole work. So that all this pretty amour 
 and intercourse of caresses between the author and reader was 
 thus entirely taken away. 
 
 Much more is this the case in dialogue. For here the 
 author is annihilated, and the reader, being no way applied 
 to, stands for nobody. The self-interesting parties both vanish 
 at once. The scene presents itself as by chance and un- 
 designed. You are not only left to judge coolly and with 
 indifference of the sense delivered, but of the character, genius, 
 elocution, and manner of the persons who deliver it. These 
 two are mere strangers, in whose favour you are no way 
 engaged. Nor is it enough that the persons introduced speak 
 pertinent and good sense at every turn. It must be seen 
 from what bottom they speak ; from what principle, what 
 stock or fund of knowledge they draw ; and what kind or species 
 of understanding they possess. For the understanding here 
 must have its mark, its characteristic note, by which it may 
 be distinguished. It must be such and such an understanding ; 
 as when we say, for instance, such or such a face ; since Nature 
 has characterised tempers and minds as peculiarly as faces. 
 And for an artist who draws naturally, "'tis not enough to show 
 us merely faces which may be called men's : every face must be a 
 certain man's. 
 
 Now as a painter who draws battles or other actions of 
 Christians, Turks, Indians, or any distinct and peculiar people, 
 must of necessity draw the several figures of his piece in their 
 proper and real proportions, gestures, habits, arms, or at least 
 
 132
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 with as fair resemblance as possible, so in the same manner that 
 writer, whoever he be, among us moderns, who shall venture to 
 bring his fellow-moderns into dialogue, must introduce them in 
 their proper manners, genius, behaviour and humour. And this 
 is the mirror or looking-glass above described. 
 
 For instance, a dialogue, we will suppose, is framed after the 
 manner of our ancient authors. In it a poor philosopher, of a 
 mean figure, accosts one of the powerfullest, wittiest, handsomest, 
 and richest noblemen of the time as he is walking leisurely 
 towards the temple. " You are going then," says he (calling 
 him by his plain name) " to pay your devotions yonder at the 
 temple? I am so. But with an air methinks, as if some thought 
 perplexed you. 
 
 " What is there in the case which should perplex one ? The 
 thought perhaps of your petitions, and the consideration what 
 vows you had best offer to the Deity. Is that so difficult ? 
 Can any one be so foolish as to ask of Heaven what is not for his 
 good ? Not if he understands what his good is. 
 
 " Who can mistake it, if he has common sense, and knows the 
 difference between prosperity and adversity ? T'is prosperity 
 therefore you would pray for ? 
 
 " Undoubtedly. For instance, that absolute sovereign, who 
 commands all things by virtue of his immense treasures, and 
 governs by his sole will and pleasure, him you think prosperous 
 and his state happy. 11 
 
 Whilst I am copying this (for "'tis no more indeed than a 
 borrowed sketch from one of those originals before mentioned) 
 I see a thousand ridicules arising from the manner, the circum- 
 stances and action itself, compared with modern breeding and 
 civility. Let us therefore mend the matter if possible, and 
 introduce the same philosopher, addressing himself in a more 
 obsequious manner, to his Grace, his Excellency, or his Honour, 
 without failing in the least tittle of the ceremonial. Or let us 
 put the case more favourably still for our man of letters. Let 
 us suppose him to be incognito, without the least appearance of 
 
 133
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 a character, which in our age is so little recommending. Let his 
 garb and action be of the more modish sort, in order to introduce 
 him better and gain him audience. And with these advantages 
 and precautions, imagine still in what manner he must accost 
 this pageant of state, if at any time he finds him at leisure, 
 walking in the fields alone, and without his equipage. Consider 
 how many bows and simpering faces ! how many preludes, 
 excuses, compliments ! Now put compliments, put ceremony 
 into a dialogue, and see what will be the effect ! 
 
 This is the plain dilemma against that ancient manner of 
 writing which we can neither well imitate nor translate, 
 whatever pleasure or profit we may find in reading those 
 originals. For what shall we do in such a circumstance? 
 What if the fancy takes us, and we resolve to try the experiment 
 in modern subjects ? See the consequence ! If we avoid 
 ceremony we are unnatural ; if we use it, and appear as we 
 naturally are, as we salute, and meet, and treat one another, we 
 hate the sight. . . . What's this but hating our own faces? 
 Is it the painter's fault ? Should he paint falsely or affectedly ; 
 mix modern with ancient, join shapes preposterously, and betray 
 his art ? If not, what medium is there ? What remains for 
 him but to throw away the pencil ? . . . No more designing 
 after the life ; no more mirror- writing or personal representation 
 of any kind whatever. 
 
 Thus dialogue is at an end. The ancients could see their 
 own faces, but we cannot. And why this ? Why, but because 
 we have less beauty ; for so our looking-glass can inform us. 
 . . . Ugly instrument ! And for this reason to be hated. . . . 
 Our commerce and manner of conversation, which we think the 
 politest imaginable, is such, it seems, as we ourselves cannot 
 endure to see represented to the life. 'Tis here, as in our real 
 portraitures, particularly those at full length, where the poor 
 pencil-man is put to a thousand shifts, whilst he strives to dress 
 us in affected habits, such as we never wore ; because should he 
 paint us in those we really wear, they would of necessity make 
 
 134
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 the piece to be so much more ridiculous as it was more natural 
 and resembling. 
 
 Thus much for antiquity and those rules of art, those 
 philosophical sea-cards, by which the adventurous geniuses of the 
 times were wont to steer their courses and govern their im- 
 petuous muse. These were the cTiartae of our Roman master- 
 poet, and these the pieces of art, the mirrors, the exemplars he 
 bids us place before our eyes 
 
 Vos exemplaria Graeca 
 Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna. 1 
 
 And thus poetry and the writer's art, as in many respects it 
 resembles the statuary's and the painter's, so in this more 
 particularly, that it has its original oiraughts and models for 
 study and practice ; not for ostentation, to be shown abroad or 
 copied for public view. These are the ancient busts, the trunks 
 of statues, the pieces of anatomy, the masterly rough drawings 
 which are kept within, as the secret learning, the mystery, and 
 fundamental knowledge of the art. There is this essential 
 difference however between the artists of each kind : that they 
 who design merely after bodies, and form the graces of this sort, 
 can never, with all their accuracy or correctness of design, be 
 able to reform themselves, or grow a jot more shapely in their 
 persons. But for those artists who copy from another life, who 
 study the graces and perfections of minds, and are real masters 
 of those rules which constitute this latter science, 'tis impossible 
 they should fail of being themselves improved, and amended in 
 their better part. 
 
 I must confess there is hardly anywhere to be found a more 
 insipid race of mortals than those whom we moderns are con- 
 tented to call poets, for having attained the chiming faculty of 
 a language, with an injudicious random use of wit and fancy. 
 But for the man who truly and in a just sense deserves the 
 
 1 ["Thumb your Greek patterns by night and by day." Hor. de Arte 
 Poet. 268.] 
 
 135
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 name of poet, and who as a real master, or architect in the kind, 
 can describe both men and manners, and give to an action its 
 just body and proportions, he will be found, if I mistake 
 not, a very different creature. Such a poet is indeed a second 
 Maker ; a just Prometheus under Jove. Like that sovereign 
 artist or universal plastic nature, he forms a whole, coherent and 
 proportioned in itself, with due subjection and subordinacy of 
 constituent parts. He notes the boundaries of the passions, 
 and knows their exact tones and measures ; by which he justly 
 represents them, marks the sublime of sentiments and action, 
 and distinguishes the beautiful from the deformed, the amiable 
 from the odious. The moral artist who can thus imitate the 
 Creator, and is thus knowing in the inward form and structure 
 of his fellow-creature, will hardly, I presume, be found un- 
 knowing in himself, or at a loss in those numbers which make the 
 harmony of a mind. For knavery is mere dissonance and dispro- 
 portion. And though villains may have strong tones and natural 
 capacities of action, 'tis impossible that true judgment and in- 
 genuity should reside where harmony and honesty have no being. 1 
 But having entered thus seriously into the concerns of 
 authors, and shown their chief foundation and strength, their 
 preparatory discipline and qualifying method of self-examination, 
 'tis fit, ere we disclose this mystery any farther, we should 
 consider the advantages or disadvantages our authors may 
 
 1 The maxim will hardly be disproved by fact or history, either in 
 respect of philosophers themselves or others who were the great geniuses 
 or masters in the liberal arts. The characters of the two best Roman 
 poets are well known. Those of the ancient tragedians no less. And 
 the great epic master, though of an obscurer and remoter age, was ever 
 presumed to be far enough from a vile or knavish character. The Roman 
 as well as the Grecian orator was true to his country, and died in like 
 manner a martyr for its liberty. And those historians who are of highest 
 value were either in a private life approved good men, or noted such by 
 their actions in the public. As for poets in particular (says the learned 
 and wise Strabo), " Can we possibly imagine that the genius, power, and 
 excellence of a real poet consists in aught else than the just imitation of 
 
 136
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 possibly meet with from abroad, and how far their genius may 
 be depressed or raised by any external causes arising from the 
 humour or judgment of the world. 
 
 Whatever it be which influences in this respect must proceed 
 either from the grandees and men in power, the critics and men 
 of art, or the people themselves, the common audience, and 
 mere vulgar. We shall begin therefore with the grandees and 
 pretended masters of the world, taking the liberty, in favour of 
 authors, to bestow some advice also on these high persons, if 
 possibly they are disposed to receive it in such a familiar way 
 as this. 
 
 PART II 
 
 SECTION I 
 
 As usual as it is with mankind to act absolutely by will and 
 pleasure, without regard to counsel or the rigid method of rule 
 and precept, it must be acknowledged nevertheless that the 
 good and laudable custom of asking advice is still upheld and 
 kept in fashion as a matter of fair repute and honourable 
 appearance ; insomuch that even monarchs, and absolute princes 
 
 life in formed discourse and numbers ? But how should he be that just 
 imitator of life whilst he himself knows not its measures, nor how to guide 
 himself by judgment and understanding? For we have not surely the 
 same notion of the poet's excellence as of the ordinary craftsman's, the 
 subject of whose art is senseless stone or timber, without life, dignity, or 
 beauty ; whilst the poet's art turning principally on men and manners, he 
 has his virtue and excellence as poet naturally annexed to human ex- 
 cellence, and to the worth and dignity of man. Insomuch that 'tis 
 impossible he should be a great and worthy poet who is not first a worthy 
 and good man." ov y&p ovrw <j>a/j.tv TTJV ruv TTOI-^TUV dperr]v u>s ^ TfKr6vuv 77 
 XaXxewv, etc., i] 5 iroiijTov <rvvfevKTai r^ TOV dvdp&irov' KO! 011% olttv rf dya.66v 
 yevtaOai iroiijrrjv, ny trpbrepov yev-ijOevra dvSpa dya66v. L. i. See below, part ii. 
 3, at the end, and part iii. 3, in the notes, and Misc. v. ch. i. ii. 
 
 137
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 themselves, disdain not, we see, to make profession of the 
 practice. 
 
 Tis, I presume, on this account that the royal persons are 
 pleased on public occasions to make use of the noted style of we 
 and iis. Not that they are supposed to have any converse with 
 themselves, as being endowed with the privilege of becoming 
 plural and enlarging their capacity in the manner above de- 
 scribed. Single and absolute persons in government, I am sensible, 
 can hardly be considered as any other than single and absolute 
 in morals. They have no inmate-controller to cavil with them 
 or dispute their pleasure. Nor have they, from any practice 
 abroad, been able at any time to learn the way of being free 
 and familiar with themselves at home. Inclination and will in 
 such as these admit as little restraint or check in private 
 meditation as in public company. The world, which serves as 
 a tutor to persons of an inferior rank, is submissive to these 
 royal pupils, who from their earliest days are used to see even 
 their instructors bend before them, and to hear everything 
 applauded which they themselves perform. 
 
 For fear therefore lest their humour merely, or the caprice 
 of some favourite, should be presumed to influence them when 
 they come to years of princely discretion and are advanced to 
 the helm of government, it has been esteemed a necessary 
 decency to summon certain advisers by profession to assist as 
 attendants to the single person, and be joined with him in his 
 written edicts, proclamations, letters-patent, and other instru- 
 ments of regal power. For this use privy-counsellors have been 
 erected, who, being persons of considerable figure and wise 
 aspect, cannot be supposed to stand as statues or mere ciphers 
 in the government, and leave the royal acts erroneously and 
 falsely described to us in the plural number, when at the 
 bottom a single will or fancy was the sole spring and motive. 
 
 Foreign princes indeed have most of them that unhappy 
 prerogative of acting unadvisedly and wilfully in their national 
 affairs. But 'tis known to be far otherwise with the legal and 
 
 138
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 just princes of our Island. They are surrounded with the best 
 of counsellors, the laws. They administer civil affairs by legal 
 officers who have the direction of their public will and conscience ; 
 and they annually receive advice and aid in the most effectual 
 manner from their good people. To this wise genius of our 
 Constitution we may be justly said to owe our wisest and best 
 princes, whose high birth or royal education could not alone be 
 supposed to have given them that happy turn, since by experi- 
 ence we find that those very princes, from whose conduct the 
 world abroad as well as we at home have reaped the greatest 
 advantages, were such as had the most controverted titles, and 
 in their youth had stood in the remoter prospects of regal 
 power, and lived the nearest to a private life. 
 
 Other princes we have had, who, though difficult perhaps in 
 receiving counsel, have been eminent in the practice of applying 
 it to others. They have listed themselves advisers in form, 
 and by publishing their admonitory works have added to the 
 number of those whom in this treatise we have presumed to 
 criticise. But our criticism being withal an apology for authors 
 and a defence of the literate tribe, it cannot be thought amiss 
 in us to join the royal with the plebeian penmen in this 
 common cause. 
 
 'Twould be a hard case indeed should the princes of our 
 nation refuse to countenance the industrious race of authors, 
 since their royal ancestors and predecessors have had such 
 honour derived to them from this profession. 'Tis to this they 
 owe that bright jewel of their crown, purchased by a warlike 
 prince, who having assumed the author, and essayed his strength 
 in the polemic writings of the school -divines, thought it an 
 honour on this account to retain the title of DEFENDER OF THE 
 FAITH. 
 
 Another prince, of a more pacific nature and fluent thought, 
 submitting arms and martial discipline to the gown, and con- 
 fiding in his princely science and profound learning, made his 
 style and speech the nerve and sinew of his government. He 
 
 139
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 gave us his works full of wise exhortation and advice to his 
 royal son, as well as of instruction to his good people, who 
 could not without admiration observe their author -sovereign 
 thus studious and contemplative in their behalf. 'Twas then 
 one might have seen our nation growing young and docile, with 
 that simplicity of heart which qualified them to profit like a 
 scholar-people under their royal preceptor. For with abundant 
 eloquence he graciously gave lessons to his parliament, tutored 
 his ministers, and edified the greatest churchmen and divines 
 themselves, by whose suffrage he obtained the highest appella- 
 tions which could be merited by the acutest wit and truest 
 understanding. From hence the British nations were taught to 
 own in common a Solomon for their joint sovereign, the founder 
 of their late completed union. Nor can it be doubted that the 
 pious treatise of self-discourse ascribed to the succeeding monarch 
 contributed in a great measure to his glorious and never-fading 
 titles of Saint and Martyr. 
 
 However it be, I would not willingly take upon me to 
 recommend this author-character to our future princes. What- 
 ever crowns or laurels their renowned predecessors may have 
 gathered in this field of honour, I should think that for the 
 future the speculative province might more properly be com- 
 mitted to private heads. 'Twould be a sufficient encouragement 
 to the learned world, and a sure earnest of the increase and 
 flourishing of Letters in our nation, if its sovereigns would be 
 contented to be the patrons of wit, and vouchsafe to look 
 graciously on the ingenious pupils of art. Or were it the 
 custom of their prime ministers to have any such regard, it 
 would of itself be sufficient to change the face of affairs. A 
 small degree of favour would ensure the fortunes of a distressed 
 and ruinous tribe, whose forlorn condition has helped to draw 
 disgrace upon arts and sciences, and kept them far off from that 
 politeness and beauty in which they would soon appear if the 
 aspiring genius of our nation were forwarded by the least care 
 or culture. 
 
 140
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 There should not, one would think, be any need of courtship 
 or persuasion to engage our grandees in the patronage of Arts 
 and Letters. For in our nation, upon the foot things stand, 
 and as they are likely to continue, 'tis not difficult to foresee 
 that improvements will be made in every art and science. The 
 Muses will have their turn, and with or without their 
 Maecenases will grow in credit and esteem as they arrive to 
 greater perfection and excel in every kind. There will arise 
 such spirits as Avould have credited their court patrons had 
 they found any so wise as to have sought them out betimes, 
 and contributed to their rising greatness. 
 
 'Tis scarce a quarter of an age since such a happy balance 
 of power was settled between our prince and people as has 
 firmly secured our hitherto precarious liberties, and removed 
 from us the fear of civil commotions, wars and violence, either 
 on account of religion and worship, the property of the subject, 
 or the contending titles of the Crown. But as the greatest 
 advantages of this world are not to be bought at easy prices, 
 we are still at this moment expending both our blood and 
 treasure to secure to ourselves this inestimable purchase of our 
 free government and national constitution. And as happy as 
 we are in this establishment at home, we are still held in a 
 perpetual alarm by the aspect of affairs abroad, and by the 
 terror of that Power which, ere mankind had well recovered 
 the misery of those barbarous ages consequent to the Roman 
 yoke, has again threatened the world with a universal monarchy 
 and a new abyss of ignorance and superstition. 
 
 The British Muses, in this din of arms, may well lie abject 
 and obscure, especially being as yet in their mere infant state. 
 They have hitherto scarce arrived to anything of shapeliness or 
 person. They lisp as in their cradles ; and their stammering 
 tongues, which nothing besides their youth and rawness can 
 excuse, have hitherto spoken in wretched pun and quibble. 
 Our dramatic Shakspere, our Fletcher, Jonson, and our epic 
 Milton preserve this style. And even a latter race, scarce free 
 
 141
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 of this infirmity, and aiming at a false sublime, with crowded 
 simile and mixed metaphor (the hobby-horse and rattle of the 
 Muses), entertain our raw fancy and unpractised ear, which has 
 not as yet had leisure to form itself and become truly musical. 1 
 
 But those reverend bards, rude as they were, according to 
 their time and age, have provided us however with the richest 
 ore. To their eternal honour they have withal been the first 
 of Europeans who, since the Gothic model of poetry, attempted 
 to throw off the horrid discord of jingling rhyme. 2 They have 
 asserted ancient poetic liberty, and have happily broken the ice 
 for those who are to follow them, and who, treading in their 
 footsteps, may at leisure polish our language, lead our ear to 
 finer pleasure, and find out the true rhythmus and harmonious 
 numbers, which alone can satisfy a just judgment and muse- 
 like apprehension. 
 
 Tis evident our natural genius shines above that airy 
 neighbouring nation, of whom, however, it must be confessed 
 that with truer pains and industry they have sought politeness, 
 and studied to give the Muses their due body and proportion, 
 as well as the natural ornaments of correctness, chastity, and 
 grace of style. From the plain model of the ancients they 
 have raised a noble satirist. 3 In the epic kind their attempts 
 have been less successful. In the dramatic they have been so 
 happy as to raise their stage to as great perfection as the 
 genius of their nation will permit. 4 But the high spirit of 
 
 1 See Misc. v. ch. i. towards the end, and in the notes. 
 
 2 [Dryden, who gave so much higher praise to Shakspere, had 
 declined with Rymer to praise Milton for his preference of blank verse 
 to rhyme. But Shaftesbury's less unlucky position seems to have been 
 reached rather. by way of classicist prejudice than of superiority in taste. 
 See his estimate of Shakspere's style in iii. hereinafter. Addison's 
 defence of Milton in the Spectator began (Jan. 1712) within a year of the 
 issue of the Characteristics.] 3 Boileau. 
 
 4 [Dryden is at this point the luckier critic. Compare his preface to 
 All for Love. Shaftesbury's further explanation, however, is suggestive, 
 apart from his unhappy definition of the genius of tragedy.] 
 
 142
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 tragedy can ill subsist where the spirit of liberty is wanting. 
 The genius of this poetry consists in the lively representation 
 of the disorders and misery of the great ; to the end that the 
 people and those of a lower condition may be taught the better 
 to content themselves with privacy, enjoy their safer state, and 
 prize the equality and justice of their guardian laws. If this be 
 found agreeable to the just tragic model, which the ancients 
 have delivered to us, 'twill easily be conceived how little such 
 a model is proportioned to the capacity or taste of those who 
 in a long series of degrees, from the lowest peasant to the high 
 slave of royal blood, are taught to idolise the next in power 
 above them, and think nothing so adorable as that unlimited 
 greatness and tyrannic power, which is raised at their own 
 expense and exercised over themselves. 
 
 Tis easy, on the other hand, to apprehend the advantages 
 of our Britain in this particular, and what effect its established 
 liberty will produce in everything which relates to art, when 
 peace returns to us on these happy conditions. Twos the fate 
 of Rome to have scarce an intermediate age, or single period of 
 time, between the rise of arts and fall of liberty. No sooner 
 had that nation begun to lose the roughness and barbarity of 
 their manners, and learn of Greece to form their heroes, their 
 orators and poets on a right model, than by their unjust 
 attempt upon the liberty of the world they justly lost their 
 own. With their liberty they lost not only their force of 
 eloquence, but even their style and language itself. The poets 
 who afterwards arose among them were mere unnatural and 
 forced plants. Their two most accomplished, who came last, 
 and closed the scene, were plainly such as had seen the days of 
 liberty, and felt the sad effects of its departure. Nor had these 
 been ever brought in play, otherwise than through the friend- 
 ship of the famed Maecenas, who turned a prince 1 naturally 
 cruel and barbarous to the love and courtship of the Muses. 
 These tutoresses formed in their royal pupil a new nature. 
 1 Infra, iii. iu the notes. 
 143
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 They taught him how to charm mankind. They were more 
 to him than his arms or military virtue, and, more than Fortune 
 herself, assisted him in his greatness, and made his usurped 
 dominion so enchanting to the world, that it could see without 
 regret its chains of bondage firmly riveted. The corrupting 
 sweets of such a poisonous government were not indeed long- 
 lived. The bitter soon succeeded ; and in the issue the 
 world was forced to bear with patience those natural and 
 genuine tyrants who succeeded to this specious machine of 
 arbitrary and universal power. 
 
 And now that I am fallen unawares into such profound 
 reflections on the periods of government, and the flourishing 
 and decay of Liberty and Letters, I cannot be contented to 
 consider merely of the enchantment which wrought so powerfully 
 upon mankind when first this universal monarchy was estab- 
 lished. I must wonder still more when I consider how after 
 the extinction of this Caesarean and Claudian family, and a 
 short interval of princes raised and destroyed with much 
 disorder and public ruin, the Romans should regain their 
 perishing dominion, and retrieve their sinking state, by an 
 after-race of wise and able princes successively adopted, and 
 taken from a private state to rule the empire of the world. 
 They were men who not only possessed the military virtues 
 and supported that sort of discipline in the highest degree ; 
 but as they sought the interest of the world, they did what was 
 in their power to restore liberty, and raise again the perishing 
 arts and decayed virtue of mankind. But the season was now 
 past ! The fatal form of government was become too natural ; 
 and the world, which had bent under it, and was become slavish 
 and dependent, had neither power nor will to help itself. The 
 only deliverance it could expect was from the merciless hands of 
 the barbarians, and a total dissolution of that enormous empire 
 and despotic power, which the best hands could not preserve 
 from being destructive to human nature. For even barbarity 
 and Gothicism were already entered into arts ere the savages 
 
 144
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 had made any impression on the empire. All the advantage 
 which a fortuitous and almost miraculous succession of good 
 princes could procure their highly favoured arts and sciences, 
 was no more than to preserve during their own time those 
 perishing remains, 1 which had for awhile with difficulty 
 subsisted after the decline of Liberty. Not a statue, not a 
 medal, not a tolerable piece of architecture could show itself 
 afterwards. Philosophy, wit and learning, in which some of 
 those good princes had themselves been so renowned, fell with 
 them ; and ignorance and darkness overspread the world, and 
 fitted it for the chaos and ruin which ensued. 
 
 We are now in an age when Liberty is once again in its 
 ascendant. And we are ourselves the happy nation who not 
 only enjoy it at home, but by our greatness and power give 
 life and vigour to it abroad ; and are the head and chief of 
 the European League, 2 founded on this common cause. Nor 
 can it, I presume, be justly feared that we should lose this 
 noble ardour, or faint under the glorious toil, though, like 
 ancient Greece, we should for succeeding ages be contending 
 with a foreign power, and endeavouring to reduce the ex- 
 orbitancy of a Grand Monarch. Tis with us at present as 
 with the Roman people in those early days, 3 when they wanted 
 only repose from arms to apply themselves to the improvement 
 of arts and studies. We should in this case need no ambitious 
 monarch to be allured, by hope of fame or secret views of 
 power, to give pensions abroad as well as at home, and purchase 
 flattery from every profession and science. We should find a 
 
 1 Infra, 2, and part iii. 3, in the notes. 
 
 2 [Against Louis XIV.] 
 
 3 Serus enim Graecis admovit acumina chartis ; 
 Et post Punica bella quietus, quaerere coepit, 
 Quid Sophocles et Thespis et Aeschylus utile ferrent. 
 [" Not till late did the Roman apply his shrewdness to the books of 
 Greece ; and it was when resting after the Punic Wars that he began to 
 inquire what useful thing Sophocles and Thespis and Aeschylus offered. " 
 Hor. Ep. ii. i. 161-163.] 
 
 VOL. I 145 L
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 better fund within ourselves, and might, without such assist- 
 ance, be able to excel by our own virtue and emulation. 
 
 Well it would be, indeed, and much to the honour of our 
 nobles and princes, would they freely help in this affair, and 
 by a judicious application of their bounty facilitate this happy 
 birth, of which I have ventured to speak in a prophetic style. 
 Twould be of no small advantage to them during their life, 
 and would, more than all their other labours, procure them an 
 immortal memory. For they must remember that their fame is 
 in the hands of penmen ; and that the greatest actions lose 
 their force and perish in the custody of unable and mean 
 writers. 
 
 Let a nation remain ever so rude or barbarous, it must 
 have its poets, rhapsoders, historiographers, antiquaries of 
 some kind or other, whose business it will be to recount its 
 remarkable transactions, and record the achievements of its 
 civil and military heroes. And though the military kind may 
 happen to be the farthest removed from any acquaintance with 
 Letters or the Muses, they are yet, in reality, the most 
 interested in the cause and party of these remembrancers. 
 The greatest share of fame and admiration falls naturally on 
 the armed worthies. The great in council are second in the 
 Muses' favour. But if worthy poetic geniuses are not found, 
 nor able penmen raised, to rehearse the lives and celebrate 
 the high actions of great men, they must be traduced by such 
 recorders as chance presents. We have few modern heroes who, 
 like Xenophon or Caesar, can write their own Commentaries. 
 And the raw memoir- writings and unformed pieces of modern 
 statesmen, full of their interested and private views, will in 
 another age be of little service to support their memory or 
 name, since already the world begins to sicken with the kind. 
 'Tis the learned, the able and disinterested historian, who 
 takes place at last. And when the signal poet or herald of 
 fame is once heard, the inferior trumpets sink in silence and 
 oblivion. 
 
 146
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 But supposing it were possible for the hero or statesman 
 to be absolutely unconcerned for his memory, or what came 
 after him, yet for the present merely, and during his own 
 time, it must be of importance to him to stand fair with the 
 men of letters and ingenuity, and to have the character and 
 repute of being favourable to their art. Be the illustrious 
 person ever so high or awful in his station, he must have 
 descriptions made of him in verse and prose, under feigned or 
 real appellations. If he be omitted in sounding ode or lofty 
 epic, he must be sung at least in doggerel and plain ballad. 
 The people will needs have his effigies, though they see his 
 person ever so rarely ; and if he refuses to sit to the good 
 painter, there are others who, to oblige the public, will take 
 the design in hand. We shall take up with what presents, 
 and rather than be without the illustrious physiognomy of 
 our great man, shall be contented to see him portraitured by 
 the artist who serves to illustrate prodigies in fairs and adorn 
 heroic sign-posts. The ill paint of this kind cannot, it is true, 
 disgrace his excellency, whose privilege it is, in common with 
 the royal issue, to be raised to this degree of honour, and to 
 invite the passenger or traveller by his signal representative. 
 'Tis supposed in this case that there are better pictures current 
 of the hero, and that such as these are no true or favourable 
 representations. But in another sort of limning there is great 
 danger lest the hand should disgrace the subject. Vile 
 encomiums and wretched panegyrics are the worst of satires ; 
 and when sordid and low geniuses make their court successfully 
 in one way, the generous and able are aptest to revenge it 
 in another. 
 
 All things considered as to the interest of our potentates 
 and grandees, they appear to have only this choice left them : 
 either wholly, if possible, to suppress Letters, or give a helping 
 hand towards their support. Wherever the author-practice 
 and liberty of the pen has in the least prevailed, the governors 
 of the State must be either considerable gainers or sufferers by 
 
 147
 
 its means. So that 'twould become them either by a right 
 Turkish policy to strike directly at the profession, and over- 
 throw the very art and mystery itself, or with alacrity to support 
 and encourage it in the right manner, by a generous and 
 impartial regard to merit. To act narrowly, or by halves ; or 
 with indifference and coolness ; or fantastically, and by humour 
 merely, will scarce be found to turn to their account. They 
 must do justice, that justice may be done them in return. 
 'Twill be in vain for our Alexanders to give orders that none 
 besides a Lysippus should make their statue, nor any besides 
 an Apelles should draw their picture. Insolent intruders will 
 do themselves the honour to practise on the features of these 
 heroes. And a vile Chaerilus after all shall, with their own 
 consent perhaps, supply the room of a deserving and noble 
 artist. 
 
 In a government where the people are sharers in power, but 
 no distributers or dispensers of rewards, they expect it of their 
 princes and great men that they should supply the generous 
 part, and bestow honour and advantages on those from whom 
 the nation itself may receive honour and advantage. 'Tis 
 expected that they who are high and eminent in the State 
 should not only provide for its necessary safety and subsistence, 
 but omit nothing which may contribute to its dignity and 
 honour. The Arts and Sciences must not be left patronless. 
 The public itself will join with the good wits and judges in 
 the resentment of such a neglect. 'Tis no small advantage, 
 even in an absolute government, for a ministry to have wit on 
 their side, and engage the men of merit in this kind to be their 
 well-wishers and friends. And in those states where ambitious 
 leaders often contend for the supreme authority, 'tis a consider- 
 able advantage to the ill cause of such pretenders when they 
 can obtain a name and interest with the men of letters. The 
 good emperor Trajan, though himself no mighty scholar, had 
 his due as well as an Augustus, and was as highly celebrated 
 for his munificence and just encouragement of every art and 
 
 148
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 virtue. And Caesar, who could write so well himself, and main- 
 tained his cause by wit as well as arms, knew experimentally 
 what it was to have even a Catullus his enemy ; and though 
 lashed so often in his lampoons, continued to forgive and court 
 him. The traitor knew the importance of this mildness. May 
 none who have the same designs, understand so well the advan- 
 tages of such a conduct ! I would have required only this one 
 defect in Caesar's generosity to have been secure of his never 
 rising to greatness, or enslaving his native country. Let him 
 have shown a ruggedness and austerity towards free geniuses, or 
 a neglect or contempt towards men of wit ; let him have trusted 
 to his arms, and declared against Arts and letters ; and he would 
 have proved a second Marius, or a Catiline of meaner fame and 
 character. 
 
 Tis, I know, the imagination of some who are called great 
 men that in regard of their high stations they may be esteemed 
 to pay a sufficient tribute to Letters, and discharge themselves 
 as to their own part in particular ; if they choose indifferently 
 any subject for their bounty, and are pleased to confer their 
 favour either on some one pretender to art, or promiscuously to 
 such of the tribe of writers whose chief ability has lain in 
 making their court well, and obtaining to be introduced to their 
 acquaintance. This they think sufficient to instal them patrons 
 of wit, and masters of the literate order. But this method will 
 of any other the least serve their interest or design. The ill 
 placing of rewards is a double injury to merit; and in every 
 cause or interest passes for worse than mere indifference or 
 neutrality. There can be no excuse for making an ill choice. 
 Merit in every kind is easily discovered when sought. The 
 public itself fails not to give sufficient indication, and points 
 out those geniuses who want only countenance and encouragement 
 to become considerable. An ingenious man never starves un- 
 known ; and great men must wink hard or 'twould be impossible 
 for them to miss such advantageous opportunities of showing 
 their generosity and acquiring the universal esteem, acknow- 
 
 149
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 ledgments, and good wishes of the ingenious and learned part 
 of mankind. 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 WHAT judgment therefore we are to form concerning the 
 influence of our grandees in matters of Art and Letters, will 
 easily be gathered from the reflections already made. It may 
 appear from the very freedom we have taken in censuring these 
 men of power, what little reason authors have to plead them as 
 their excuse for any failure in the improvement of their art and 
 talent. For in a free country such as ours there is not any 
 order or rank of men more free than that of writers ; who if 
 they have real ability and merit, can fully right themselves 
 when injured, and are ready furnished with means sufficient to 
 make themselves considered by the men in highest power. 
 
 Nor should I suspect the genius of our writers, or charge 
 them with meanness and insufficiency on the account of this 
 low-spiritedness which they discover, were it not for another 
 sort of fear by which they more plainly betray themselves, and 
 seem conscious of their own defect. The critics, it seems, are 
 formidable to them. The critics are the dreadful spectres, the 
 giants, the enchanters, who traverse and disturb them in their 
 works. These are the persecutors, for whose sake they are 
 ready to hide their heads ; begging rescue and protection of all 
 good people ; and flying in particular to the great, by whose 
 favour they hope to be defended from this merciless examining 
 race. "For what can be more cruel than to be forced to 
 submit to the rigorous laws of wit, and write under such severe 
 judges as are deaf to all courtship, and can be wrought upon by 
 no insinuation or flattery to pass by faults and pardon any 
 transgression of art ? " 
 
 To judge indeed of the circumstances of a modern author 
 by the pattern of his prefaces, 1 dedications, and introductions, 
 
 1 Infra, part iii. 3 ; and Misc. v. ch. ii. the former part, in the 
 notes. 
 
 150
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 one would think that at the moment when a piece of his was in 
 hand, some conjuration was forming against him, some diabolical 
 powers drawing together to blast his work and cross his generous 
 design. He therefore rouses his indignation, hardens his fore- 
 head, and with many furious defiances and " Avaunt-Satans ! " 
 enters on his business ; not with the least regard to what may 
 justly be objected to him in a way of criticism, but with an 
 absolute contempt of the manner and art itself. 
 
 Odi profanum vulgus et arceo l was in its time, no doubt, a 
 generous defiance. The " Avaunt ! " was natural and proper in 
 its place, especially where religion and virtue were the poet's 
 theme. But with our moderns the case is generally the very 
 reverse. And accordingly the defiance or " a vaunt " should run 
 much after this manner : " As for you vulgar souls, mere naturals, 
 who know no art, were never admitted into the temple of wisdom, 
 nor ever visited the sanctuaries of wit or learning, gather your- 
 selves together from all parts, and hearken to the song or tale I 
 am about to utter. But for you men of science and understanding, 
 who have ears and judgment, and can weigh sense, scan syllables, 
 and measure sounds ; you who by a certain art distinguish false 
 thought from true, correctness from rudeness, and bombast and 
 chaos from order and the sublime ; away hence ! or stand aloof ! 
 whilst I practise upon the easiness of those mean capacities and 
 apprehensions, who make the most numerous audience, and are 
 the only competent judges of my labours."" 
 
 Tis strange to see how differently the vanity of mankind 
 runs in different times and seasons. Tis at present the boast 
 of almost every enterpriser in the Muses 1 art, "That by his 
 genius alone, and a natural rapidity of style and thought, he 
 is able to carry all before him ; that he plays with his business, 
 does things in passing, at a venture, and in the quickest period 
 of time."" In the days of Attic elegance, as works were then truly 
 of another form and turn, so workmen were of another humour, 
 and had their vanity of a quite contrary kind. They became 
 1 ["Avaunt, ye uninitiated crowd." Hor. Odes, i. iii. 1.] 
 
 151
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 rather affected in endeavouring to discover the pains they had 
 taken to be correct. They were glad to insinuate how labori- 
 ously and with what expense of time they had brought the 
 smallest work of theirs (as perhaps a single ode or satire, an 
 oration or panegyric) to its perfection. When they had so 
 polished their piece, and rendered it so natural and easy, that 
 it seemed only a lucky flight, a hit of thought, or flowing vein 
 of humour, they were then chiefly concerned lest it should in 
 reality pass for such, and their artifice remain undiscovered. 
 They were willing it should be known how serious their play 
 was, and how elaborate their freedom and facility ; that they 
 might say as the agreeable and polite poet, glancing on himself, 
 
 Ludentis speciem dabit et torquebitur. . . . l 
 And, 
 
 Ut sibi quivis 
 
 Speret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret 
 Ausus idem, tantum series juncturaque pollet. 2 
 
 Such accuracy of workmanship requires a critic's eye. Tis 
 lost upon a vulgar judgment. Nothing grieves a real artist 
 more than that indifference of the public which suffers work to 
 pass uncriticised. Nothing, on the other side, rejoices him more 
 than the nice view and inspection of the accurate examiner and 
 judge of work. 'Tis the mean genius, the slovenly performer, 
 who knowing nothing of true workmanship, endeavours by the 
 best outward gloss and dazzling show to turn the eye from a 
 direct and steady survey of his piece. 
 
 What is there which an expert musician more earnestly 
 desires than to perform his part in the presence of those who 
 are knowing in his art ? 'Tis to the ear alone he applies him- 
 self ; the critical, the nice ear. Let his hearers be of what 
 
 1 ["He will seem in sport, yet really be toiling." Hor. Epist. u. ii. 
 124.] 
 
 2 [" So that any man may hope the same success, toil greatly, and 
 work in vain at the same task, so great is the might of the sequence and 
 connection in writing." Hor. De Arte Poet. 240-242.] 
 
 152
 
 character they please : be they naturally austere, morose, or 
 rigid; no matter, so they are critics; able to censure, remark 
 and sound every accord and symphony. What is there mortifies 
 the good painter more than when amidst his admiring spectators 
 there is not one present who has been used to compare the 
 hands of different masters, or has an eye to distinguish the 
 advantages or defects of every style ? Through all the inferior 
 orders of mechanics, the rule is found to hold the same. In 
 every science, every art, the real masters or proficients rejoice 
 in nothing more than in the thorough search and examination 
 of their performances, by all the rules of art and nicest criticism. 
 Why therefore (in the Muses' name ! ) is it not the same with 
 our pretenders to the writing art, our poets, and prose authors 
 in every kind? Why in this profession are we found such 
 critic-haters, and indulged in this unlearned aversion, unless 
 it be taken for granted that as wit and learning stand at 
 present in our nation, we are still upon the foot of empirics 
 and mountebanks ? 
 
 From these considerations I take upon me absolutely to 
 condemn the fashionable and prevailing custom of inveighing 
 against critics as the common enemies, the pests and incendi- 
 aries of the commonwealth of Wit and Letters. I assert, on the 
 contrary, that they are the props and pillars of this building ; 
 and that without the encouragement and propagation of such 
 a race, we should remain as Gothic architects as ever. 
 
 In the weaker and more imperfect societies of mankind, 1 such 
 as those composed of federate tribes, or mixed colonies, scarce 
 settled in their new seats, it might pass for sufficient good- 
 fortune if the people proved only so far masters of language 
 as to be able to understand one another, in order to confer 
 about their wants, and provide for their common necessities. 
 Their exposed and indigent state could not be presumed to 
 afford them either that full leisure or easy disposition which was 
 requisite to raise them to any curiosity of speculation. They 
 1 As to this, and what remains of the section, see Misc. iii. ch. i. 
 
 153
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 who were neither safe from violence, nor secure of plenty, were 
 unlikely to engage in unnecessary arts. Nor could it be ex- 
 pected they should turn their attention towards the numbers of 
 their language, and the harmonious sounds which they accidentally 
 emitted. But when, in process of time, the affairs of the society 
 were settled on an easy and secure foundation ; when debates 
 and discourses on these subjects of common interest and public 
 good were grown familiar ; and the speeches of prime men and 
 leaders were considered and compared together, there would 
 naturally be observed not only a more agreeable measure of 
 sound, but a happier and more easy rangement of thoughts, in 
 one speaker than in another. 
 
 It may be easily perceived from hence that the goddess 
 PERSUASION must have been in a manner the mother of poetry, 
 rhetoric, music, and the other kindred arts. For 'tis apparent 
 that where chief men and leaders had the strongest interest to 
 persuade, they used the highest endeavours to please. So that 
 in such a state or polity as has been described, not only the 
 best order of thought and turn of fancy, but the most soft and 
 inviting numbers, must have been employed to charm the public 
 ear, and to incline the heart by the agreeableness of expression. 
 
 Almost all the ancient masters of this sort were said to have 
 been musicians. And tradition, which soon grew fabulous, 
 could not better represent the first founders or establishes of 
 these larger societies than as real songsters, who, by the power 
 of their voice and lyre, could charm the wildest beasts, and draw 
 the rude forests and rocks into the form of fairest cities. Nor 
 can it be doubted that the same artists, who so industriously 
 applied themselves to study the numbers of speech, must have 
 made proportionable improvements in the study of mere sounds 
 and natural harmony, which of itself must have considerably 
 contributed towards the softening the rude manners and harsh 
 temper of their new people. 
 
 If therefore it so happened in these free communities, made 
 by consent and voluntary association, that after awhile the 
 
 154
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 power of one or of a few grew prevalent over the rest ; if force 
 took place, and the affairs of the society were administered 
 without their concurrence by the influence of awe and terror ; 
 it followed that these pathetic sciences and arts of speech were 
 little cultivated since they were of little use. But where 
 persuasion was the chief means of guiding the society ; where 
 the people were to be convinced before they acted ; there 
 elocution became considerable, there orators and bards were 
 heard, and the chief geniuses and sages of the nation betook 
 themselves to the study of those arts by which the people were 
 rendered more treatable in a way of reason and understanding, 
 and more subject to be led by men of science and erudition. 
 The more these artists courted the public, the more they in- 
 structed it. In such constitutions as these 'twas the interest 
 of the wise and able that the community should be judges of 
 ability and wisdom. The high esteem of ingenuity was what 
 advanced the ingenious to the greatest honours. And they 
 who rose by science and politeness in the higher arts could not 
 fail to promote that taste and relish to which they owed their 
 personal distinction and pre-eminence. 
 
 Hence it is that those arts have been delivered to us in such 
 perfection by free nations, who from the nature of their 
 government, as from a proper soil, produced the generous plants ; 
 whilst the mightiest bodies and vastest empires, governed by 
 force and a despotic power, could, after ages of peace and leisure, 
 produce no other than what was deformed and barbarous of the 
 kind. 
 
 When the persuasive arts were grown thus into repute, and 
 the power of moving the affections become the study and 
 emulation of the forward wits and aspiring geniuses of the 
 times, it would necessarily happen that many geniuses of equal 
 size and strength, though less covetous of public applause, of 
 power, or of influence over mankind, would content themselves 
 with the contemplation merely of these enchanting arts. These 
 they would the better enjoy the more they refined their taste 
 
 155
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 and cultivated their ear. For to all music there must be an 
 ear proportionable. There must be an art of hearing found 
 ere the performing arts can have their due effect, or anything 
 exquisite in the kind be felt or comprehended. The just per- 
 formers therefore in each art would naturally be the most 
 desirous of improving and refining the public ear, which they 
 could no way so well effect as by the help of those latter geniuses, 
 who were in a manner their interpreters to the people, and 
 who by their example taught the public to discover what was 
 just and excellent in each performance. 
 
 Hence was the origin of critics, who, as arts and sciences 
 advanced, would necessarily come withal into repute, and being 
 heard with satisfaction in their turn, were at length tempted to 
 become authors and appear in public. These were honoured 
 with the name of Sophists : a character which in early times was 
 highly respected. Nor did the gravest philosophers, who were 
 censors of manners and critics of a higher degree, disdain to 
 exert their criticism in the inferior arts, especially in those 
 relating to speech and the power of argument and persuasion. 
 
 When such a race as this was once risen, 'twas no longer 
 possible to impose on mankind by what was specious and pre- 
 tending. The public would be paid in no false wit or jingling 
 eloquence. Where the learned critics were so well received, and 
 philosophers themselves disdained not to be of the number, 
 there could not fail to arise critics of an inferior order who 
 would subdivide the several provinces of this empire. Etymo- 
 logists, philologists, grammarians, rhetoricians, and others of 
 considerable note and eminent in their degree, would everywhere 
 appear, and vindicate the truth and justice of their art by 
 revealing the hidden beauties which lay in the works of just 
 performers, and by exposing the weak sides, false ornaments, 
 and affected graces of mere pretenders. Nothing of what we 
 call sophistry in argument or bombast in style, nothing of the 
 effeminate kind or of the false tender, the pointed witticism, 
 the disjointed thought, the crowded simile, or the mixed meta- 
 
 156
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 phor, could pass even on the common ear ; whilst the notaries, 
 the expositors and prompters above mentioned, were everywhere 
 at hand and ready to explode the unnatural manner. 
 
 Tis easy to imagine that, amidst the several styles and 
 manners of discourse or writing, the easiest attained and earliest 
 practised was the miraculous, the pompous, or what we generally 
 call the sublime. Astonishment is of all other passions the 
 easiest raised in raw and unexperienced mankind. Children in 
 their earliest infancy are entertained in this manner ; and the 
 known way of pleasing such as these is to make them wonder, 
 and lead the way for them in this passion by a feigned surprise 
 at the miraculous objects we set before them. The best music 
 of barbarians is hideous and astonishing sounds. And the fine 
 sights of Indians are enormous figures, various odd and glaring 
 colours, and whatever of that sort is amazingly beheld with a 
 kind of horror and consternation. 
 
 In poetry and studied prose the astonishing part, or what 
 commonly passes for sublime, is formed by the variety of figures, 
 the multiplicity of metaphors, 1 and by quitting as much as 
 
 de dperrj <ra<f>fj Kal HT) raireivty elvaC ffa(pe<rTdrri /j.ev ofiv 4ari.v i) K ruv 
 Kvpiuv dvofidTwv, dXXd ra.irei.vri. . . . ffefj.vri de Kal e^aX\drrovcra rb iSiuriKbv, i) raits 
 1-eviKois Ke\pri^vri. eviKbv dt \yu, y\wrrav, Kal fj.era(popav, Kal tirtKraffiv, Kal irav 
 rb irapd rb ictipiov. dXX' at> TIS a/j.a airavra roiavra woi-riffy, i) ahiyna earai, TJ 
 pappapifffjAs. av fj.ev ofiv IK fj.era<f>opwv, atviy/j.a, fdv 8 IK ^fXurruv, fiapjSapi- 
 a(j.6s. ["The excellence of diction is to be clear without being mean. 
 Clearest is the diction which is made up of usual words, but it is mean. . . . 
 That is majestic and free from commonplace which uses strange words. 
 By strange I mean out-of-the-way words, or metaphorical, or extended in 
 usage ; in fact all which are unusual. But if a man compose in such words 
 only, his composition will be either a riddle or gibberish : if he compose 
 in metaphors, a riddle ; if in out-of-the-way words, gibberish too. " Arist. 
 Poet, xxii.] This the same master-critic explains further in his Rhetorics, 
 in. i., where he refers to these passages of his Poetics. tirel $' ol 
 jronjral \tyoires ev'/iOrj 5ia TTJV \iv tooKovv iroplffa.aOa.1. Tr/vSe rr\v 5oav, dia rovro 
 woi-rjTtKTi irp&rti tytvero X^is, . . . Kal vvv fri ol woXXoi TUV airaiSefowv robs TOIOV- 
 TODS otovrat SLaXtyeffOat /cdXXtora. rovro 5' o^/c tffTiv. . . . ovdt yap ol riis rpay(f- 
 dias iroiovvTfS Irt xpwvrat rbv avrbv rpbirov dXX' &<rirep Kal K T&V rerpafdrpuv els rb 
 iafj.j3eiov fiertfiriffav Sia rb r<p \byy rovro TWV fj.erpu>v 6/j.oi6raroy clvat rGiv a\\uv, 
 
 157
 
 possible the natural and easy way of expression for that which 
 is most unlike to humanity or ordinary use. This the prince of 
 critics assures us to have been the manner of the earliest poets, 
 before the age of Homer, or till such time as this father-poet 
 came into repute, who deposed that spurious race and gave rise 
 to a legitimate and genuine kind. He retained only what was 
 decent of the figurative or metaphoric style, introduced the 
 natural and simple, and turned his thoughts towards the real 
 beauty of composition, the unity of design, the truth of char- 
 acters, and the just imitation of Nature in each particular. 
 
 The manner of this father-poet was afterwards variously 
 imitated, and divided into several shares; especially when it 
 came to be copied in dramatic. Tragedy came first, and took 
 what was most solemn and sublime. In this part the poets 
 succeeded sooner than in Comedy or the facetious kind ; as was 
 natural indeed to suppose, since this was in reality the easiest 
 manner of the two, and capable of being brought the soonest to 
 perfection. For so the same prince of critics J sufficiently informs 
 
 oCrw Kal ruv dvofj-druv dipelKafftv, 8ffa irapa ryv SidXeKrbv ianv. . . . ical UTI vvv oi 
 rit f^dfierpa iroiouvres d^Kaffi, Sib yeXoiov /jn/j-eicrGai TOI/TODJ ol avrol OVK In xP^ t>TCLl 
 iKflvtf TV Tp6ir({3. [" But as the poets, while uttering simple things, were 
 thought to have acquired a reputation through their style, the first 
 (rhetorical) style was poetic in character . . . ; and even now most un- 
 educated men think that speakers of that sort speak best. But this is not 
 so. ... For not even writers of tragedy use it any longer in the same 
 way, but, just as they changed from tetrameter to iambic metre because 
 the latter is the metre most like prose, so too they have abandoned such 
 terms as are alien to the style of conversation . . . and even the writers 
 of hexameters have abandoned them. So it is absurd to copy men who 
 themselves no longer follow this fashion."] That among the early re- 
 formers of this bombastic manner he places Homer as the chief, we may 
 see easily in his Poetics. As particularly in that passage, tri rds dtavotas Kal 
 TT)V \tiv tx ttv faXws, oh airaffiv "0/J.r)pos /t^x/"/ 7 ""*'. Kal irpwros Kal iKavws. . . . 
 irpbt 8t TOVTOIS X^ Kal Siavolq. irdvras virepfttfiXriKt. [' ' Further, the thoughts 
 and the diction must be well chosen. In all these points Homer set, 
 and well set, the example. . . . Moreover he exceeds all in diction and 
 thought." Arist. Poet, xxiv.] 
 
 avToffx e ^ MtrTlK ^t K ^ a^Trj Kal i] KWfjLySla, etc. De 
 
 158
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 us. And 'tis highly worth remarking, what this mighty genius 
 and judge of art declares concerning Tragedy : that whatever 
 idea might be formed of the utmost perfection of this kind of 
 poem, it could in practice rise no higher than it had been 
 already carried in his time ; l " having at length, 11 says he, 
 " attained its ends, and being apparently consummate in itself." 
 But for Comedy, it seems, 'twas still in hand. It had been 
 
 Poet. iv. When he has compared both this and Tragedy together, he re- 
 capitulates in his next chapter, al (dv o$v 7-775 rpayipSias jueTo/Jdtrety, /cat dl &v 
 tytvovro, ov Xe\-ri8a<nv. ij Se KU/j-ydia did rb (J.TJ o"irovddfe<T0ai ^ dpxrjs f\aOev. Kal 
 yap xpt>v KOfUjidwv <5i/^ irore 6 apxuv edwicev, etc. , see Misc. iii. ch. i. in the 
 notes. [(i.) "Both Tragedy and Comedy were at first improvisations 
 merely." Arist. Poet. iv. (ii.) "The changes which passed over Tragedy, 
 and the authors of them, are known ; but Comedy, because it was not at 
 first taken seriously, passed unnoticed. For only late did the Archon 
 grant a comic chorus," etc. Arist. Poet, v.] 
 
 1 Kal iroXXds /ifra/SoXAs nerafiaXovcra i] rpayydia iwa-'uffaro, tirel ecrx e T ^] v O-^TTJS 
 <t>6ffiv, iv. So true a prophet as well as critic was this great man. For by 
 the event it appeared that Tragedy being raised to its height by Sophocles 
 and Euripides, and no room left for further excellence or emulation, there 
 were no more tragic poets besides these endured after the author's time. 
 Whilst Comedy went on improving still to the second and third degree, 
 Tragedy finished its course under Euripides ; whom though our great 
 author criticises with the utmost severity in his Poetics, yet he plainly 
 enough confesses to have carried the style of Tragedy to its full height and 
 dignity. For as to the reformation which that poet made in the use of the 
 sublime and figurative speech in general, see what our discerning author 
 says in his Rhetorics; where he strives to show the impertinence and 
 nauseousness of the florid speakers, and such as understood not the use of 
 the simple and natural manner. " The just masters and right managers 
 of the poetic or high style should learn," says he, " how to conceal the 
 manner as much as possible." 5t6 5f? Xavdaveiv iroiouvras, Kal (J.T] SoKeiV \tyeu> 
 ireirXafffjitvus, dXXd 7re0u/c6TWs. TOVTO yap Tri6av6v, entire d rovvavrlov, wj yap 7iy>6j 
 f'TTif3ov\fii>ovTa diafiaXXovrai, xaOdirep irpbs robs olvovs TOVS fj.efuyfitvovs, Kal olov TJ 
 Qeodtipov <f>wvT) irtirovde Trpds ryv TUIV &\\wi> uiroKpiruv ' i) ptv yap TOU \tyovros toiKev 
 elvai, al 5' dXXirptai. KXtirrerat d' ev, dv ns K rrjs etwdvlas 8ia\eKTOv K\yuv <rvv- 
 TiOi}' 3 irep Evpiiri8i)s woift. Kal vireSfige irpurros. [ <f So we must do it unobserved 
 and have the appearance of speaking not in an affected, but in a natural 
 way ; for the one carries conviction, the other the reverse. For (with the 
 latter) men are on their guard, suspecting deceit, as they would be against 
 
 159
 
 already in some manner reduced ; but, as he plainly insinuates, 
 it lay yet unfinished, notwithstanding the witty labours of an 
 Aristophanes, and the other comic poets of the first manner, 
 who had flourished a whole age before this critic. As perfect 
 as were those wits in style and language, and as fertile in all 
 the varieties and turns of humour, yet the truth of characters, 
 the beauty of order, and the simple imitation of Nature were in 
 a manner wholly unknown to them, or through petulancy or 
 debauch of humour were, it seems, neglected and set aside. A 
 Menander had not as yet appeared ; who arose soon after, to 
 accomplish the prophecy of our grand master of art and con- 
 summate philologist. 
 
 Comedy 1 had at this time done little more than what the 
 ancient parodies 2 had done before it. 'Twas of admirable use 
 to explode the false sublime of early poets, and such as in its 
 own age were on every occasion ready to relapse into that vicious 
 manner. The good tragedians themselves could hardly escape 
 its lashes. The pompous orators were its never-failing subjects. 
 
 adulterated wines. Your style should be like the voice of Theodorus as 
 compared with that of other actors ; for his seemed the very voice of the 
 character, theirs foreign to it. The trick is successfully performed if a 
 man make up his diction by choosing from ordinary conversation. Euri- 
 pides does this, and first gave the suggestion." Arist Rhet. in. ii. 4, 5.] 
 
 1 Gxrirep 8 Kal ra ffirovSala fJidXiffra TTOIT/TIJS "O/Mj/sos fy (/j,6vos yap oi)% Sri e5, 
 dXX* 6n Kal /it/iijcreis SpanariKas tirolrjcrev) oOrw Kal ra TTJI KWfUfiStas crx/mara irp&ros 
 virfSei^fv. [" And, just as Homer is especially a poet in the serious vein 
 (for he composed his imitations not only well, but also in dramatic form), 
 so too he first sketched the outline of Comedy." Arist. Poet, iv.] No 
 wonder if, in this descent, Comedy came late. See below, p. 166, in the 
 notes, and above, p. 130. 
 
 2 The parodies were very ancient, but they were in reality no other 
 than mere burlesque or farce. Comedy, which borrowed something from 
 those ;humours, as well as from the Phallica below mentioned, was not, 
 however, raised to any form or shape of art (as said above) till about the 
 time of Aristophanes, who was the first model, and a beginner of the kind ; 
 at the same time that Tragedy had undergone all its changes, and was 
 already come to its last perfection, as the grand critic has shown us, and 
 as our other authorities plainly evince. 
 
 160
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 Everything which might be imposing, by a false gravity or 
 solemnity, was forced to endure the trial of this touchstone. 
 Manners and characters, as well as speech and writings, were 
 discussed with the greatest freedom. Nothing could be better 
 fitted than this genius of wit to unmask the face of things, and 
 remove those larvae naturally formed from the tragic manner 
 and pompous style which had preceded. 
 
 Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno. 
 Successit vetus his comoedia. 1 
 
 'Twas not by chance that this succession happened in Greece 
 after the manner described, but rather through necessity, and 
 from the reason and nature of things. 2 For in healthy bodies 
 Nature dictates remedies of her own, and provides for the cure 
 of what has happened amiss in the growth and progress of a 
 
 1 [' ' (Aeschylus) taught how to use high-flown language and to strut in 
 the buskin. After them (Aeschylus and Thespis) came the Old Comedy." 
 Hor. A. P. 280, 281.] The immediate preceding verses of Horace, after 
 his having spoken of the first tragedy under Thespis, are : 
 
 Post hunc personae pallaeque repertor honestae 
 Aeschylus, et modicis instravit pulpita tignis 
 Et docuit, etc. 
 
 [" After him (Thespis) Aeschylus, inventor of the mask and the becoming 
 robe, laid his stage upon beams of moderate height," etc. Hor. A. P. 278, 
 279.] Before the time of Thespis, Tragedy indeed was said to be, as Horace 
 calls it here (in a concise way), ignotum genus. It lay in a kind of chaos in- 
 termixed with other kinds, and hardly distinguishable by its gravity and 
 pomp from the humours which gave rise afterwards to Comedy. But in a 
 strict historical sense, as we find Plato speaking in his Minos, Tragedy was 
 of ancienter date, and even of the very ancientest with the Athenians. 
 His words are, ^ 8 Tpayipdia <TTI iraXaibv tvOdde, oi>x ws oiovrai airb 9e<r5ri5os 
 ovS' airb Qpvvlxov. d\\' el 6e\fis fvvorjffai, irdvv iraXaittv avri> fvp-^fffis 8t> 
 rrjs ir6\ews evpttfj.a. [" But Tragedy is quite old here and did not, as 
 people think, begin with Thespis or Phrynichus. But if you choose to 
 consider, you will find it a very old invention of this city." Plato (?), Minos, 
 320 E.] 
 
 2 Of this subject see more in Misc. iii. ch. i. 
 
 VOL. I 161 M
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 constitution. The affairs of this free people being in the 
 increase, and their ability and judgment every day improving 
 as Letters and Arts advanced, they would of course find in 
 themselves a strength of nature, which by the help of good 
 ferments and a wholesome opposition of humours would correct 
 in one way whatever was excessive or peccant (as physicians say) 
 in another. Thus the florid and over-sanguine humour of the 
 high style was allayed by something of a contrary nature. The 
 comic genius was applied as a kind of caustic to those exuber- 
 ances and funguses of the swoln dialect and magnificent manner 
 of speech. But after awhile even this remedy itself was found 
 to turn into a disease, as medicines, we know, grow corrosive 
 when the fouler matters on which they wrought are sufficiently 
 purged and the obstructions removed. 
 
 In vitium libertas excidit, et vim 
 Dignam lege regi. 1 
 
 'Tis a great error to suppose, as some have done, that the 
 restraining this licentious manner of wit by law was a violation 
 of the liberty of the Athenian state, or an effect merely of the 
 power of foreigners, whom it little concerned after what manner 
 those citizens treated one another in their comedies, or what 
 sort of wit or humour they made choice of for their ordinary 
 diversions. If upon a change of government, as during the 
 usurpation of the Thirty, or when that nation was humbled at 
 any time either by a Philip, an Alexander, or an Antipater, 
 they had been forced against their wills to enact such laws as 
 these, "'tis certain they would have soon repealed them when 
 those terrors were removed (as they soon were) and the people 
 
 1 It follows 
 
 Lex est accepta, chorusque 
 Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi. 
 
 [" Freedom slipped into License and a violence which called for legal 
 restraint. The law was submitted to, and the chorus fell scandalously 
 silent, because it might not sting." Hor. A. P. 282-284.] 
 
 162
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 restored to their former liberties. For notwithstanding what 
 this nation suffered outwardly, by several shocks received from 
 foreign states, notwithstanding the dominion and power they 
 lost abroad, they preserved the same government at home. And 
 how passionately interested they were in what concerned their 
 diversions and public spectacles ; how jealous and full of emula- 
 tion in what related to their poetry, wit, music, and other arts, 
 in which they excelled all other nations ; is well known to 
 persons who have any comprehension of ancient manners, or 
 been the least conversant in history. 
 
 Nothing therefore could have been the cause of these public 
 decrees, and of this gradual reform in the commonwealth of 
 wit, beside the real reform of taste and humour in the common- 
 wealth or government itself. Instead of any abridgment, 'twas 
 in reality an increase of liberty, an enlargement of the security 
 of property, and an advancement of private ease and personal 
 safety, to provide against what was injurious to the good name 
 and reputation of every citizen. As this intelligence in life and 
 manners grew greater in that experienced people, so the relish 
 of wit and humour would naturally in proportion be more refined. 
 Thus Greece in general grew more and more polite, and as it 
 advanced in this respect, was more averse to the obscene buffoon- 
 ing manner. The Athenians still went before the rest, and led 
 the way in elegance of every kind. For even their first comedy 
 was a refinement upon some irregular attempts which had been 
 made in that dramatic way. And the grand critic 1 shows us 
 that in his own time the Phallica, or scurrilous and obscene farce, 
 prevailed still, and had the countenance of the magistrate in 
 some cities of Greece who were behind the rest in this reform of 
 taste and manners. 
 
 1 ical TI fttv airb ru>v ^apx^uv rbv SiBtjpa/j.^ov, -f) dt &iri> rdv T& <f>a\\iK<i & ?rt 
 Kal v\jv iv TroXXcuj T&V ir6\ewv Sia/JLfvei vofj.iftfj.fva, /card fUKpbv t^fi^fiO-rj, etc. 
 [' ' Tragedy began with the leaders of the dithyrambic songs ; Comedy with 
 the leaders of the Phallic songs which are still customary in many cities. " 
 Arist. Poet, iv.] 
 
 163
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 But what is yet a more undeniable evidence of this natural 
 and gradual refinement of styles and manners among the 
 ancients, particularly in what concerned their stage, is, that 
 this very case of prohibition and restraint happened among the 
 Romans themselves, where no effects of foreign power or of a 
 home tyranny can be pretended. Their Fescennine and Atellan 
 way of wit was in early days prohibited, and laws made against 
 it for the public's sake and in regard to the welfare of the 
 community ; such licentiousness having been found in reality 
 contrary to the just liberty of the people. 
 
 Doluere cruento 
 
 Dente lacessiti ; fuit intactis quoque cura 
 Conditione super communi. Quin etiam lex 
 Poenaque lata malo quae nollet carmine quemquam 
 Describi. 1 
 
 In defence of what I have here advanced, I could, besides 
 the authority of grave historians and chronologists, 2 produce 
 
 1 [" Men were vexed when bitten by its bloody teeth ; the unbitten too 
 were anxious for the common weal ; and even a law and penalty were 
 enacted against libelling any one in verse." Hor. Ep. u. i. 150-154.] 
 
 2 To confirm what is said of this natural succession of wit and style, 
 according to the several authorities above cited in the immediate preceding 
 notes, see Strabo. ws 5' elveiv, 6 7ref6s \6yos, 6 yf KareffKevafffitvot, nlfj.rffj.0. rov iroiri- 
 TIKOV tan. irp&TiaTa yap i] TroiijTt/c-ij KaraffKevi) Traprj\0fi> els rb futvov Kal fu5oicl/jL7)<rfv ' 
 elra tKflvrjv (>u./j.o{>/j.fvoi, \\jffavres rb p-trpov, rSXXa 5 <f>v\d^avres rd TrotijTi/ca, vvvtypa- 
 \f/at> ol irepi ~K.dSp.ov, /cat 'fffpeK^drjv, Kal "EiKaraioV elra ol tiffrepov, dQaipovvres del n 
 TUV rototiruv, els rb vvv elSoj KO.T-fiya.yov, wj av airb C^oui TIVOS. Ka.6direp &v rts Kal 
 TTjv KU/JUfoiav <f>alr] XajSetv rty ffvffracriv airb T?}S rpayyolas Kal TOV Kar' atirty v\f/ovs 
 KarapifiaffOelffav ets rb \oyoeiSts vvvl Ka\o6/j,evov. [" In fact, prose speech when 
 carefully wrought is an imitation of poetic. For in the first instance 
 poetic style came forward and gained a name, and then Cadmus, Phere- 
 cydes, or Hecataeus wrote in imitation thereof, giving up the metre, but 
 keeping other poetic features. Later writers afterwards, dropping these 
 point by point, brought the style down as if from a height to the present 
 form, just as we might say that Comedy sprang from Tragedy by being 
 brought down from Tragedy and its elevation to what is now called prosaic." 
 Strabo, i. p. 18.] 
 
 164
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 the testimony of one of the wisest and most serious of ancient 
 authors, whose single authority would be acknowledged to have 
 equal force with that of many concurring writers. He shows 
 us that this first-formed comedy and scheme of ludicrous wit 
 was introduced upon the neck of the Sublime , l The familiar 
 airy muse was privileged as a sort of counter-pedagogue against 
 the pomp and formality of the more solemn writers. And 
 what is highly remarkable, our author shows us that in philo- 
 sophy itself there happened, almost at the very same time, a 
 like succession of wit and humour ; when in opposition to the 
 sublime philosopher, and afterwards to his grave disciple and 
 successor in the Academy, 2 there arose a comic philosophy in the 
 person of another master and other disciples, who personally, 
 as well as in their writings, were set in direct opposition to the 
 
 al TpayySiai wap-f)x9'n ffav inrofnvtiffTiKal TUV trv/J.^aiv6vTUv, Kal Sn ravra 
 OVTU ir<pvKe yiveffffai, Kal STL ols tirl rrjs ffKrjvTjs vf/vxayuyeitrOe, TOVTOIS /J.T) 
 tirl rrjs fielfrvos <TKT)VTJS. . . . fj*Ta dt TTJV rpayydlav i) dpxaia KUfj-ySta ir 
 iraiSayuyiKTjv irapprjffiav ?x ovffa i Ka l T W dTv<f>ias oi)/c dxpriffTWS Si avTijs TT}J 
 fjLOffvvrjs viro/j.ifj.vrj(TKOvffa ' trpbs olbv ri /ecu Aioytvrjs ravrl irape\<ifj,^avf. fuera ravra ris 
 i] fj^fft) Kw^Sia, Kal \oiirt>v 17 vta, etc. [" First, tragedies were brought out 
 to remind you of what happens, and to remind you that events naturally 
 happen thus, and that when a thing has amused you on the stage, you 
 must not be shocked at it on the larger stage. . . . And after Tragedy the 
 Old Comedy was brought out, using the freedom of a teacher, and usefully 
 warning us by its plain speech against pride. (For some such purpose 
 used Diogenes to borrow these points.) After this, observe what was the 
 Middle Comedy and the New," etc. Marcus Aurelius, xi. 6.] 
 
 OUT-WS Set irap' 8\ov rbv fiiov iroiflv, Kal Sirov \iav d^i6iriffTa TO. irpdy/j,ara <f>avT/i- 
 ferat, diroyv/j-vovv avrd, Kal rriv evrt\fiav avruv KaOopav, Kal rrjv iffropiav, e<j> 17 
 <re/M>vvfTai, irepiaipeiv. deiv&s yap 6 rtitpos irapaXoyia'Tris' Kal Sre SoKets naXurra irepl 
 TO. ffirovSala KaraylveffGat, Tore fjA\tffTa KaTayo-rjTftjfi. Spa youv 6 Kpdr^j. T[ irfpl 
 avrov TOV t&voKpdTovs X^7. [ f ' In this way we must act all through life, 
 and where things seem most worthy of trust we must strip them and see 
 their poorness, and get rid of the claptrap of which they are so proud. 
 For pride is a great deceiver, and when you think you are most occupied 
 with serious things, then it takes you in most. See at all events what 
 Crates says even of Xenocrates. " Mar. Aur. vi. 13.] 
 
 2 See the citations immediately preceding. 
 
 165
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 former ; not as differing in opinions or maxims, 1 but in their 
 style and manner; in the turn of humour and method of 
 instruction. 
 
 'Tis pleasant enough to consider how exact the resemblance 
 was between the lineage of Philosophy and that of Poetry as 
 derived from their two chief founders or patriarchs, in whose 
 loins the several races lay as it were enclosed. For as the 
 grand poetic sire 2 was, by the consent of all antiquity, allowed 
 to have furnished subject both to the tragic, the comic, and 
 every other kind of genuine poetry, so the philosophical 
 patriarch in the same manner, containing within himself the 
 several geniuses of Philosophy, gave rise to all those several 
 manners in which that science was delivered. 
 
 His disciple of noble birth and lofty genius, who aspired to 
 poetry and rhetoric, 3 took the Sublime part, and shone above 
 his other condisciples. He of mean birth and poorest circum- 
 stances, whose constitution as well as condition inclined him 
 
 1 Tunica distantia. ["The difference being one of dress only." Juv. 
 xiii. 122.] 
 
 2 See above, p. 160, in the notes. According to this Homerical lineage 
 of Poetry, Comedy would naturally prove the Drama of latest birth. For 
 though Aristotle in the same place cites Homer's Margites as analogous to 
 Comedy, yet the Iliad and Odyssey, in which the heroic style prevails, 
 having been ever highest in esteem, were likeliest to be first wrought and 
 cultivated. 
 
 3 His Dialogues were real poems (as has been shown above, p. 127, etc.) 
 This may easily be collected from the Poetics of the grand master. We 
 may add what is cited by Athenaeus from another treatise of that author, 
 6 TOVS dXXovy aTraf a?rXcDy KCLKoXoyrjcras, tv /j.lv T-g HoXirdq. "0/j.ripov K/3d\\wv ical TTJV 
 f*.ifjir)TU<r)v iroirjcnv, avrbs 5 [nXdrwv] rot>s 8ia\6yovs /Mfj.i]riKu>s ypd\f/as, &v rrjs Idtas 
 o&S' ai/r6s evperris iffnv. irpb ydp ai/rov rovd' eCpe rb elSos ruv \6yuv 6 Tiyt'os 'AXefa- 
 /j.cv6s, (is NiK^as 6 NtAcaei>s laropei /cal SwHav. ' ApiffTOTtXijs dt tv rf wepl HOITJTW*' 
 ovrus yp6.<pfi' " OVKOVV ov8t tn/jLtrpovs TOI/J KaXovptvovs "Zdxppovos Mfytoiis /UT; <p&fj.ev 
 elvai \6yovs Kal fufj.^ffis, % TOVS ' A.\ei-a/j.fvov TOV Tytov TOI!>S Trpwroi/j ypafavras rCiv 
 ZwKpariKiav 8ia\oyd>v ;" AvriKpvs <f>dffKuv 6 iro\v/j.a6^a'Taros 'ApioTorATjj irpb H\d- 
 TUVOS dia\&yovs yeypafovai rbv ' 'A\fafj.ev6i>. [ f ' (Plato) the man who vilified 
 others in general, who while in his Republic he rejected Homer and imita- 
 tive poetry, himself wrote dialogues in imitative style. Yet he did not 
 
 166
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 most to the way we call satiric, took the reproving part, which 
 in his better-humoured and more agreeable successor turned 
 into the comic kind, and went upon the model of that ancient 
 comedy which was then prevalent. 1 But another noble disciple, 
 whose genius was towards action, and who proved afterwards 
 the greatest hero of his time, took the genteeler part and softer 
 manner. He joined what was deepest and most solid in philo- 
 sophy with what was easiest and most refined in breeding, and 
 in the character and manner of a gentleman. Nothing could 
 be remoter than his genius was from the scholastic, the 
 rhetorical, or mere poetic kind. He was as distant on one 
 hand from the sonorous, high, and pompous strain, as on the 
 other hand from the ludicrous, mimical, or satiric. 
 
 This was that natural and simple genius of antiquity, 2 
 comprehended by so few and so little relished by the vulgar. 
 This was that philosophical Menander of earlier time, whose 
 works one may wonder to see preserved from the same fate, 
 since in the darker ages through which they passed they might 
 probably be alike neglected, on the account of their like sim- 
 plicity of style and composition. 
 
 There is, besides the several manners of writing above 
 described, another of considerable authority and weight, which 
 had its rise chiefly from the critical art itself, and from the 
 more accurate inspection into the works of preceding masters. 
 The grand critic of whom we have already spoken was a chief 
 and leader in this order of penmen. For though the Sophists 
 of elder time had treated many subjects methodically and in 
 form, yet this writer was the first who gained repute in the 
 
 invent that style. For Alexamenos of Teos thought of it before him, as 
 Nicias of Nicaea and Sotion say. Aristotle too writes thus in his book on 
 Poets : ' Therefore we must not say that the so-called mimes of Sophron are 
 metrical dialogues or imitations, or the dialogues of Alexamenos of Teos, 
 which were the earliest written of the Socratic dialogues.'" Athenaeus, 
 505.] 
 
 1 According to the two citations, p. 165. 
 
 2 Xenophon. See Misc. v. ch. i. 
 
 167
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 methodic kind. As the talent of this great man was more 
 towards polite learning and the arts than towards the deep and 
 solid parts of philosophy, it happened that in his school there 
 was more care taken of other sciences than of ethics, dialect, or 
 logic, which provinces were chiefly cultivated by the successors 
 of the Academy and Porch. 
 
 It has been observed of this methodic or scholastic manner 
 that it naturally befitted an author who, though endowed with 
 a comprehensive and strong genius, was not in himself of a 
 refined temper, blessed by the Graces, or favoured by any Muse ; 
 one who was not of a fruitful imagination, but rather dry and 
 rigid, yet withal acute and piercing, accurate and distinct. For 
 the chief nerve and sinew of this style consists in the clear division 
 and partition of the subjects. Though there is nothing exalting 
 in the manner, 'tis naturally powerful and commanding, and, 
 more than any other, subdues the mind and strengthens its 
 determinations. 'Tis from this genius that firm conclusions 
 and steady maxims are best formed, which if solidly built, and 
 on sure ground, are the shortest and best guides towards wisdom 
 and ability in every kind ; but if defective or unsound in the 
 least part, must of necessity lead us to the grossest absurdities 
 and stiffest pedantry and conceit. 
 
 Now though every other style and genuine manner of com- 
 position has its order and method as well as this which, in a 
 peculiar sense, we call the methodic, yet it is this manner alone 
 which professes method, dissects itself in parts, and makes its 
 own anatomy. The sublime can no way condescend thus, or 
 bear to be suspended in its impetuous course. The comic or 
 derisory manner is farther still from making show of method. 
 Tis then, if ever, that it presumes to give itself this wise air, 
 when its design is to expose the thing itself, and ridicule the 
 formality and sophistry so often sheltered beneath it. The 
 simple manner, which being the strictest imitation of Nature 
 should of right be the completest in the distribution of its 
 parts and symmetry of its whole, is yet so far from making 
 
 168
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 any ostentation of method, that it conceals the artifice as much 
 as possible, endeavouring only to express the effect of art 
 under the appearance of the greatest ease and negligence. 
 And even when it assumes the censuring or reproving part, it 
 does it in the most concealed and gentle way. 
 
 The authors indeed of our age are as little capable of 
 receiving as of giving advice in such a way as this ; so little is 
 the general palate formed as yet to a taste of real simplicity. 
 As for the Sublime, though it be often the subject of criticism, 
 it can never be the manner or afford the means. The way of 
 form and method, the didactive or perceptive manner, as it has 
 been usually practised amongst us, and as our ears have been 
 long accustomed, has so little force towards the winning our 
 attention, that it is apter to tire us than the metre of an old 
 ballad. We no sooner hear the theme propounded, the subject 
 divided and subdivided (with first of the first and so forth, as 
 order requires), than instantly we begin a strife with Nature, 
 who otherwise might surprise us in the soft fetters of sleep, to 
 the great disgrace of the orator and scandal of the audience. 
 The only manner left in which criticism can have its just force 
 amongst us is the ancient comic ; of which kind were the first 
 Roman miscellanies or satiric pieces ; a sort of original writing 
 of their own, refined afterwards by the best genius and politest 
 poet of that nation, who, notwithstanding, owns the manner 
 to have been taken from the Greek comedy above mentioned. 
 And if our home wits would refine upon this pattern, they 
 might perhaps meet with considerable success. 
 
 In effect we may observe that in our own nation the most 
 successful criticism or method of refutation is that which 
 borders most on the manner of the earliest Greek comedy. 
 The highly-rated burlesque poem, 1 written on the subject of 
 our religious controversies in the last age, is a sufficient token 
 of this kind. And that justly admired piece of comic wit 2 
 
 1 Hudibras. 
 
 2 The Rehearsal. See Misc. v. ch. ii. in the notes. 
 169
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 given us some time after by an author of the highest quality, 
 has furnished our best wits in all their controversies, even in 
 religion and politics, as well as in the affairs of wit and learn- 
 ing, with the most effectual and entertaining method of 
 exposing folly, pedantry, false reason and ill writing. And 
 without some such tolerated manner of criticism as this, how 
 grossly we might have been imposed on, and should continue 
 to be for the future, by many pieces of dogmatical rhetoric 
 and pedantic wit, may easily be apprehended by those who 
 know anything of the state of Letters in our nation, or are in 
 the least fitted to judge of the manner of the common poets or 
 formal authors of the times. 
 
 In what form or manner soever criticism may appear amongst 
 us, or critics choose to exert their talent, it can become none 
 besides the grossly superstitious or ignorant to be alarmed at 
 this spirit. For if it be ill-managed, and with little wit, it will 
 be destroyed by something wittier in the kind. If it be witty 
 itself, it must of necessity advance wit. 
 
 And thus from the consideration of ancient as well as 
 modern time, it appears that the cause and interest of critics 
 is the same with that of wit, learning, and good sense. 
 
 SECTION III 
 
 THUS we have surveyed the state of authors as they are influ- 
 enced from without, either by the frowns or favour of the 
 great, or by the applause or censure of the critics. It remains 
 only to consider how the people, or world in general, stand 
 affected towards our modern penmen, and what occasion these 
 adventurers may have of complaint or boast from their en- 
 counter with the public. 
 
 There is nothing more certain than that a real genius and 
 thorough artist in whatever kind can never, without the greatest 
 unwillingness and shame, be induced to act below his character, 
 and for mere interest be prevailed with to prostitute his art or 
 
 170
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 science by performing contrary to its known rules. Whoever 
 has heard anything of the lives of famous statuaries, architects, 
 or painters, will call to mind many instances of this nature. 
 Or whoever has made any acquaintance with the better sort of 
 mechanics, such as are real lovers of their art and masters in it, 
 must have observed their natural fidelity in this respect. Be 
 they ever so idle, dissolute, or debauched, how regardless soever 
 of other rules, they abhor any transgression in their art, and 
 would choose to lose customers and starve rather than by a 
 base compliance with the world to act contrary to what they 
 call the justness and truth of work. 
 
 " Sir," says a poor fellow of this kind to his rich customer, 
 " you are mistaken in coming to me for such a piece of work- 
 manship. Let who will make it for you as you fancy, I know 
 it to be wrong. Whatever I have made hitherto has been true 
 work. And neither for your sake or any body^s else shall I put 
 my hand to any other." 
 
 This is virtue ! real virtue and love of truth ; independent 
 of opinion and above the world. This disposition transferred 
 to the whole of life, perfects a character and makes that probity 
 and worth which the learned are often at such a loss to explain. 
 For is there not a workmanship and a truth in actions ? Or is 
 the workmanship of this kind less becoming, or less worthy our 
 notice, that we should not in this case be as surly at least as 
 the honest artisan, who has no other philosophy than what 
 nature and his trade have taught him ? 
 
 When one considers this zeal and honesty of inferior artists, 
 one would wonder to see those who pretend to skill and science 
 in a higher kind have so little regard to truth and the perfection 
 of their art. One would expect it of our writers that if they 
 had real ability they should draw the world to them, and not 
 meanly suit themselves to the world in its weak state. We 
 may justly indeed make allowances for the simplicity of those 
 early geniuses of our nation who after so many barbarous ages, 
 when Letters lay yet in their ruins, made bold excursions into a 
 
 171
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 vacant field to seize the posts of honour and attain the stations 
 which were yet unpossessed by the wits of their own country. 
 But since the age is now so far advanced, learning established, 
 the rules of writing stated, and the truth of art so well appre- 
 hended and everywhere confessed and owned, 'tis strange to see 
 our writers as unshapen still and monstrous in their works as 
 heretofore. There can be nothing more ridiculous than to hear 
 our poets in their prefaces talk of Art and Structure, whilst in 
 their pieces they perform as ill as ever, and with as little 
 regard to those professed rules of art as the honest bards their 
 predecessors, who had never heard of any such rules, or at least 
 had never owned their justice or validity. 
 
 Had the early poets of Greece thus complimented their 
 nation by complying with its first relish and appetite, they 
 had not done their countrymen such service nor themselves 
 such honour as we find they did by conforming to truth and 
 nature. The generous spirits who first essayed the way had 
 not always the world on their side, but soon drew after them 
 the best judgments, and soon afterwards the world itself. They 
 forced their way into it, and by weight of merit turned its judg- 
 ment on their side. They formed their audience, polished the 
 age, refined the public ear and framed it right, that in return 
 they might be rightly and lastingly applauded. Nor were they 
 disappointed in their hope. The applause soon came and was 
 lasting, for it was sound. They have justice done them at this 
 day. They have survived their nation and live, though in a 
 dead language. The more the age is enlightened, the more 
 they shine. Their fame must necessarily last as long as Letters, 
 and posterity will ever own their merit. 
 
 Our modern authors, on the contrary, are turned and 
 modelled (as themselves confess) by the public relish and 
 current humour of the times. They regulate themselves by 
 the irregular fancy of the world, and frankly own they are 
 preposterous and absurd, in order to accommodate themselves to 
 the genius of the age. In our days the audience makes the 
 
 172
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 poet, and the bookseller the author, with what profit to the 
 public, or what prospect of lasting fame and honour to the 
 writer, let any one who has judgment imagine. 
 
 But though our writers charge their faults thus freely on 
 the public, it will, I doubt, appear from many instances that 
 this practice is mere imposture, since those absurdities, which 
 they are the aptest to commit, are far from being delightful or 
 entertaining. We are glad to take up with what our language 
 can afford us, and by a sort of emulation with other nations 
 are forced to cry up such writers of our own as may best serve 
 us for comparison. But when we are out of this spirit it must 
 be owned we are not apt to discover any great fondness or 
 admiration of our authors. Nor have we any whom by mutual 
 consent we make to be our standard. We go to plays or to 
 other shows, and frequent the theatre as the booth. We read 
 epics and dramatics as we do satires and lampoons ; for we 
 must of necessity know what wit as well as what scandal is 
 stirring. Read we must ; let writers be ever so indifferent. 
 And this perhaps may be some occasion of the laziness and 
 negligence of our authors, who observing this need which our 
 curiosity brings on us, and making an exact calculation in the 
 way of trade, to know justly the quality and quantity of the 
 public demand, feed us thus from hand to mouth ; resolving 
 not to over-stock the market, or be at the pains of more correct- 
 ness or wit than is absolutely necessary to cany on the traffic. 
 
 Our satire therefore is scurrilous, buffooning, and without 1 
 morals or instruction, which is the majesty and life of this kind 
 of writing. Our encomium or panegyric is as fulsome and 
 displeasing by its prostitute and abandoned manner of praise. 
 The worthy persons who are the subjects of it may well be 
 esteemed sufferers by the manner. And the public, whether it 
 will or no, is forced to make untoward reflections when led to 
 it by such satirising panegyrists. For in reality the nerve and 
 sinew of modern panegyric lies in a dull kind of satire, which 
 the author, it is true, intends should turn to the advantage of 
 
 173
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 his subject, but which, if I mistake not, will appear to have a 
 very contrary effect. 
 
 The usual method which our authors take when they would 
 commend either a brother-author, a wit, a hero, a philosopher, 
 or a statesman, is to look abroad to find within the narrow 
 compass of their learning some eminent names of persons who 
 answered to these characters in a former time. These they are 
 sure to lash, as they imagine, with some sharp stroke of satire. 
 And when they have stripped these reverend personages of all 
 their share of merit, they think to clothe their hero with the 
 spoils. Such is the sterility of these encomiasts ! They know 
 not how to praise but by detraction. If a fair one is to be 
 celebrated, Helen must in comparison be deformed, Venus her- 
 self degraded. That a modern may be honoured, some ancient 
 must be sacrificed. If a poet is to be extolled, down with a 
 Homer or a Pindar. If an orator or philosopher, down with 
 Demosthenes, Tully, Plato. If a general of our army, down 
 with any hero whatever of time past. " The Romans knew no 
 discipline ! The Grecians never learnt the art of war ! " 
 
 Were there an art of writing to be formed upon the modern 
 practice, this method we have described might perhaps be styled 
 the Rule of Dispatch, or the Herculean law, by which encomiasts, 
 with no other weapon than their single club, may silence all 
 other fame, and place their hero in the vacant throne of honour. 
 I would willingly however advise these celebrators to be a little 
 more moderate in the use of this club-method. Not that I 
 pretend to ask quarter for the ancients ; but for the sake merely 
 of those moderns whom our panegyrists undertake to praise, I 
 would wish them to be a little cautious of comparing characters. 
 There is no need to call up a Publicola or a Scipio, an Aristides 
 or a Cato, to serve as foils. These were patriots and good 
 generals in their time, and did their country honest service. 
 No offence to any who at present do the same. The Fabriciuses, 
 the Aemiliuses, the Cincinnatuses (poor men !) may be suffered to 
 rest quietly ; or if their ghosts should by this unlucky kind of 
 
 174
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 enchantment be raised in mockery and contempt, they may 
 perhaps prove troublesome in earnest, and cast such reflections 
 on our panegyrists and their modern patrons as may be no-way 
 for the advantage of either. The well-deserving ancients will 
 have always a strong party among the wise and learned of every 
 age ; and the memory of foreign worthies, as well as those of 
 our own nation, will with gratitude be cherished by the nobler 
 spirits of mankind. The interest of the dead is not so disre- 
 garded but that in case of violence offered them through 
 partiality to the living, there are hands ready prepared to make 
 sufficient reprisals. 
 
 'Twas in times when flattery grew much in fashion that the 
 title of panegyric was appropriated to such pieces as contained 
 only a profuse and unlimited praise of some single person. The 
 ancient panegyrics were no other than merely such writings as 
 authors of every kind recited at the solemn assemblies of the 
 people. They were the exercises of the wits and men of letters, 
 who as well as the men of bodily dexterity bore their part at 
 the Olympic and other national and panegyric games. 
 
 The British nation, though they have nothing of this kind 
 ordained or established by their laws, are yet by nature wonder- 
 fully inclined to the same panegyric exercises. At their fairs, 
 and during the time of public festivals, they perform their rude 
 Olympics and show an activity and address beyond any other 
 modern people whatever. Their trials of skill, it is true, are 
 wholly of the body, not of the brain. Nor is it to be wondered 
 at, if being left to themselves, and no way assisted by the laws 
 or magistrate, their bodily exercises retain something of the 
 barbarian character, or at least show their manners 1 to hold 
 
 1 Whoever has a thorough taste of the wit and manner of Horace, if he 
 only compares his Epistle to Augustus (ii.) with the secret character of 
 that prince from Suetonius and other authors, will easily find what judg- 
 ment that poet made of the Roman taste, even in the person of his sovereign 
 and admired Roman prince, whose natural love of amphitheatrical spectacles 
 and other entertainments (little accommodated to the interest of the Muses) 
 is there sufficiently insinuated. The prince indeed was (as 'tis said above, 
 
 175
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 more of Rome than Greece. 1 The gladiatorian and other 
 sanguinary sports which we allow our people, discover sufficiently 
 our national taste. And the baitings and slaughter of so many 
 sorts of creatures, tame as well as wild, for diversion merely, 
 may witness the extraordinary inclination we have for amphi- 
 theatrical spectacles. 
 
 I know not whether it be from this killing disposition 
 remarked in us that our satirists prove such very slaughter-men, 
 and even our panegyric authors or encomiasts delight so much 
 in the dispatching method above described ; but sure I am that 
 our dramatic poets 2 stand violently affected this way, and delight 
 to make havoc and destruction of every kind. 
 
 Tis alleged indeed by our stage-poets, in excuse for vile 
 ribaldry and other gross irregularities, both in the fable and 
 language of their pieces, that their success, which depends 
 chiefly on the ladies, is never so fortunate as when this havoc 
 is made on virtue and good sense, and their pieces are exhibited 
 
 p. 143) obliged in the highest degree to his poetical and witty friends for 
 guiding his taste and forming his manners, as they really did, with good 
 effect, and great advantage to his interest. Witness what even that flat- 
 tering court historian, Dion, relates of the frank treatment which that 
 prince received from his friend Maecenas, who was forced to draw him 
 from his bloody tribunal and murderous delight with the reproach of 
 Surge vero tandem, Carnifex ! But Horace, according to his character 
 and circumstances, was obliged to take a finer and more concealed manner 
 both with the prince and favourite. 
 
 Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico 
 Tangit, et admissus circum praecordia ludit. 
 
 [" Roguish Horace makes his friend laugh, yet probes every fault, and, 
 never refused admission, plays about his inmost feelings." Pers. i. 1 16, 117.] 
 See Misc. v. ch. i. in the notes. 
 
 1 We may add to this note what Tacitus or Quintilian remarks on the 
 subject of the Roman taste : Jam vero propria et peculiaria hujus urbis vitia 
 poene in utero matris concipi mihi videntur, histrionalis favor, et gladiato- 
 n, in equorumque studia ; quibus occupatus et obsessus animus quantulum 
 loci bonis artibus relinquit ? Dial, de Oratoribus, xxix. 
 
 2 See Misc. v. ch. i. towards the end. 
 
 176
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 publicly in this monstrous form. I know not how they can 
 answer it to the fair sex to speak (as they pretend) experi- 
 mentally, and with such nice distinction of their audience. How 
 far this excuse may serve them in relation to common amours 
 and love adventures I will not take upon me to pronounce ; 
 but I must own, I have often wondered to see our fighting plays 
 become so much the entertainment of that tender sex. 1 
 
 They who have no help from learning to observe the wider 
 periods or revolutions of human kind, the alterations which 
 happen in manners, and the flux and reflux of politeness, wit, 
 and art, are apt at every turn to make the present age their 
 standard, and imagine nothing barbarous or savage but what is 
 contrary to the manners of their own time. The same pretended 
 judges, had they flourished in our Britain at the time when 
 Caesar made his first descent, would have condemned as a 
 whimsical critic the man who should have made bold to censure 
 our deficiency of clothing, and laugh at the blue cheeks and 
 party-coloured skins which were then in fashion with our 
 ancestors. Such must of necessity be the judgment of those 
 who are only critics by fashion. But to a just Naturalist or 
 _Humanist, who knows the creature Man and judges of his growth 
 and improvement in society, it appears evidently that we British 
 men were as barbarous and uncivilised in respect of the Romans 
 under a Caesar, as the Romans themselves were in respect of the 
 Grecians when they invaded that nation under a Mummius. 
 
 The noble wits of a court education, who can go no farther 
 back into antiquity than their pedigree will carry them, are 
 able however to call to mind the different state of manners in 
 some few reigns past, when Chivalry was in such repute. The 
 ladies were then spectators not only of feigned combats and 
 martial exercises, but of real duels and bloody feats of arms. 
 They sat as umpires and judges of the doughty frays. These 
 were the saint-protectrices to whom the champions chiefly paid 
 their vows, and to whom they recommended themselves by these 
 1 See Misc. v. ch. i. towards the end. 
 
 VOL. I 177 N
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 gallant quarrels and elegant decisions of right and justice. Nor 
 is this spirit so entirely lost amongst us but that even at this hour 
 the fair sex inspire us still with the fancy of like gallantries. 
 They are the chief subject of many such civil turmoils, and 
 remain still the secret influencing constellation by which we 
 are engaged to give and ask that satisfaction which is peculiar 
 to the fine gentlemen of the age. For thus a certain gallant of 
 our court expressed the case very naturally, when being asked 
 by his friends, why one of his established character for courage 
 and good sense would answer the challenge of a coxcomb, he 
 confessed, "That for his own sex, he could safely trust their 
 judgment ; but how should he appear at night before the maids 
 of honour ? " 
 
 Such is the different genius of nations, and of the same 
 nation in different times and seasons. For so among the 
 ancients some have been known tender of the sex 1 to such a 
 
 1 Contra ea, pleraque nostris moribus sunt decora, quae apud illos 
 turpia putantur. Quern enim Romanorum pudet uxorem ducere in con- 
 vivium ? Aut cujus materfamilias non primum locum tenet aedium, atque 
 in celebritate versatur ? quod multo fit aliter in Graecia. Nam neque in 
 convivium adhibetur, nisi propinquorum, ueque sedet, nisi in interiore 
 parte aedium, quae gynaeconitis appellatur : quo nemo accedit, nisi pro- 
 pinqua cognatione conjunctus. ["Whereas many things are respectable 
 according to our customs which the Greeks think disreputable. For what 
 Roman is ashamed to take his wife to a dinner-party ? or who is there 
 whose wife does not occupy the first place in the house and go into society? 
 Things are very different in Greece. For a lady does not appear at a 
 dinner-party except at a dinner of relations, nor does she sit anywhere but 
 in the back of the house, in what is called the gynaeconitis, to which none 
 but relations have admission. " Corn. Nepos, Praef. ] See also ^Elian, i. 10, 
 and the law in Pausanias, v. 6, and the story of JEliaii better related as to 
 the circumstances. Hinc de saxo foeminas dejicere Eleorum lex jubet, quae 
 ad Olympicos ludos peuetrasse deprehensae fuerint, vel quae omuino 
 Alphaeum transmiserint, quibus est eis interdictum diebus : Nou tamen 
 deprehensam esse ullam perhibent praeter unam Callipatiram, quam alii 
 Pherenicen nominant. Haec viro mortuo cum virili oriiatu exercitationum 
 se magistrum simulans, Pisidorum filium in certamen deduxit ; jamque 
 eo vincente sepimentum in quo magistros seclusos habent, transiluit veste 
 
 178
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 degree as not to suffer them to expose their modesty by the 
 view of masculine games, or theatrical representations of any 
 kind whatever. Others, on the contrary, have introduced them 
 into their amphitheatres, and made them sharers in the cruellest 
 spectacles. 
 
 But let our authors or poets complain ever so much of the 
 genius of our people, 'tis evident we are not altogether so 
 barbarous or Gothic as they pretend. We are naturally no ill V 
 soil, and have musical parts which might be cultivated with 
 great advantage if these gentlemen would use the art of masters 
 in their composition. They have power to work upon our 
 better inclinations, and may know by certain tokens that their 
 audience is disposed to receive nobler subjects, and taste a 
 better manner, than that which, through indulgence to them- 
 selves more than to the world, they are generally pleased to 
 make their choice. 
 
 Besides some laudable attempts which have been made 
 with tolerable success of late years towards a just manner of 
 writing, both in the heroic and familiar style, we have older 
 proofs of a right disposition in our people towards the moral 
 and instructive way. Our old dramatic poet l may witness for 
 
 amissa. Inde foeminam agnitam omni crimine liberarunt. Datum hoc ex 
 judicum aequitate, patris, fratrum, et filii gloriae ; qui omnes ex Olympicis 
 ludis victores abierant. Ex eo lege sancitum, ut nudati adessent ludis ipsi 
 etiam magistri. [" Therefore the Elean law bids hurl from a rock women 
 who are caught at the Olympic Games, or who have even crossed the river 
 Alphaeus on the forbidden days. Yet they say no one was ever caught 
 except a certain Callipatira or Pherenice. She, after the death of her 
 husband, took her son Pisidorus to the games, dressed as a man and pre- 
 tending to be his trainer ; and when he won, she jumped the rope which 
 shuts off trainers and dropped her cloak. Then when she was seen to be 
 a woman, she was acquitted by the indulgence of the stewards in honour 
 of her father, her brothers, and her son, all of whom had won prizes at the 
 Olympic Games. But after that a law was passed that trainers too must 
 attend the games uncloaked. " Shaftesbury has chosen to quote Pausanias 
 in a Latin version.] 
 1 Shakspere. 
 
 179
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 our good ear and manly relish. Notwithstanding his natural 
 rudeness, his unpolished style, and antiquated phrase and wit, 
 his want of method and coherence, and his deficiency in almost 
 all the graces and ornaments of this kind of writings, yet by 
 the justness of his moral, the aptness of many of his descrip- 
 tions, and the plain and natural turn of several of his characters, 
 he pleases his audience, and often gains their ear without a 
 single bribe from Luxury or Vice. That piece l of his which 
 appears to have most affected English hearts, and has perhaps 
 been oftenest acted of any which have come upon our stage, is 
 almost one continued moral : a series of deep reflections drawn 
 from one mouth, upon the subject of one single accident and 
 calamity, naturally fitted to move horror and compassion. It 
 may be properly said of this play, if I mistake not, that it has 
 only one character or principal part. It contains no adoration 
 or flattery of the sex ; no ranting at the gods ; no blustering 
 heroism ; nor anything of that curious mixture of the fierce 
 and tender which makes the hinge of modern tragedy, and 
 nicely varies it between the points of Love and Honour. 
 
 Upon the whole, since in the two great poetic stations, the 
 epic and dramatic, we may observe the moral genius so naturally 
 prevalent ; since our most approved heroic poem 2 has neither 
 the softness of language nor the fashionable turn of wit, but 
 merely solid thought, strong reasoning, noble passion, and a 
 continued thread of moral doctrine, piety, and virtue to 
 recommend it; we may justly infer that it is not so much the 
 public ear as the ill hand and vicious manner of our poets 
 which needs redress. 
 
 And thus at last we are returned to our old article of 
 advice : that main preliminary of self-study and inward con- 
 verse which we have found so much wanting in the authors of 
 our time. They should add the wisdom of the heart to the 
 task and exercise of the brain, in order to bring proportion and 
 beauty into their works. That their composition and vein of 
 
 1 The tragedy of Hamlet. - Miltou's Paradise Lost. 
 
 180
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 writing may be natural and free, they should settle matters in 
 the first place with themselves. And having gained a mastery 
 here, they may easily, with the help of their genius and a right 
 use of art, command their audience and establish a good taste. 
 
 Tis on themselves that all depends. We have considered 
 their other subjects of excuse. We have acquitted the great 
 men, their presumptive patrons, whom we have left to their 
 own discretion. We have proved the critics not only an in- 
 offensive but a highly useful race. And for the audience, we 
 have found it not so bad as might perhaps at first be appre- 
 hended. 
 
 It remains that we pass sentence on our authors after 
 having precluded them their last refuge. Nor do we condemn 
 them on their want of wit or fancy, but of judgment and correct- 
 ness, which can only be attained by thorough diligence, study, 
 and impartial censure of themselves. 'Tis manners which is 
 wanting. 1 ir Tis a due sentiment of morals which alone can make 
 us knowing in order and proportion, and give us the just tone 
 and measure of human passion. 
 
 So much the poet must necessarily borrow of the philosopher 
 as to be master of the common topics of morality. He must 
 at least be speciously honest, and in all appearance a friend to 
 Virtue throughout his poem. The good and wise will abate 
 him nothing in this kind ; and the people, though corrupt, 
 are in the main best satisfied with this conduct. 
 
 ' Speciosa locis, morataque recte 
 Fabula, nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte, 
 Valdius oblectat populum, meliusque moratur, 
 Quam versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae. 2 
 
 1 Supra, p. 136, andinfra, part iii. 3, in the notes; and Misc. v. chs.i. ii. 
 
 2 [" Sometimes a play if it is embellished with sentiments and well- 
 drawn as to its characters, though it has no grace, no weight of language, 
 no art, delights the people more and keeps their attention better than 
 verses with little in them and well-rounded trifles." Hor. A. P. 319-322.] 
 
 181
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 PART III 
 
 SECTION I 
 
 'Tis esteemed the highest compliment which can be paid a writer, 
 on the occasion of some new work he has made public, to tell 
 him "that he has undoubtedly surpassed himself. 11 And 
 indeed when one observes how well this compliment is received, 
 one would imagine it to contain some wonderful hyperbole of 
 praise. For according to the strain of modern politeness, 'tis 
 not an ordinary violation of truth which can afford a tribute 
 sufficient to answer any common degree of merit. Now 'tis well 
 known that the gentlemen whose merit lies towards authorship 
 are unwilling to make the least abatement on the foot of this 
 ceremonial. One would wonder therefore to find them so en- 
 tirely satisfied with a form of praise which in plain sense 
 amounts to no more than a bare affirmative " that they have 
 in some manner differed from themselves, and are become some- 
 what worse or better than their common rate." For if the vilest 
 writer grows viler than ordinary, or exceeds his natural pitch 
 on either side, he is justly said to exceed or go beyond himself. 
 
 "We find in the same manner that there is no expression 
 more generally used in a way of compliment to great men and 
 princes than that plain one which is so often verified, and may 
 be safely pronounced for truth on most occasions : " That they 
 have acted like themselves, and suitably to their own genius and 
 character." The compliment, it must be owned, sounds well. 
 No one suspects it. For what person is there who in his 
 imagination joins not something worthy and deserving with his 
 true and native self, as oft as he is referred to it, and made to 
 consider who he is ? Such is the natural affection of all man- 
 kind towards moral beauty and perfection that they never fail 
 in making this presumption in behalf of themselves : " That by 
 
 182
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 nature they have something estimable and worthy in respect of 
 others of their kind ; and that their genuine, true, and natural 
 self is, as it ought to be, of real value in society, and justly 
 honourable for the sake of its merit and good qualities." They 
 conclude therefore they have the height of praise allotted them 
 when they are assured by any one that they have done nothing 
 below themselves, or that in some particular action they have 
 exceeded the ordinary tenor of their character. 
 
 Thus is every one convinced of the reality of a better self, 
 and of the cult or homage which is due to it. The misfortune 
 is, we are seldom taught to comprehend this self by placing it 
 in a distinct view from its representative or counterfeit. In our 
 holy religion, which for the greatest part is adapted to the very 
 meanest capacities, 'tis not to be expected that a speculation of 
 this kind should be openly advanced. 'Tis enough that we have 
 hints given us of a nobler self than that which is commonly 
 supposed the basis and foundation of our actions. Self-interest 
 is there taken as it is vulgarly conceived. Though on the 
 other side there are, in the most sacred characters, 1 examples 
 given us of the highest contempt of all such interested views, of 
 a willingness to suffer without recompense for the sake of others, 
 and of a desire to part even with life and being itself on account 
 of what is generous and worthy. But in the same manner as 
 the celestial phaenomena are in the sacred volumes generally 
 treated according to common imagination and the then current 
 system of Astronomy and Natural Science, so the moral appear- 
 ances are in many places preserved without alteration, according 
 to vulgar prejudice and the general conception of interest and 
 self-good. Our real and genuine self is sometimes supposed 
 that ambitious one which is fond of power and glory, sometimes 
 that childish one which is taken with vain show, and is to be 
 invited to obedience by promise of finer habitations, precious 
 stones and metals, shining garments, crowns, and other such 
 
 1 Exod. xxxii. 31, 32, etc., and Rom. ix. 1, 2, 3, etc. 
 
 183
 
 dazzling beauties, by which another earth or material city is 
 represented. 
 
 It must be owned that even at that time when a greater 
 and purer Light disclosed itself in the chosen nation, their 
 natural gloominess appeared still, 1 by the great difficulty they 
 had to know themselves, or learn their real interest, after such 
 long tutorage and instruction from above. The simplicity of 
 that people must certainly have been very great, when the best 
 doctrine could not go down without a treat, and the best 
 disciples had their heads so running upon their loaves, that they 
 were apt to construe every divine saying in a belly-sense, 2 and 
 thought nothing more self-constituent than that inferior re- 
 ceptacle. Their taste in morals could not fail of being suitable 
 to this extraordinary estimation of themselves. No wonder if 
 the better and nobler self was left as a mystery to a people who 
 of all human kind were the most grossly selfish, crooked, and 
 perverse. So that it must necessarily be confessed in honour 
 of their divine legislators, patriots, and instructors, that they 
 exceeded all others in goodness and generosity, since they could 
 so truly love their nation and brethren such as they were, and 
 could have so generous and disinterested regards for those who 
 were in themselves so sordidly interested and undeserving. 
 
 But whatever may be the proper effect or operation of 
 religion, 'tis the known province of philosophy to teach us our- 
 selves, keep us the self -same persons, and so regulate our 
 governing fancies, passions, and humours, as to make us 
 comprehensible to ourselves, and knowable by other features 
 than those of a bare countenance. For 'tis not certainly by 
 virtue of our face merely that we are ourselves. 'Tis not we 
 who change when our complexion or shape changes. But there 
 is that, which being wholly metamorphosed and converted, we 
 are thereby in reality transformed and lost. 
 
 Should an intimate friend of ours, who had endured many 
 sicknesses and run many ill adventures while he travelled 
 1 Supra, p. 22, and Misc. ii. chs. i. iii. 2 Matt. xvi. 6, 7, 8, etc. 
 
 184
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 through the remotest parts of the East, and hottest countries 
 of the South, return to us so altered in his whole outward 
 figure, that till we had for a time conversed with him we could 
 not know him again to be the same person, the matter would 
 not seem so very strange, nor would our concern on this account 
 be very great. But should a like face and figure of a friend 
 return to us with thoughts and humours of a strange and 
 foreign turn, with passions, affections, and opinions wholly 
 different from anything we had formerly known, we should 
 say in earnest, and with the greatest amazement and concern, 
 that this was another creature, and not the friend whom we 
 once knew familiarly. Nor should we in reality attempt any 
 renewal of acquaintance or correspondence with such a person, 
 though perhaps he might preserve in his memory the faint 
 marks or tokens of former transactions which had passed 
 between us. 
 
 When a revolution of this kind, though not so total, happens 
 at any time in a character; when the passion or humour 
 of a known person changes remarkably from what it once was ; 
 'tis to philosophy we then appeal. 'Tis either the want or 
 weakness of this principle which is charged on the delinquent. 
 And on this bottom it is that we often challenge ourselves 
 when we find such variation in our manners, and observe 
 that it is not always the same self nor the same interest we have 
 in view, but often a direct contrary one, which we serve still 
 with the same passion and ardour. When from a noted 
 liberality we change perhaps to as remarkable a parsimony; 
 when from indolence and love of rest we plunge into business, 
 or from a busy and severe character, abhorrent from the tender 
 converse of the fair sex, we turn on a sudden to a contrary 
 passion, and become amorous or uxorious ; we acknowledge 
 the weakness, and charging our defect on the general want of 
 philosophy we say (sighing) "that, indeed, we none of us 
 truly know ourselves."" And thus we recognise the authority 
 and proper object of philosophy ; so far at least, that though 
 
 185
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 we pretend not to be complete philosophers, we confess " that 
 as we have more or less of this intelligence or comprehension of 
 ourselves we are accordingly more or less truly men, and either 
 more or less to be depended on in friendship, society, and the 
 commerce of life." 
 
 The fruits of this science are indeed the fairest imaginable, 
 and upon due trial are found to be as well relished and of as 
 good favour with mankind. But when invited to the specula- 
 tion, we turn our eyes on that which we suppose the tree, 'tis 
 no wonder if we slight the gardenership and think the manner 
 of culture a very contemptible mystery. "Grapes," 'tis said, 
 "are not gathered from thorns, nor figs from thistles." Now 
 if in the literate world there be any choking weed, anything 
 purely thorn or thistle, 'tis in all likelihood that very kind of 
 plant which stands for philosophy in some famous schools. 1 
 There can be nothing more ridiculous than to expect that 
 manners or understanding should sprout from such a stock. 
 It pretends indeed some relation to manners as being definitive 
 of the natures, essences, and properties of spirits, and some 
 relation to reason as describing the shapes and forms of certain 
 instruments employed in the reasoning art. But had the 
 craftiest of men, for many ages together, been employed in 
 finding out a method to confound reason and degrade the 
 understanding of mankind, they could not, perhaps, have suc- 
 ceeded better than by the establishment of such a mock-science. 
 
 I knew once a notable enthusiast 2 of the itinerant kind, 
 who being upon a high spiritual adventure in a country 
 where prophetic missions are treated as no jest, was, as he 
 told me, committed a close prisoner, and kept for several 
 
 1 Infra, part iii. 3, and Misc. iii. ch. ii. 
 
 2 [Leibnitz appears to be right in supposing this to refer to the younger 
 Van Helmont (1618-1699), who was thrown into the prison of the Inquisi- 
 tion at Rome in 1662. He published his Alphabeti vere naturalis hebraici 
 brevissima delineatio at Sulzbach in 1667. For some time he sojourned in 
 England, where he composed for the Countess of Conway his Two Hundred 
 
 186
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 months where he saw no manner of light. In this banishment 
 from letters and discourse the man very wittily invented an 
 amusement much to his purpose, and highly preservative both 
 of health and humour. It may be thought, perhaps, that of 
 all seasons or circumstances here was one the most suitable to 
 our oft-mentioned practice of soliloquy ; especially since the 
 prisoner was one of those whom in this age we usually call 
 philosophers, a successor of Paracelsus, and a master in the 
 occult sciences. But as to moral science or anything relating 
 to self-converse, he was a mere novice. To work therefore he 
 went after a different method. He tuned his natural pipes, not 
 after the manner of a musician, to practise what was melodious 
 and agreeable in sounds, but to fashion and form all sorts of 
 articulate voices the most distinctly that was possible. This 
 he performed by strenuously exalting his voice, and essaying it 
 in all the several dispositions and configurations of his throat 
 and mouth. And thus bellowing, roaring, snarling, and other- 
 wise variously exerting his organs of sound, he endeavoured 
 to discover what letters of the alphabet could best design 
 each species, or what new letters were to be invented to mark 
 the undiscovered modifications. He found, for instance, the 
 letter a to be a most genuine character, an original and pure 
 vowel, and justly placed as principal in the front of the 
 alphabetic order. For having duly extended his under jaw 
 to its utmost distance from the upper, and by a proper 
 insertion of his fingers provided against the contraction of 
 either corner of his mouth, he experimentally discovered it 
 impossible for human tongue under these circumstances to 
 emit any other modification of sound than that which was 
 described by this primitive character. The vowel o was formed 
 
 Problems concerning the Revolutions of the Soul ; but Shaftesbury doubtless 
 made his acquaintance in Holland, where he latterly resided. Leibnitz, 
 who esteemed him and wrote his epitaph, denies that he was a mere novice 
 in moral science, and highly praises his moral character, remarking that 
 his works show his least admirable side.] 
 
 187
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 by an orbicular disposition of the mouth, as was aptly delineated 
 in the character itself. The vowel u by a parallel protrusion of 
 the lips. The other vowels and consonants by other various 
 collisions of the mouth, and operations of the active tongue 
 upon the passive gum or palate. The result of this profound 
 speculation and long exercise of our prisoner was a philosophical 
 treatise, which he composed when he was set at liberty. He 
 esteemed himself the only master of voice and language on the 
 account of this his radical science and fundamental knowledge 
 of sounds. But whoever had taken him to improve their 
 voice, or teach them an agreeable or just manner of accent 
 or delivery, would, I believe, have found themselves considerably 
 deluded. 
 
 'Tis not that I would condemn as useless this speculative 
 science of articulation. It has its place no doubt among the 
 other sciences, and may serve to grammar as grammar serves to 
 rhetoric and to other arts of speech and writing. The solidity 
 of mathematics and its advantage to mankind is proved by 
 many effects in those beneficial arts and sciences which depend 
 on it, though astrologers, horoscopers, and other such are pleased 
 to honour themselves with the title of mathematicians. As for 
 metaphysics, 1 and that which in the schools is taught for logic 
 or for ethics, I shall willingly allow it to pass for philosophy 
 when by any real effects it is proved capable to refine our spirits, 
 improve our understandings, or mend our manners. But if the 
 defining material and immaterial substances, and distinguishing 
 their properties and modes, is recommended to us as the right 
 manner of proceeding in the discovery of our own natures, I 
 shall be apt to suspect such a study as the more delusive and 
 infatuating on account of its magnificent pretension. 
 
 The study of triangles and circles interferes not with the 
 study of minds ; nor does the student in the meanwhile suppose 
 himself advancing in wisdom or the knowledge of himself or 
 
 1 [Shaftesbury uses the term in its old application to a body of scholastic 
 definitions, not to philosophy commonly so called.] 
 
 188
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 mankind. All he desires is to keep his head sound as it was 
 before. And well, he thinks indeed, he has come off if by good 
 fortune there be no crack made in it. As for other ability or 
 improvement in the knowledge of human nature or the world, 
 he refers himself to other studies and practice. Such is 
 the mathematician's modesty and good sense. But for the 
 philosopher who pretends to be wholly taken up in considering 
 his higher faculties, and examining the powers and principles 
 of his understanding, if in reality his philosophy be foreign to 
 the matter professed, if it goes beside the mark and reaches 
 nothing we can truly call our interest or concern, it must be 
 somewhat worse than mere ignorance or idiotism. The most 
 ingenious way of becoming foolish is by a system. And the 
 surest method to prevent good sense is to set up something in 
 the room of it. The liker anything is to wisdom, if it be not 
 plainly the thing itself, the more directly it becomes its 
 opposite. 
 
 One would expect it of these physiologists and searchers of 
 modes and substances that being so exalted in their understand- 
 ings and enriched with science above other men, they should be 
 as much above them in their passions and sentiments. The 
 consciousness of being admitted into the secret recesses of nature 
 and the inward resources of a human heart should, one would 
 think, create in these gentlemen a sort of magnanimity which 
 might distinguish them from the ordinary race of mortals. But 
 if their pretended knowledge of the machine of this world, and 
 of their own frame, is able to produce nothing beneficial either 
 to the one or to the other, I know not to what purpose such a 
 philosophy can serve, except only to shut the door against better 
 knowledge, and introduce impertinence and conceit with the best 
 countenance of authority. 
 
 'Tis hardly possible for a student, but more especially an 
 author, who has dealt in ideas and treated formally of the 
 passions in a way of Natural Philosophy, not to imagine him- 
 self more wise on this account and more knowing in his own 
 
 189
 
 character and the genius of mankind. But that he is mistaken 
 in his calculation, experience generally convinces us, none being 
 found more impotent in themselves, of less command over 
 their passions, less free from superstition and vain fears, or less 
 safe from common imposture and delusion, than the noted head- 
 pieces of this stamp. Nor is this a wonder. The speculation 
 in a manner bespeaks the practice. There needs no formal 
 deduction to make this evident. A small help from our 
 familiar method of soliloquy may serve turn, and we may 
 perhaps decide this matter in a more diverting way by con- 
 fronting this super-speculative philosophy with a more practical 
 sort, which relates chiefly to our acquaintance, friendship, and 
 good correspondence with ourselves. 
 
 On this account it may not be to my reader's disadvantage 
 if, forgetting him for awhile, I apply chiefly to myself, and as 
 occasion offers assume that self-conversant practice which I have 
 pretended to disclose. "Pis hoped therefore he will not esteem 
 it as ill-breeding if I lose the usual regard to his presence. 
 And should I fall insensibly into one of the paroxysms described, 
 and as in a sort of frenzy enter into high expostulation with my- 
 self, he will not surely be offended with the free language or even 
 with the reproaches he hears from a person who only makes 
 bold with whom he may. 
 
 If a passenger should turn by chance into a watchmaker's 
 shop, and thinking to inform himself concerning watches, should 
 inquire of what metal, or what matter, each part was composed ; 
 what gave the colours, or what made the sounds ; without 
 examining what the real use was of such an instrument, or by 
 what movements its end was best attained, and its perfection 
 acquired ; 'tis plain that such an examiner as this would come 
 short of any understanding in the real nature of the instrument. 
 Should a philosopher, after the same manner, employing himself 
 in the study of human nature, discover only what effects each 
 passion wrought upon the body ; what change of aspect or 
 feature they produced ; and in what different manner they 
 
 190
 
 affected the limbs and muscles, this might possibly qualify him 
 to give advice to an anatomist or a limner, but not to mankind 
 or to himself; since according to this survey he considered not 
 the real operation or energy of his subject, nor contemplated 
 the man, as real man, and as a human agent, but as a watch or 
 common machine. 
 
 " The passion of Fear," as a modern philosopher * informs me, 
 " determines the spirits to the muscles of the knees, which are 
 instantly ready to perform their motion, by taking up the legs 
 with incomparable celerity in order to remove the body out of 
 harm's way." Excellent mechanism ! But whether the knocking 
 together of the knees be any more the cowardly symptom of 
 flight, than the chattering of the teeth is the stout symptom of 
 resistance, I shall not take upon me to determine. In this 
 whole subject of inquiry I shall find nothing of the least self- 
 concernment. And I may depend upon it, that by the most 
 refined speculation of this kind I shall neither learn to diminish 
 my fears or raise my courage. This, however, I may be assured 
 of, that 'tis the nature of fear, as well as of other passions, to 
 have its increase and decrease, as it is fed by opinion and in- 
 fluenced by custom and practice. 
 
 These passions, according as they have the ascendency in 
 me, and differ in proportion with one another, affect my 
 character, and make me different with respect to myself and 
 others. I must, therefore, of necessity find redress and improve- 
 ment in this case, by reflecting justly on the manner of my own 
 motion, as guided by affections which depend so much on 
 apprehension and conceit. By examining the various turns, 
 inflections, declensions, and inward revolutions of the passions, 
 I must undoubtedly come the better to understand a human 
 breast, and judge the better both of others and myself. 'Tis 
 impossible to make the least advancement in such a study with- 
 out acquiring some advantage from the regulation and govern- 
 ment of those passions on which the conduct of a life depends. 
 1 Monsieur des Cartes, in his Treatise of the Passions. 
 
 191
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 For instance, if superstition be the sort of fear which most 
 oppresses, 'tis not very material to inquire, on this occasion, to 
 what parts or districts the blood or spirits are immediately 
 detached, or where they are made to rendezvous. For this no 
 more imports me to understand, than it depends on me to 
 regulate or change. But when the grounds of this superstitious 
 fear are considered to be from opinion, and the subjects of it 
 come to be thoroughly searched and examined, the passion 
 itself must necessarily diminish, as I discover more and more 
 the imposture which belongs to it. 
 
 In the same manner, if vanity be from opinion, and I con- 
 sider how vanity is conceived, from what imaginary advantages 
 and inconsiderable grounds ; if I view it in its excessive height, 
 as well as in its contrary depression ; 'tis impossible I should 
 not in some measure be relieved of this distemper. 
 
 Laudis amore tumes ? Sunt certa piacula. . . . 
 Sunt verba et voces quibus hunc lenire dolorem 
 Possis, et magnam morbi deponere partem. 1 
 
 The same must happen in respect of anger, ambition, love, 
 desire, and the other passions from whence I frame the different 
 notion I have of interest. For as these passions veer, my 
 interest veers, my steerage varies ; and I make alternately, now 
 this, now that, to be my course and harbour. The man in 
 anger has a different happiness from the man in love. And 
 the man lately become covetous has a different notion of satis- 
 faction from what he had before, when he was liberal. Even 
 the man in humour has another thought of interest and ad- 
 vantage than the man out of humour, or in the least disturbed. 
 The examination, therefore, of my humours, and the inquiry 2 
 
 1 [" Are you swollen up with the love of praise ? There are sure 
 remedies. . . . There are spells and charms by which you may ease this 
 pain and throw off a great part of your complaint." Shaftesbury quotes 
 these lines from Horace, Ep. i. i. 34-36, in the wrong order.] 
 
 2 See Inquiry, viz. Treatise iv. of these volumes. 
 
 192
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 after my passions, must necessarily draw along with it the search 
 and scrutiny of my opinions, and the sincere consideration of 
 my scope and end. And thus the study of human affection 
 cannot fail of leading me towards the knowledge of human 
 nature and of myself. 
 
 This is the philosophy which by Nature has the pre-eminence 
 above all other science or knowledge. Nor can this surely be of 
 the sort called vain or deceitful, 1 since it is the only means by 
 which I can discover vanity and deceit. This is not of that 
 kind which depends on genealogies or traditions, 2 and ministers 
 questions and vain jangling. 3 It has not its name, as other 
 philosophies, from the mere subtlety and nicety of the specula- 
 tion, but by way of excellence, from its being superior to all 
 other speculations, from its presiding over all other sciences and 
 occupations, teaching the measure of each, and assigning the 
 just value of everything in life. By this science religion itself 
 is judged, spirits are searched, prophecies proved, miracles 
 distinguished : the sole measure and standard being taken from 
 moral rectitude, and from the discernment of what is sound and 
 just in the affections. For if the tree is known only by its 
 fruits, 4 my first endeavour must be to distinguish the true taste 
 of fruits, refine my palate, and establish a just relish in the kind. 
 So that to bid me judge authority by morals, whilst the rule 
 of morals is supposed dependent on mere authority and will, 5 
 is the same in reality as to bid me see with my eyes shut, 
 measure without a standard, and count without arithmetic. 
 
 And thus Philosophy, which judges both of herself and 
 of everything besides, discovers her own province and chief 
 command, teaches me to distinguish between her person and 
 her likeness, and shows me her immediate and real self, by that 
 sole privilege of teaching me to know myself and what belongs 
 
 1 Col. ii. 8. 2 Tit iii. 9. 3 1 Tim. i. 4, 6 ; vi. 20. 
 
 4 Luke vi. 43, 44 ; Matt. vii. 16. See Treatise v. part ii. 5. 
 
 5 Supra, p. 72. [The allusion is presumably to Locke. See his Essay, 
 bk. i. ch. iii. 6.] 
 
 VOL. i 193 o
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 to me. She gives to every inferior science its just rank ; leaves 
 some to measure sounds, others to scan syllables, others to 
 weigh vacuums, and define spaces and extensions ; but reserves 
 to herself her due authority and majesty, keeps her state and 
 ancient title of vitae dux, virtutis indagatrix, 1 and the rest 
 of those just appellations which of old belonged to her when 
 she merited to be apostrophised, as she was, by the orator : 
 " Tu inventrix legum, tu magistra morum et disciplinae. . . . 
 Est autem unus dies bene et ex praeceptis tuis actus, peccanti 
 immortalitati anteponendus." 2 Excellent mistress ! but easy 
 to be mistaken ! whilst so many handmaids wear as illustrious 
 apparel, and some are made to outshine her far in dress and 
 ornament. 
 
 In reality, how specious a study, how solemn an amuse- 
 ment is raised from what we call philosophical speculations, 
 the formation of ideas, their compositions, comparisons, agree- 
 ment, and disagreement ! What can have a better appear- 
 ance, or bid fairer for genuine and true philosophy ? Come 
 on then. Let me philosophise in this manner, if this be 
 indeed the way I am to grow wise. Let me examine my ideas 
 of space and substance ; let me look well into matter and its 
 modes ; if this be looking into myself, if this be to improve my 
 understanding and enlarge my mind. For of this I may soon be 
 satisfied. Let me observe therefore, with diligence, what passes 
 here ; what connection and consistency, what agreement or 
 disagreement I find within ; " whether, according to my present 
 ideas, that which I approve this hour, I am like to approve as 
 well the next ; and in case it be otherwise with me, how or 
 after what manner I shall relieve myself; how ascertain my 
 ideas, and keep my opinion, liking, and esteem of things the 
 same." If this remains unsolved, if I am still the same mystery 
 
 1 ["Guide of life, investigator of virtue."] 
 
 2 [" Thou didst find out laws, thou wast the teacher of character and 
 method. . . . One day spent well and under thy rules is better than an 
 eternity of error." Cic. Tusc. Disp. v. 5.] 
 
 194
 
 to myself as ever, to what purpose is all this reasoning and 
 acuteness ? wherefore do I admire my philosopher, or study to 
 become such a one myself? 
 
 To-day things have succeeded well with me, consequently 
 my ideas are raised. " Tis a fine world ! All is glorious ! 
 Everything delightful and entertaining ! Mankind, conversation, 
 company, society ; what can be more desirable ? " To-morrow 
 comes disappointment, crosses, disgrace. And what follows? 
 " O miserable mankind ! Wretched state ! Who would live 
 out of solitude ? Who would write or act for such a world ? " 
 Philosopher ! where are thy ideas ? Where is truth, certainty, 
 evidence, so much talked of? 'Tis here surely they are to be 
 maintained if anywhere. 'Tis here I am to preserve some just 
 distinctions and adequate ideas, which if I cannot do a jot the 
 more by what such a philosophy can teach me, the philosophy 
 is in this respect imposing and delusive. For whatever its other 
 virtues are, it relates not to me myself, it concerns not the man, 
 nor any other wise affects the mind than by the conceit of 
 knowledge and the false assurance raised from a supposed 
 improvement. 
 
 Again, what are my ideas of the world, of pleasure, riches, 
 fame, life ? What judgment am I to make of mankind and 
 human affairs ? What sentiments am I to frame ? What 
 opinions ? What maxims ? If none at all, why do I concern 
 myself in speculations about my ideas ? What is it to me, for 
 instance, to know what kind of idea I can form of space? 
 " Divide a solid body of whatever dimension," says a renowned 
 modern philosopher, " and 'twill be impossible for the parts to 
 move within the bounds of its superficies, if there be not left 
 in it a void space, as big as the least part into which the 
 said body is divided." l 
 
 Thus the atomist, or Epicurean, pleading for a vacuum. 
 The plenitudinarian, on the other side, brings his fluid in play, 
 
 1 These are the words of the particular author cited. [The citation is 
 from Locke, Essay, bk. ii. ch. xiii. 23, but it is not verbatim.! 
 
 195
 
 and joins the idea of body and extension. Of this, says one, 
 I have clear ideas. Of this, says the other, I can be certain. 
 And what say I if in the whole matter there be no certainty 
 at all ? For mathematicians are divided, and mechanics 
 proceed as well on one hypothesis as on the other. My mind, 
 I am satisfied, will proceed either way alike, for it is concerned 
 on neither side. ... " Philosopher, let me hear concerning 
 what is of some moment to me. Let me hear concerning life 
 what the right notion is, and what I am to stand to upon 
 occasion ; that I may not when life seems retiring, or has run 
 itself out to the very dregs, cry Vanity ; condemn the world 
 and at the same time complain that life is short and passing."" 
 For why so short indeed if not found sweet? Why do I 
 complain both ways ? Is vanity, mere vanity, a happiness ? 
 Or can misery pass away too soon ? 
 
 This is of moment to me to examine. This is worth my 
 while. If, on the other side, I cannot find the agreement or 
 disagreement of my ideas in this place, if I can come to nothing 
 certain here, what is all the rest to me? What signifies it 
 how I come by my ideas, or how compound them ; which are 
 simple, and which complex ? If I have a right idea of life, now 
 when perhaps I think slightly of it, and resolve with myself 
 " that it may easily be laid down on any honourable occasion 
 of service to my friends or country, 11 teach me how I may 
 preserve this idea, or at least how I may get safely rid of it ; 
 that it may trouble me no more nor lead me into ill adventures. 
 Teach me how I came by such an opinion of worth and virtue ; 
 what it is which at one time raises it so high, and at another 
 time reduces it to nothing ; how these disturbances and fluctua- 
 tions happen, " By what innovation, what composition, what 
 intervention of other ideas." If this be the subject of the 
 philosophical art, I readily apply to it and embrace the study. 
 If there be nothing of this in the case, I have no occasion for 
 this sort of learning, and am no more desirous of knowing how 
 I form or compound those ideas which are marked by words, 
 
 196
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 than I am of knowing how, and by what motions of my tongue 
 or palate, I form those articulate sounds, which I can full as well 
 pronounce without any such science or speculation. 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 Bur here it may be convenient for me to quit myself awhile 
 in favour of my reader, lest if he prove one of the uncourteous 
 sort, he should raise a considerable objection in this place. He 
 may ask perhaps " why a writer for self-entertainment should 
 not keep his writings to himself, without appearing in public 
 or before the world."" 
 
 In answer to this I shall only say that for appearing in 
 public or before the world, I do not readily conceive what our 
 worthy objector may understand by it. 1 can call to mind, 
 indeed, among my acquaintance, certain merchant-adventurers 
 in the letter-trade, who in correspondence with their factor- 
 bookseller are entered into a notable commerce with the world. 
 They have directly, and in due form of preface and epistle 
 dedicatory, solicited the public, and made interest with friends 
 for favour and protection on this account. They have ventured, 
 perhaps, to join some great man's reputation with their own ; 
 having obtained his permission to address a work to him on 
 presumption of its passing for something considerable in the 
 eyes of mankind. One may easily imagine that such patronised 
 and avowed authors as these would be shrewdly disappointed if 
 the public took no notice of their labours. But for my own 
 part, 'tis of no concern to me what regard the public bestows on 
 my amusements, or after what manner it comes acquainted 
 with what I write for my private entertainment, or by way of 
 advice to such of my acquaintance as are thus desperately 
 embarked. 
 
 'Tis requisite that my friends who peruse these advices 
 should read them in better characters than those of my own 
 hand-writing ; and by good luck I have a very fair hand offered, 
 
 197
 
 which may save me the trouble of re-copying, and can readily 
 furnish me with as many handsome copies as I would desire for 
 my own and friends 1 service. I have not indeed forbid my 
 amanuensis the making as many as he pleases for his own 
 benefit. What I write is not worth being made a mystery. 
 And if it be worth any one's purchasing, much good may it do 
 the purchaser. "Tis a traffic I have no share in, though I 
 accidentally furnish the subject-matter. 
 
 And thus am I nowise more an author for being in print. 
 I am conscious of no additional virtue or dangerous quality 
 from having lain at any time under the weight of that alpha- 
 betic engine called the Press. I know no conjuration in it, 
 either with respect to Church or State. Nor can I imagine why 
 the machine should appear so formidable to scholars and 
 renowned clerks, whose very mystery and foundation depends 
 on the letter-manufacture. To allow benefit of clergy and to 
 restrain the press seems to me to have something of cross- 
 purpose in it. I can hardly think that the quality of what is 
 written can be altered by the manner of writing, or that there 
 can be any harm in a quick way of copying fair and keeping 
 copies alike. Why a man may not be permitted to write with 
 iron as well as quill, I cannot conceive ; or how a writer changes 
 his capacity by this new dress, any more than by the wear of 
 wove-stockings, after having worn no other manufacture than 
 the knit. 
 
 So much for my reader, if perchance I have any besides the 
 friend or two above mentioned. For being engaged in morals, 
 and induced to treat so rigorous a subject as that of self- 
 examination, I naturally call to mind the extreme delicacy and 
 tenderness of modern appetites in respect of the philosophy of 
 this kind. What distaste possibly may have arisen from some 
 medicinal doses of a like nature administered to raw stomachs 
 at a very early age, I will not pretend to examine. But what- 
 ever manner in philosophy happens to bear the least resemblance 
 to that of Catechism, cannot, I am persuaded, of itself prove 
 
 198
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 very inviting. Such a smart way of questioning ourselves in our 
 youth has made our manhood more averse to the expostulatory 
 discipline. And though the metaphysical points of our belief are 
 by this method, with admirable care and caution, instilled into 
 tender minds, yet the manner of this anticipating philosophy 
 may make the after-work of reason, and the inward exercise of 
 the mind at a riper age, proceed the more heavily and with 
 greater reluctance. 
 
 It must needs be a hard case with us, after having passed so 
 learned a childhood, and been instructed in our own and other 
 higher natures, essences, incorporeal substances, personalities, 
 and the like, to condescend at riper years to ruminate and con 
 over this lesson a second time. Tis hard after having, by so 
 many pertinent interrogatories and decisive sentences, declared 
 who and what we are, to come leisurely, in another view, to 
 inquire concerning our real self and end, the judgment we are 
 to make of interest, and the opinion we should have of advan- 
 tage and good, which is what must necessarily determine us in 
 our conduct and prove the leading principle of our lives. 
 
 Can we bear looking anew into these mysteries ? Can we 
 endure a new schooling after having once learnt our lesson 
 from the world ? Hardly, I presume. For by the lesson of 
 this latter school, and according to the sense I acquire in con- 
 verse with prime men, should I at any time ask myself what 
 governed me ? I should answer readily, My interest. " But 
 what is interest ? and how governed ? By opinion and fancy. 
 Is everything therefore my interest which I fancy such ? or may 
 my fancy possibly be wrong ? It may. If my fancy of interest 
 therefore be wrong, can my pursuit or aim be right ? Hardly 
 so. Can I then be supposed to hit, when I know not, in 
 reality, so much as how to aim ? " 
 
 My chief interest it seems, therefore, must be to get an aim, 
 and know certainly where my happiness and advantage lies. 
 " Where else can it lie than in my pleasure, since my advan- 
 tage and good must ever be pleasing, and what is pleasing can 
 
 199
 
 never be other than my advantage and good ? Excellent ! 
 Let fancy therefore govern, and interest be what we please. 
 For if that which pleases us be our good 1 because it pleases 
 us, anything may be our interest or good. Nothing can come 
 amiss. That which we fondly make our happiness at one time, 
 we may as readily unmake at another. No one can learn what 
 real good is. Nor can any one upon this foot be said to under- 
 stand his interest."" 
 
 Here, we see, are strange embroils ! . . . But let us try to 
 deal more candidly with ourselves, and frankly own that 
 pleasure is no rule of good, 2 since when we follow pleasure 
 merely, we are disgusted, and change from one sort to another ; 
 condemning that at one time which at another we earnestly 
 approve, and never judging equally of happiness whilst we follow 
 passion and mere humour. 
 
 A lover, for instance, when struck with the idea or fancy 
 of his enjoyment, promises himself the highest felicity if he 
 succeeds in his new amour. . . . He succeeds in it, finds not 
 the felicity he expected, but promises himself the same again 
 in some other. . . . The same thing happens ; he is disappointed 
 as before, but still has faith. . . . Wearied with this game, he 
 quits the chace, renounces the way of courtship and intrigue, 
 and detests the ceremony and difficulty of the pleasure. ... A 
 new species of amours invites him. Here too he meets the same 
 inquietude and inconstancy. . . . Scorning to grow sottish and 
 plunge in the lowest sink of vice, he shakes off' his intemperance, 
 despises gluttony and riot, and hearkens to Ambition. He grows 
 a man of business and seeks authority and fame. . . . 
 Quo teneam vultus mutantem Protea nodo ? 3 
 
 Lest this therefore should be my own case, let me see whether 
 I can control my fancy and fix it, if possible, on something 
 
 1 Moralists, part ii. 1 ; Misc. iv. ch. i. 
 
 2 Infra, p. 218. 
 
 3 [" With what chain can I bind the ever-changing figure of Proteus?" 
 Hor. Ep. i. i. 90.] 
 
 200
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 which may hold good. . . . When I exercise my reason in moral 
 subjects, when I employ my affection in Jriendly and social 
 actions, I find I can sincerely enjoy myself. If there be a 
 pleasure therefore of this kind, why not indulge it ? Or what 
 harm would there be, supposing it should grow greater by 
 indulgence ? If I am lazy and indulge myself in the languid 
 pleasure, I know the harm and can foresee the drone. If I am 
 luxurious, I know the harm of this also, and have the plain 
 prospect of the sot. If avarice be my pleasure, the end I know 
 is being a miser. But if honesty be my delight, I know no 
 other consequence from indulging such a passion than that of 
 growing better natured, and enjoying more and more the 
 pleasures of society. On the other hand, if this honest pleasure 
 be lost by knavish indulgence and immorality, there can hardly 
 be a satisfaction left of any kind, since good-nature and social 
 affection are so essential even to the pleasures of a debauch. 1 
 
 If therefore the only pleasure I can freely and without 
 reserve indulge, be that of the honest and moral kind ; if the 
 rational and social enjoyment be so constant in itself and so 
 essential to happiness ; why should I not bring my other pleasures 
 to correspond and be friends with it, rather than raise myself 
 other pleasures which are destructive of this foundation, and 
 have no manner of correspondency with one another ? 
 
 Upon this bottom let me try how I can bear the assault of 
 Fancy, and maintain myself in my moral fortress against the 
 attacks which are raised on the side of corrupt interest and a 
 wrong self. When the idea of pleasure strikes I ask myself, 
 " Before I was thus struck by the idea, was anything amiss with 
 me? No. Therefore remove the idea and I am well. But 
 having this idea such as I now have, I cannot want the thing 
 without regret. See therefore which is best : either to suffer 
 under this want till the idea be removed ; or by satisfying the 
 want, confirm not only this idea but all of the same stamp ! "" 
 
 In reality has not every fancy a like privilege of passing, if 
 1 Inquiry, bk. ii. part ii. 1, 2. 
 
 201
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 any single one be admitted upon its own authority ? And what 
 must be the issue of such an economy if the whole fantastic 
 crew be introduced, and the door refused to none ? What else 
 is it than this management which leads to the most dissolute 
 and profligate of characters? What is it, on the contrary, 
 which raises us to any degree of worth or steadiness, besides a 
 direct contrary practice and conduct ? Can there be strength 
 of mind, can there be command over oneself, if the ideas of 
 pleasure, the suggestions of fancy, and the strong pleadings of 
 appetite and desire are not often withstood, and the imagina- 
 tions soundly reprimanded and brought under subjection ? 
 
 Thus it appears that the method of examining our ideas is 
 no pedantic practice. Nor is there anything ungallant in the 
 manner of thus questioning the lady fancies, which present 
 themselves as charmingly dressed as possible to solicit their 
 cause and obtain a j udgment by favour of that worse part and 
 corrupt self to whom they make their application. 
 
 It may be justly said of these, that they are very powerful 
 solicitresses. They never seem to importune us, though they 
 are ever in our eye, and meet us whichever way we turn. They 
 understand better how to manage their appearance than by 
 always throwing up their veil and showing their faces openly in 
 a broad light, to run the danger of cloying our sight, or exposing 
 their features to a strict examination. So far are they from such 
 forwardness, that they often stand as at a distance, suffering us 
 to make the first advance, and contenting themselves with 
 discovering a side-face, or bestowing now and then a glance in 
 a mysterious manner, as if they endeavoured to conceal their 
 persons. 
 
 One of the most dangerous of these enchantresses appears in 
 a sort of dismal weed, with the most mournful countenance 
 imaginable ; often casting up her eyes, and wringing her hands, 
 so that ^is impossible not to be moved by her, till her meaning 
 be considered and her imposture fully known. The airs she 
 borrows are from the tragic muse Melpomene. Nor is she in 
 
 202
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 her own person any way amiable or attractive. Far from it. 
 Her art is to render herself as forbidding as possible, that her 
 sisters may by her means be the more alluring. And if by her 
 tragic aspect and melancholy looks she can persuade us that 
 Death (whom she represents) is such a hideous form, she con- 
 quers in behalf of the whole fantastic tribe of wanton, gay, and 
 fond desires. Effeminacy and cowardice instantly prevail. The 
 poorest means of life grow in repute when the ends and just 
 conditions of it are so little known, and the dread of parting 
 with it raised to so high a degree. The more eagerly we grasp 
 at Life, the more impotent we are in the enjoyment of it. By 
 this avidity its very lees and dregs are swallowed. The ideas of 
 sordid pleasure are advanced. Worth, manhood, generosity, 
 and all the nobler opinions and sentiments of honest, good, and 
 virtuous pleasure disappear and fly before this Queen of Terrors. 
 'Tis a mighty delight which a sort of counter-philosophers 
 take in seconding this phantom, and playing her upon our 
 understandings whenever they would take occasion to confound 
 them. The vicious poets employ this spectre too on their side, 
 though after a different manner. By the help of this tragic 
 actress they gain a fairer audience for the luxurious fancies, 
 and give their Eratos and other playsome Muses a fuller scope 
 in the support of riot and debauch. The gloomy prospect of 
 death becomes the incentive to pleasures of the lowest order. 
 Ashes and shade, the tomb and cypress, are made to serve as 
 foils to luxury. The abhorrence of an insensible state makes 
 mere vitality and animal sensation highly cherished. 
 
 Indulge genio ; carpamus dulcia ; nostrum est 
 Quod vivis ; cinis, et manes, et fabula fies. 1 
 
 "Tis no wonder if Luxury profits by the deformity of this spectre- 
 opinion. She supports her interest by this childish bug-bear ; 
 and, like a mother by her infant, is hugged so much the closer 
 
 1 [" Give your genius play ; let us take our pleasures ; your life (alone) 
 is ours ; you will (soon) be but dust, a ghost, a name." Pers. v. 151, 152.] 
 
 203
 
 by her votary as the fear presses him and grows importunate. 
 She invites him to live fast, according to her best measure of 
 life. And well she may. Who would not willingly make life 
 pass away as quickly as was possible, when the nobler pleasures 
 of it were already lost or corrupted by a wretched fear of death? 
 The intense selfishness and meanness which accompanies this 
 fear, must reduce us to a low ebb of enjoyment, and in a 
 manner bring to nothing that main sum of satisfactory sensa- 
 tion by which we vulgarly rate the happiness of our private 
 condition and fortune. 
 
 But see ! A lovely form advances to our assistance, intro- 
 duced by the prime Muse, the beauteous Calliope ! She shows 
 us what real beauty is, and what those numbers are which make 
 life perfect and bestow the chief enjoyment. She sets virtue 
 before our eyes, and teaches us how to rate life from the experi- 
 ence of the most heroic spirits. She brings her sisters Clio and 
 Urania to support her. From the former she borrows whatever 
 is memorable in history and ancient time to confront the tragic 
 spectre, and show the fixed contempt which the happiest and 
 freest nations, as well as single heroes and private men worthy 
 of any note, have ever expressed for that impostress. From the 
 latter she borrows what is sublimest in philosophy to explain 
 the laws of nature, the order of the universe, and represent to 
 us the justice of accompanying this amiable administration. 
 She shows us that by this just compliance we are made happiest; 
 and that the measure of a happy life is not from the fewer or 
 more suns we behold, the fewer or more breaths we draw, or 
 meals we repeat, but from the having once lived well, acted our 
 part handsomely, and made our exit cheerfully, and as became 
 us. 
 
 Thus we retain on virtue's side the noblest party of the 
 Muses. Whatever is august among those sisters, appears readily 
 in our behalf. Nor are the more jocund ladies wanting in their 
 assistance when they act in the perfection of their art, and 
 inspire some better geniuses in this kind of poetry. Such were 
 
 204
 
 the nobler lyrics, and those of the latter and more refined 
 comedy of the ancients. The Thalias, the Polyhymnias, the 
 Terpsy chores, the Euterpes willingly join their parts, and 
 being alike interested in the cause of numbers, are with regret 
 employed another way, in favour of disorder. Instead of being 
 made sirens to serve the purposes of vice, they would with more 
 delight accompany their elder sisters, and add their graces and 
 attractive charms to what is most harmonious, muse-like, and 
 divine in human life. There is this difference only between 
 these and the more heroic dames : that they can more easily be 
 perverted and take the vicious form. For what person of any 
 genius or masterly command in the poetic art could think of 
 bringing the epic or tragic muse to act the pander, or be sub- 
 servient to effeminacy and cowardice ? Tis not against death, 
 hazards, or toils, that tragedy and the heroic fable are pointed. 
 Tis not mere life which is here exalted, or has its price enhanced. 
 On the contrary, its calamities are exposed ; the disorders of the 
 passions set to view; fortitude recommended; honour advanced; 
 the contempt of death placed as the peculiar note of every 
 generous and happy soul ; and the tenacious love of life as the 
 truest character of an abject wretch. 
 
 Usque adeone mori miserum est ? l 
 
 Tis not to be imagined how easily we deal with the deluding 
 apparitions and false ideas of happiness and good, when this 
 frightful spectre of misery and ill is after this manner well laid, 
 and by honest magic conjured down, so as not to give the least 
 assistance to the other tempting forms. This is that occult 
 science, or sort of counter-necromancy, which instead of ghastli- 
 ness and horror, inspires only what is gentle and humane, and 
 dispels the imposing phantoms of every kind. He may pass 
 undoubtedly for no mean conjurer who can deal with spirits of 
 this sort. . . . But hold ! . . . Let us try the experiment in 
 
 1 [" Is it so hard to die?" Virg. Aeneid, xii. 646.] 
 
 205
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 due form, and draw the magic circle. Let us observe how the 
 inferior imps appear when the head goblin is securely laid. . . . 
 
 See ! The enchantress Indolence presents herself in all the 
 pomp of ease and lazy luxury. She promises the sweetest life, 
 and invites us to her pillow ; enjoins us to expose ourselves to 
 no adventurous attempt, and forbids us any engagement which 
 may bring us into action. " Where, then, are the pleasures 
 which Ambition promises and Love affords ? How is the gay 
 world enjoyed ? Or are those to be esteemed no pleasures which 
 are lost by dulness and inaction ? But indolence is the highest 
 pleasure. To live, and not to feel ! To feel no trouble. What 
 good then ? Life itself. And is this properly to live ? Is 
 sleeping, life ? Is this what I should study to prolong ? . . ." 
 Here the fantastic tribe itself seems scandalised. A civil war 
 begins. The major part of the capricious dames range them- 
 selves on Reason's side, and declare against the languid siren. 
 Ambition blushes at the offered sweet. Conceit and Vanity take 
 superior airs. Even Luxury herself, in her polite and elegant 
 humour, reproves the apostate sister, and marks her as an alien 
 to true pleasure. ..." Away, thou drowsy phantom ! Haunt 
 me no more. For I have learned from better than thy sister- 
 hood that life and happiness consist in action and employment." 
 
 But here a busy form solicits us : active, industrious, watch- 
 ful, and despising pains and labour. She wears the serious 
 countenance of virtue, but with features of anxiety and disquiet. 
 What is it she mutters ? What looks she on with such admira- 
 tion and astonishment ? Bags ! coffers ! heaps of shining metal ! 
 " What ! for the service of Luxury ? for her these preparations ? 
 Art thou then her friend, grave fancy ! is it for her thou toilest ? 
 No, but for provision against want. But, luxury apart, tell me 
 now, hast thou not already a competence ? 'Tis good to be 
 secure against the fear of starving. Is there then no death 
 beside this ? No other passage out of life ? Are other doors 
 secured if this be barred ? Say, Avarice, thou emptiest of 
 phantoms, is it not vile cowardice thou servest ? What further 
 
 206
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 have I then to do with thee, thou doubly vile dependent, when 
 once I have dismissed thy patroness and despised her threats ? " 
 
 Thus I contend with fancy and opinion, 1 and search the 
 mint and foundery of imagination. For here the appetites and 
 desires are fabricated ; hence they derive their privilege and 
 currency. If I can stop the mischief here and prevent false 
 coinage, I am safe. " Idea ! wait awhile till I have examined 
 thee, whence thou art and to whom thou retainest. Art thou 
 of Ambition's train ? or dost thou promise only pleasure ? 
 Say, what am I to sacrifice for thy sake ? What honour ? 
 What truth ? What manhood ? What bribe is it thou bringest 
 along with thee ? Describe the flattering object, but without 
 flattery ; plain as the thing is, without addition, without sparing 
 or reserve. Is it wealth ? is it a report ? a title ? or a female ? 
 Come not in a troop, ye fancies ! bring not your objects crowd- 
 ing to confound the sight, but let me examine your worth and 
 weight distinctly. Think not to raise accumulative happiness. 
 For if separately you contribute nothing, in conjunction you 
 can only amuse." 
 
 Whilst I am thus penning a soliloquy in form, I cannot 
 forbear reflecting on my work. And when I view the manner 
 of it with a familiar eye, I am readier, I find, to make myself 
 diversion on this occasion than to suppose I am in good earnest 
 about a work of consequence. " What ! am I to be thus 
 fantastical ? Must I busy myself with phantoms ? fight with 
 apparitions and chimeras ? For certain, or the chimeras will 
 be beforehand with me, and busy themselves so as to get the 
 better of my understanding. What ! talk to myself like some 
 madman, in different persons, and under different characters ! 
 Undoubtedly, or 'twill be soon seen who is a real madman, and 
 changes character in earnest without knowing how to help it."" 
 
 This indeed is but too certain : that as long as we enjoy 
 a mind, as long as we have appetites and sense, the fancies of 
 all kinds will be hard at work ; and whether we are in company 
 1 Misc. iv. ch. i. middle part. 
 
 207
 
 or alone they must range still and be active. They must have 
 their field. The question is, whether they shall have it wholly 
 to themselves, or whether they shall acknowledge some con- 
 troller or manager. If none, 'tis this, I fear, which leads to 
 madness. 'Tis this, and nothing else, which can be called 
 madness or loss of reason. For if Fancy be left judge of 
 anything, she must be judge of all. Everything is right, if 
 anything be so, because I fancy it. " The house turns round. 
 The prospect turns. No, but my head turns indeed : I have a 
 giddiness ; that is all. Fancy would persuade me thus and 
 thus, but I know better." 'Tis by means therefore of a con- 
 troller and correcter of fancy that I am saved from being mad. 
 Otherwise, 'tis the house turns when I am giddy. Tis things 
 which change (for so I must suppose) when my passion merely 
 or temper changes. " But I was out of order. I dreamt. 
 Who tells me this ? Who besides the correctrice by whose 
 means I am in my wits, and without whom I am no longer 
 myself."" 
 
 Every man indeed who is not absolutely beside himself, 
 must of necessity hold his fancies under some kind of discipline 
 and management. The stricter this discipline is, the more the 
 man is rational and in his wits. The looser it is, the more 
 fantastical he must be, and the nearer to the madman's state. 
 This is a business which can never stand still. I must always 
 be winner or loser at the game. Either I work upon my fancies, 
 or they on me. If I give quarter, they will not. There can be 
 no truce, no suspension of arms between us. The one or the 
 other must be superior and have the command. For if the 
 fancies are left to themselves, the government must of course be 
 theirs. And then, what difference between such a state and 
 madness ? 
 
 The question therefore is the same here as in a family or 
 household when 'tis asked, " Who rules ? or who is master ? " 
 
 Learn by the voices. Observe who speaks aloud in a 
 commanding tone ; who talks, who questions, or who is talked 
 
 208
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 with, and who questioned. For if the servants take the former 
 part, they are the masters, and the government of the house 
 will be found such as naturally may be expected in these cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 How stands it therefore in my own economy, my principal 
 province and command ? How stand my fancies ? How deal 
 they with me ? Or do I take upon me rather to deal with 
 them ? Do I talk, question, arraign ? Or am I talked with, 
 arraigned, and contented to hear without giving a reply ? If 
 I vote with Fancy, resign my opinion to her command, 1 and 
 judge of happiness and misery as she judges, how am I 
 myself ? 
 
 He who in a plain imagines precipices at his feet, impending 
 rocks over his head ; fears bursting clouds in a clear sky ; cries 
 fire ! deluge ! earthquake, or thunder ! when all is quiet, does 
 he not rave ? But one whose eyes seemingly strike fire by a 
 blow, one whose head is giddy from the motion of a ship after 
 having been newly set ashore, or one who from a distemper in 
 his ear hears thundering noises, can readily redress these several 
 apprehensions, and is by this means saved from madness. 
 
 A distemper in my eye may make me see the strangest 
 kind of figures. And when cataracts and other impurities are 
 gathering in that organ, flies, insects, and other various forms 
 seem playing in the air before me. But let my senses err ever 
 so widely, I am not on this account beside myself; nor am I 
 out of my own possession whilst there is a person left within 
 who has power to dispute the appearances and redress the 
 imagination. 
 
 I am accosted by ideas and striking apprehensions, but I 
 take nothing on their report. I hear their story and return 
 them answer as they deserve. Fancy and I are not all one. 
 The disagreement makes me my own. When, on the contrary, 
 I have no debate with her, no controversy, but take for happi- 
 ness and misery, for good and ill, whatever she presents as such, 
 1 Misc. iv. ch. i. middle part. 
 
 VOL. i 209 P
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 I must then join voices with her and cry precipice ! fire ! 
 Cerberus ! Elysium ! . . . 
 
 Sandy deserts, flowery fields, 
 Seas of milk, and ships of amber ! 
 
 A Grecian prince, who had the same madness as Alexander, 
 and was deeply struck with the fancy of conquering worlds, was 
 ingeniously shown the method of expostulating with his lady 
 governess, when by a discreet friend, and at an easy hour, he 
 was asked little by little concerning his design, and the final 
 purpose and promised good which the flattering dame proposed 
 to him. The story is sufficiently noted. All the artifice 
 employed against the prince was a well-managed interrogatory 
 of what next ? Lady Fancy was not aware of the design upon 
 her ; but let herself be wormed out by degrees. At first she 
 said the prince's design was only upon a tract of land, which 
 stood out like a promontory before him and seemed to eclipse 
 his glory. A fair rich island, which was close by, presented 
 itself next, and as it were naturally invited conquest. The 
 opposite coast came next in view. Then the continent on each 
 side the larger sea. And then (what was easiest of all, and 
 would follow of course) the dominion both of sea and land. 
 "And what next ? " replied the friend. "What shall we do when 
 we are become thus happy and have obtained our highest wish ? 
 Why then we will sit down peaceably, and be good company 
 over a bottle. Alas, sir, what hinders us from doing the same 
 where we now are ? Will our humour or our wine grow better ? 
 Shall we be more secure or at heart's ease ? What you may 
 possibly lose by these attempts is easy to conceive. But which 
 way you will be a gainer, your own fancy, you see, cannot 
 so much as suggest." Fancy in the meanwhile earned her 
 point ; for she was absolute over the monarch, and had been 
 too little talked to by herself to bear being reproved in 
 company. The prince grew sullen, turned the discourse, 
 abhorred the profanation offered to his sovereign -empress, 
 
 210
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 delivered up his thoughts to her again with deep devotion, 
 and fell to conquering with all his might. The sound of victory 
 rung in his ears. Laurels and crowns played before his eyes. . . . 
 What was this beside giddiness and dream ? Appearances 
 unconnected ? " Worlds dancing ? Phantoms playing ? 
 
 Seas of milk, and ships of amber ! " 
 
 Tis easy to bring the hero's case home to ourselves, and see, 
 in the ordinary circumstances of life, how love, ambition, and the 
 gayer tribe of fancies, as well as the gloomy and dark spectres 
 of another sort, prevail over our mind. 'Tis easy to observe 
 how they work on us when we refuse to be beforehand with 
 them, and bestow repeated lessons on the encroaching sorceresses. 
 On this it is that our offered advice and method of soliloquy 
 depends. And whether this be of any use towards making us 
 either wiser or happier, I am confident it must help to make 
 us wittier and politer. It must, beyond any other science, 
 teach us the turns of humour and passion, the variety 
 of manners, the justness of characters, and truth of things, 
 which when we rightly understand we may naturally describe. 
 And on this depends chiefly the skill and art of a good writer. 
 So that if to write well be a just pretence to merit, 'tis plain 
 that writers who are apt to set no small value on their art 
 must confess there is something valuable in this self-examining 
 practice and method of inward colloquy. 
 
 As for the writer of these papers (as modern authors 
 are pleased modestly to style themselves) he is contented, for 
 his part, to take up with this practice, barely for his own 
 proper benefit, without regard to the high function or capacity 
 of author. It may be allowed him in this particular to imitate 
 the best genius and most gentleman-like of Roman poets. 
 And though by an excess of dulness it should be his misfortune 
 to learn nothing of this poet's wit, he is persuaded he may 
 learn something of his honesty and good-humour. 
 
 *
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 Neque enim, cum lectulus, aut me 
 Porticus excepit, desum mihi : " Rectius hoc est : 
 Hoc faciens, vivam melius : sic dulcis amicis 
 Occurram." . . . Haec ego mecum 
 Compressis agito labris. 1 
 
 SECTION III 
 
 WE are now arrived to that part of our performance where it 
 becomes us to cast our eye back on what has already passed. 
 The observers of Method generally make this the place of 
 recapitulation. Other artists have substituted the practice of 
 apology or extenuation. For the anticipating manner of 
 prefatory discourse is too well known to work any surprising 
 effect in the author's behalf, preface being become only another 
 word to signify excuse. Besides that the author is generally 
 the most straitened in that preliminary part which on other 
 accounts is too apt to grow voluminous. He therefore takes 
 the advantage of his corollary or winding-up, and ends pathetic- 
 
 1 And again : 
 
 Quocirca mecum loquor haec, tacitusque recorder : 
 Si tibi uulla sitim fiuiret copia lymphae, 
 Narrares medicis : quod quanto plura parasti, 
 Tanto plura cupis, nulliue faterier audes ? 
 ***** 
 
 Non es avarus : abi. quid ? caetera jam simul isto 
 
 Cum vitio fugere ? caret tibi pectus inani 
 
 Ambitione ? Caret mortis formidine et ira ? 
 
 [(i) " For I do not fail when my study-couch or a colonnade has received 
 me. ' This is more right ; if I do thus, I shall live better ; so my friends 
 will be glad to meet me.' . . . These are my silent reflections with myself." 
 Hor. Sat. i. iv. 133-138.] 
 
 [(ii) "And so I speak as follows to myself and try to remember in 
 silence : ' If no abundance of water ended your thirst, you would tell the 
 doctors ; seeing that the more money you have, the more you want, dare you 
 tell no one ? . . . You are not avaricious. Very good. But have other 
 faults gone too? Is your heart free from unsatisfying ambition? from 
 the fear of death? from anger ? '"Hor. Ep. 11. ii. 145-148, 205-207.] 
 
 212
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 ally by endeavouring in the softest manner to reconcile his 
 reader to those faults which he chooses rather to excuse than 
 to amend. 
 
 General practice has made this a necessary part of elegance, 
 hardly to be passed over by any writer. Tis the chief stratagem 
 by which he engages in personal conference with his reader, 
 and can talk immoderately of himself with all the seeming 
 modesty of one who is the furthest from any selfish views or 
 conceited thoughts of his own merit. There appears such a 
 peculiar grace and ingenuity in the method of confessing 
 laziness, precipitancy, carelessness, or whatever other vices 
 have been the occasion of the author's deficiency, that it would 
 seem a pity had the work itself been brought to such perfection 
 as to have left no room for the penitent party to enlarge on 
 his own demerits. For from the multiplicity of these he finds 
 subject to ingratiate himself with his reader, who doubtless 
 is not a little raised by this submission of a confessing author, 
 and is ready, on these terms, to give him absolution and receive 
 him into his good grace and favour. 
 
 In the galante world, indeed, we easily find how far a 
 humility of this kind prevails. They who hope to rise by 
 merit are likeliest to be disappointed in their pretensions. 
 The confessing lover, who ascribes all to the bounty of the fair 
 one, meets his reward the sooner for having studied less how 
 to deserve it. For merit is generally thought presumptuous, 
 and supposed to carry with it a certain assurance and ease 
 with which a mistress is not so well contented. The claim of 
 well -deserving seems to derogate from the pure grace and 
 favour of the benefactrice, who then appears to herself most 
 sovereign in power, and likeliest to be obeyed without reserve, 
 when she bestows her bounty where there is least title or 
 pretension. 
 
 Thus a certain adoration of the sex which passes in our age 
 without the least charge of profaneness or idolatry, may, 
 according to vulgar imagination, serve to justify these galant 
 
 213
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 votaries in the imitation of the real religious and devout. 
 The method of self-abasement 1 may perhaps be thought the 
 properest to make approaches to the sacred shrines; and the 
 entire resignation of merit, in each case, may be esteemed the 
 only ground of well -deserving. But what we allow to Heaven 
 or to the fair should not, methinks, be made a precedent in 
 favour of the world. Whatever deference is due to that body 
 of men whom we call readers, we may be supposed to treat 
 them with sufficient honour if with thorough diligence and 
 pains we endeavour to render our works perfect, and leave them 
 to judge of the performance as they are able. 
 
 However difficult or desperate it may appear in any artist 
 to endeavour to bring perfection into his work, if he has not 
 at least the idea of perfection to give him aim he will be found 
 very defective and mean in his performance. Though his 
 intention be to please the world, he must nevertheless be, in a 
 manner, above it, and fix his eye upon that consummate grace, 
 that beauty of Nature, and that perfection of numbers which 
 the rest of mankind, feeling only by the effect whilst ignorant 
 of the cause, term the Je ne s^ay quoy, the unintelligible or the 
 I know not what, and suppose to be a kind of charm or enchant- 
 ment of which the artist himself can give no account. 
 
 But here I find I am tempted to do what I have myself 
 condemned. Hardly can I forbear making some apology for my 
 frequent recourse to the rules of common artists, to the masters 
 of exercise, to the academies of painters, statuaries, and to the 
 rest of the virtuoso tribe. But in this I am so fully satisfied I 
 have reason on my side, that let custom be ever so strong against 
 me, I had rather repair to these inferior schools to search for 
 Truth and Nature than to some other places where higher arts 
 and sciences are professed. 
 
 I am persuaded that to be a virtuoso (so far as befits a 
 gentleman) is a higher step towards the becoming a man of 
 virtue and good sense than the being what in this age we call 
 
 1 Supra, p. 28. 
 
 214
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 a scholar. 1 For even rude Nature itself, in its primitive sim- 
 plicity, is a better guide to judgment than improved sophistry 
 and pedantic learning. The " faciunt, nae, intellegendo, ut 
 nihil intellegant " will be ever applied by men of discernment and 
 free thought to such logic, such principles, such forms and rudi- 
 ments of knowledge as are established in certain schools of 
 literature and science. The case is sufficiently understood even 
 by those who are unwilling to confess the truth of it. Effects 
 betray their causes. And the known turn and figure of those 
 understandings, which sprout from nurseries of this kind, give a 
 plain idea of what is judged on this occasion. Tis no wonder 
 if after so wrong a ground of education there appears to be such 
 need of redress and amendment from that excellent school which 
 we call the world. The mere amusements of gentlemen are 
 found more improving than the profound researches of pedants ; 
 
 1 It seems indeed somewhat improbable that according to modern erudi- ' 
 tion, and as science is now distributed, our ingenious and noble youths 
 should obtain the full advantage of a just and liberal education by uniting the 
 scholar-part with that of the real gentleman and man of breeding. Acad- 
 emies for exercises, so useful to the public, and essential in the formation 
 of a genteel and liberal character, are unfortunately neglected. Letters 
 are indeed banished, I know not where, in distant cloisters and unpractised 
 cells, as our poet has it, confined to the commerce and mean fellowship of 
 bearded boys. The sprightly arts and sciences are severed from philosophy, 
 which consequently must grow dronish, insipid, pedantic, useless, and 
 directly opposite to the real knowledge and practice of the world and 
 mankind. Our youth accordingly seem to have their only chance between 
 two widely different roads : either that of pedantry and school-learning, 
 which lies amidst the dregs and most corrupt part of ancient literature, 
 or that of the fashionable illiterate world, which aims merely at the 
 character of the fine gentleman, and takes up with the foppery of modern 
 languages and foreign wit. The frightful aspect of the former of these 
 roads makes the journey appear desperate and impracticable. Hence that 
 aversion so generally conceived against a learned character, wrong turned, 
 and hideously set out under such difficulties, and in such seeming labyrinths 
 and mysterious forms. As if a Homer or a Xeuophon imperfectly learnt, 
 in raw years, might not afterwards, in a riper age, be studied as well in a 
 capital city and amidst the world as at a college or country-town ! Or as 
 
 215
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 and in the management of our youth we are forced to have 
 recourse to the former, as an antidote against the genius peculiar 
 to the latter. If the formalists of this sort were erected into 
 patentees with a sole commission of authorship, we should un- 
 doubtedly see such writing in our days as would either wholly 
 wean us from all books in general, or at least from all such as 
 were the product of our own nation under such a subordinate 
 and conforming government. 
 
 However this may prove, there can be no kind of writing 
 which relates to men and manners where it is not necessary for 
 the author to understand poetical and moral truth, 1 the beauty 
 of sentiments, the sublime of characters, and carry in his eye the 
 model or exemplar of that natural grace which gives to every 
 action its attractive charm. If he has naturally no eye or ear 
 for these interior numbers, 'tis not likely he should be able to 
 judge better of that exterior proportion and symmetry of com- 
 position which constitutes a legitimate piece. 
 
 Could we once convince ourselves of what is in itself so 
 evident, 2 "That in the very nature of things there must of 
 necessity be the foundation of a right and wrong taste, as well 
 in respect of inward characters and features as of outward 
 
 it a Plutarch, a Tully, or a Horace, could not accompany a young man in 
 his travels, at a court, or (if occasion were) even in a camp ! The case is 
 not without precedent. Leisure is found sufficient for other reading of 
 numerous modern translations and worse originals, of Italian or French 
 authors, who are read merely for amusement. The French indeed may 
 boast of some legitimate authors of a just relish, correct, arid without any 
 mixture of the affected or spurious kinds : the false tender, or the false 
 sublime ; the conceited jingle or the ridiculous point. They are such 
 geniuses as have been formed upon the natural model of the ancients, and 
 willingly own their debt to those great masters. But for the rest, who 
 draw from another fountain, as the Italian authors in particular, they may 
 be reckoned no better than the corrupters of true learning and erudition, 
 an1 can indeed be relished by those alone whose education has unfortu- 
 nately denied them the familiarity of the noble ancients, and the practice 
 of a better and more natural taste. See above, p. 186, etc. , and Moralists, 
 part i. 1. l Supra, p. 136. 2 Misc. iii. ch. ii. 
 
 216
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 person, behaviour, and action," we should be far more ashamed 
 of ignorance and wrong judgment in the former than in the 
 latter of these subjects. Even in the Arts, which are mere 
 imitations of that outward grace and beauty, we not only confess 
 a taste, but make it a part of refined breeding to discover amidst 
 the many false manners and ill styles the true and natural one, 
 which represents the real beauty and Venus of the kind. 1 Tis 
 the like moral grace and Venus which, discovering itself in the 
 turns of character and the variety of human affection, is copied 
 by the writing artist. If he knows not this Venus, these graces, 
 nor was ever struck with the beauty, the decorum of this inward 
 kind, he can neither paint advantageously after the life nor in 
 a feigned subject where he has full scope. For never can he, 
 on these terms, represent merit and virtue, or mark deformity 
 and blemish. 2 Never can he with justice and true proportion 
 assign the boundaries of either part, or separate the distant 
 characters. The schemes must be defective and the draughts 
 confused where the standard is weakly established and the 
 measure out of use. Such a designer, who has so little feeling 
 of these proportions, so little consciousness of this excellence or 
 these perfections, will never be found able to describe a perfect 
 character ; or, what is more according to art, 3 " express the 
 effect and force of this perfection from the result of various and 
 mixed characters of life." 
 
 And thus the sense of inward numbers, the knowledge and 
 practice of the social virtues, and the familiarity and favour of 
 the moral graces, are essential to the character of a deserving 
 artist and just favourite of the Muses. Thus are the Arts and 
 Virtues mutually friends ; and thus the science of virtuosi and 
 that of virtue itself become, in a manner, one and the same. 
 
 One who aspires to the character of a man of breeding and 
 politeness is careful to form his judgment of arts and sciences 
 upon right models of perfection. If he travels to Rome, he 
 
 1 Supra, p. 92, etc. ; and Misc. iii. ch. ii. in the notes. 
 2 Supra, p. 136. 3 See Misc. v. ch. i. in the notes. 
 
 217
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 inquires which are the truest pieces of architecture, the best 
 remains of statues, the best paintings of a Raphael or a Caraccio. 
 However antiquated, rough, or dismal they may appear to him 
 at first sight, he resolves to view them over and over, till he has 
 brought himself to relish them, and finds their hidden graces and 
 perfections. He takes particular care to turn his eye from 
 everything which is gaudy, luscious, and of a false taste. Nor is 
 he less careful to turn his ear from every sort of music besides 
 that which is of the best manner and truest harmony. 
 
 Twere to be wished we had the same regard to a right taste 
 in life and manners. What mortal being, once convinced of a 
 difference in inward character, and of a preference due to one 
 kind above another, would not be concerned to make his own 
 the best ? If civility and humanity be a taste ; if brutality, 
 insolence, riot, be in the same manner a taste, who, if he could 
 reflect, would not choose to form himself on the amiable and 
 agreeable rather than the odious and perverse model ? Who 
 would not endeavour to force Nature as well in this respect as 
 in what relates to a taste or judgment in other arts and sciences ? 
 For in each place the force on Nature is used only for its redress. 
 If a natural good taste be not already formed in us, why should 
 not we endeavour to form it, and cultivate it till it become 
 natural ? . . . 
 
 " I like ! I fancy ! I admire ! How ? By accident, or as I 
 please? No. But I learn to fancy, to admire, to please, as 
 the subjects themselves are deserving, and can bear me out. 
 Otherwise, I like at this hour but dislike the next. I shall be 
 weary of my pursuit, and, upon experience, find little pleasure 
 in the main, 1 if my choice and judgment in it be from no other 
 rule than that single one, because I please. Grotesque and 
 monstrous figures often please. Cruel spectacles and barbarities 
 are also found to please, and, in some tempers, to please beyond 
 all other subjects. But is this pleasure right ? And shall I 
 follow it if it presents ? not strive with it, or endeavour to 
 1 Supra, p. 200, and Moralists, part ii. 1. 
 
 218
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 prevent its growth or prevalency in my temper? . . . How 
 stands the case in a more soft and flattering kind of pleasure ? 
 . . . Effeminacy pleases me. The Indian figures, the Japan 
 work, the enamel strikes my eye. The luscious colours and 
 glossy paint gain upon my fancy. A French or Flemish style 
 is highly liked by me at first sight, and I pursue my liking. 
 But what ensues ? . . . Do I not for ever forfeit my good relish ? 
 How is it possible I should thus come to taste the beauties of 
 an Italian master, or of a hand happily formed on nature and 
 the ancients ? 'Tis not by wantonness and humour that I shall 
 attain my end and arrive at the enjoyment I propose. The art 
 itself is severe, 1 the rules rigid. And if I expect the knowledge 
 should come to me by accident, or in play, I shall be grossly 
 
 1 Thus Pliny speaking with a masterly judgment of the dignity of the 
 then declining art of painting ("de dignitate artis morientis") shows it to 
 be not only severe in respect of the discipline, style, design, but of the 
 characters and lives of the noble masters ; not only in the effect, but even in 
 the very materials of the art, the colours, ornaments, and particular circum- 
 stances belonging to the profession. Euphranoris discipulus Antidotus . . . 
 diligentior quam numerosior, et in coloribus severus. . . . Niciae comparatur, 
 et aliquanto praefertur Athenion Maronites, Glaucionis Corinthii discipulus, 
 et austerior colore, et in austeritate jucundior, ut in ipsa pictura eruditio 
 eluceat. . . . Quod nisi in juventa obiisset, nemo ei compararetur. . . . Pausiae 
 films et discipulus Aristolaus e severissimis pictoribus fuit. . . . Fuit et 
 nuper gravis ac severus pictor Amulius. . . . Paucis diei horis pingebat, 
 id quodque cum gravitate, quod semper togatus, quamquam in machinis. 
 [ f ' Antidotus, a pupil of Euphranor, was more painstaking than prolific, and 
 was austere in his colouring. . . . Athenion of Maronea is compared with 
 Nicias, but greatly preferred to him. He was a pupil of Glaucion the 
 Corinthian, rather gloomy in colouring, yet pleasant in his gloom, so that 
 his cultivation comes out in his very painting. . . . Had he not died 
 young, no one could be compared with him. . . . Aristolaus, son and 
 pupil of Pausias, was one of the most austere of painters. . . . Lately too 
 we had Amulius, a severe and serious painter. . . . He used only to paint 
 a few hours a day, but that very seriously, for he always wore full dress, 
 even on his scaffolding." Pliny j H. N. xxxv. (cc. 37, 40) 119-1.37.] One of 
 the mortal symptoms upon which Pliny pronounces the sure death of this 
 noble art, not long survivor to him, was what belonged in common to all 
 the other perishing arts after the Fall of Liberty : I mean the luxury of 
 
 219
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 deluded, and prove myself, at best, a mock-virtuoso or mere 
 pedant of the kind." 
 
 Here therefore we have once again exhibited our moral 
 science in the same method and manner of soliloquy as above. 
 To this correction of humour and formation of a taste our 
 reading, if it be of the right sort, must principally contribute. 
 Whatever company we keep, or however polite and agreeable 
 their characters may be with whom we converse or correspond, 
 if the authors we read are of another kind, we shall find our 
 palate strangely turned their way. We are the unhappier in 
 this respect for being scholars if our studies be ill chosen. Nor 
 
 the Roman Court, and the change of taste and manners naturally conse- 
 quent to such a change of government and dominion. This excellent, 
 learned, and polite critic represents to us the false taste springing from 
 the Court itself, and from that opulence, splendour, and affectation of 
 magnificence and expense proper to the place. Thus in the statuary and 
 architecture then in vogue nothing could be admired beside what was 
 costly in the mere matter or substance of the work. Precious rock, rich 
 metal, glittering stones, and other luscious ware, poisonous to art, came 
 every day more into request, and were imposed as necessary materials on 
 the best masters. 'Twas in favour of these Court beauties and gaudy ap- 
 pearances that all good drawing, just design, and truth of work began to 
 be despised. Care was taken to procure from distant parts the most 
 gorgeous splendid colours, of the most costly growth or composition ; not 
 such as had been used by Apelles and the great masters, who are justly 
 severe, loyal and faithful to their art. This newer colouring our critic 
 calls the florid kind. The materials were too rich to be furnished by the 
 painter, but were bespoke or furnished at the cost of the person who em- 
 ployed him ("quos dominus pingemi praestat"). The other he calls the 
 austere kind. And thus, says he, "Rerum, non animi pretiis excubatur: 
 The cost, and not the life and art is studied." He shows, on the contrary, 
 what care Apelles took to subdue the florid colours by a darkening 
 varnish : " Et eadem res," says he, " nimis floridis coloribus austeritatem 
 occulte daret." And he says just before, of some of the finest pieces of 
 Apelles, "that they were wrought in four colours only." So great and 
 venerable was simplicity held among the ancients, and so certain was the 
 ruin of all true elegance in life or art where this mistress was once quitted 
 or contemned ! See Pliny, xxxv. See also above, p. 95, in the notes ; 
 and p. 145. 
 
 220
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 can I, for this reason, think it proper to call a man well-read 
 who reads many authors, since he must of necessity have more 
 ill models than good, and be more stuffed with bombast, ill 
 fancy, and wry thought than filled with solid sense and just 
 imagination. 
 
 But notwithstanding this hazard of our taste from a multi- 
 plicity of reading, we are not, it seems, the least scrupulous in 
 our choice of subject. We read whatever comes next us. What 
 was first put into our hand when we were young, serves us 
 afterwards for serious study and wise research when we are 
 old. We are many of us, indeed, so grave as to continue this 
 exercise of youth through our remaining life. The exercis- 
 ing authors of this kind have been above described 1 in the 
 beginning of this treatise. The manner of exercise is called 
 meditation, and is of a sort so solemn and profound, that we 
 dare not so much as thoroughly examine the subject on which 
 we are bid to meditate. This is a sort of task-reading, in which 
 a taste is not permitted. How little soever we take of this 
 diet, "'tis sufficient to give full exercise to our grave humour, 
 and allay the appetite towards further research and solid con- 
 templation. The rest is holiday, diversion, play, and fancy. 
 We reject all rule, as thinking it an injury to our diversions 
 to have regard to truth or nature, without which, however, 
 nothing can be truly agreeable or entertaining, much less 
 instructive or improving. Through a certain surfeit 2 taken in 
 a wrong kind of serious reading, we apply ourselves, with full 
 content, to the most ridiculous. The more remote our pattern 
 is from anything moral or profitable, the more freedom and 
 satisfaction we find in it. We care not how Gothic or barbarous 
 our models are, what ill-designed or monstrous figures we view, 
 or what false proportions we trace or see described in history, 
 romance, or fiction. And thus our eye and ear is lost. Our 
 relish or taste must of necessity grow barbarous, whilst bar- 
 barian customs, savage manners, Indian wars, and wonders of 
 1 Pp. 109, 110, etc. 2 Supra, pp. 50, 51 
 
 221
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 the terra incognita, employ our leisure hours and are the chief 
 materials to furnish out a library. 
 
 These are in our present days what books of chivalry were 
 in those of our forefathers. I know not what faith our valiant 
 ancestors may have had in the stories of their giants, their 
 dragons, and St. Georges. But for our faith indeed, as well as 
 our taste in this other way of reading, I must confess I cannot 
 consider it without astonishment. 
 
 It must certainly be something else than incredulity which 
 fashions the taste and judgment of many gentlemen whom we 
 hear censured as atheists, for attempting to philosophise after 
 a newer manner than any known of late. For my own part, 
 I have ever thought this sort of men to be in general more 
 credulous, though after another manner, than the mere vulgar. 
 Besides what I have observed in conversation with the men of 
 this character, I can produce many anathematised authors who, 
 if they want a true Israelitish faith, can make amends by a 
 Chinese or Indian one. If they are short in Syria or the 
 Palestine, they have their full measure in America or Japan. 
 Histories of Incas or Iroquois, written by friars and mission- 
 aries, pirates and renegades, sea-captains and trusty travellers, 
 pass for authentic records and are canonical with the virtuosi 
 
 / of this sort. Though Christian miracles may not so well 
 satisfy them, they dwell with the highest contentment on 
 
 , the prodigies of Moorish and Pagan countries. They have far 
 more pleasure in hearing the monstrous accounts of monstrous 
 men and manners than the politest and best narrations of the 
 affairs, the governments, and lives of the wisest and most 
 polished people. 
 
 Tis the same taste which makes us prefer a Turkish history 
 to a Grecian or a Roman, an Ariosto to a Virgil, and a romance 
 or novel to an Iliad. We have no regard to the character or 
 genius of our author, nor are so far curious as to observe how 
 able he is in the judgment of facts, or how ingenious in the 
 texture of his lies. For facts unably related, though with the 
 
 222
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 greatest sincerity and good faith, may prove the worst sort of 
 deceit ; l and mere lies, judiciously composed, can teach us the 
 truth of things beyond any other manner. 2 But to amuse our- 
 selves with such authors as neither know how to lie nor tell 
 truth, discovers a taste which, methinks, one should not be apt 
 to envy. Yet so enchanted we are with the travelling memoirs 
 of any casual adventurer, that be his character or genius what 
 it will, we have no sooner turned over a page or two, than we 
 begin to interest ourselves highly in his affairs. No sooner has 
 he taken shipping at the mouth of the Thames, or sent his 
 baggage before him to Gravesend or Buoy in the Nore, than 
 straight our attention is earnestly taken up. If in order to his 
 more distant travels, he takes some part of Europe in his way, 
 we can with patience hear of inns and ordinaries, passage-boats 
 and ferries, foul and fair weather, with all the particulars of the 
 author's diet, habit of body, his personal dangers and mischances 
 on land and sea. And thus, full of desire and hope, we ac- 
 company him till he enters on his great scene of action, and 
 begins by the description of some enormous fish or beast. From 
 monstrous brutes he proceeds to yet more monstrous men. For 
 in this race of authors he is ever completest and of the first 
 rank who is able to speak of things the most unnatural and 
 monstrous. 3 
 
 This humour our old tragic poet 4 seems to have discovered. 
 
 1 [This criticism, which is followed up later, is held to have been aimed 
 at Locke, whose acceptance of travellers' tales as to the religion of savages 
 (Essay, bk. i. ch. iii. 9 ; ch. iv. 8) Shaftesbury derides in one of his Letters 
 to a Student, June 3, 1709.] 
 
 2 The greatest of critics says of the greatest poet, when he extols him 
 the highest, " that above all others he understood how to lie : StdiSaxe 8t 
 /j.d\i<rTa."OfMT>ipos, Kal TOI)S aXXovj \[/evdrj \fyeiv us Set." Arist. De Poet. xxiv. 
 See Misc. v. ch. i. in the notes. 
 
 3 [As this essay antedates by eight years the writing of Robinson Crusoe, 
 it is not unlikely to have influenced Defoe towards the artistic restraint 
 which marks his story in comparison with the class of narratives here 
 described, which would seem to have suggested it.] * Shakspere. 
 
 223
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 He hit our taste in giving us a Moorish hero, full-fraught with 
 prodigy, a wondrous story-teller ! But for the attentive part, 
 the poet chose to give it to womankind. What passionate 
 reader of travels, or student in the prodigious sciences, can 
 refuse to pity that fair lady, who fell in love with the miraculous 
 Moor? especially considering with what suitable grace such a 
 lover could relate the most monstrous adventures, and satisfy 
 the wondering appetite with the most wondrous tales : Wherein, 
 says the hero-traveller, 
 
 Of antres vast and deserts idle, 
 
 It was my hint to speak . . . ; 
 
 And of the Cannibals that each other eat, 
 
 The Anthropophagi and men whose heads 
 
 Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear 
 
 Would Desdemona seriously incline. 
 
 Seriously, 'twas a woeful tale ! unfit, one would think, to 
 win a tender fair one. It is true, the poet sufficiently condemns 
 her fancy, and makes her (poor lady !) pay dearly for it in the 
 end. But why, amongst his Greek names, he should have chosen 
 one which denoted the lady superstitious, I cannot imagine : 
 unless, as poets are sometimes prophets too, he should figuratively, 
 under this dark type, have represented to us that about a 
 hundred years after his time, the fair sex of this island should, 
 by other monstrous tales, be so seduced as to turn their favour 
 chiefly on the persons of the tale-tellers, and change their 
 natural inclination for fair, candid, and courteous knights, into 
 a passion for a mysterious race of black enchanters, such as of 
 old were said to creep into houses, and lead captive silly women. 
 
 'Tis certain there is a very great affinity between the passion 
 of superstition and that of tales. The love of strange nar- 
 rations, and the ardent appetite towards unnatural objects, has 
 a near alliance with the like appetite towards the supernatural 
 kind, such as are called prodigious and of dire omen. For so 
 
 224
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 the mind forebodes on every such unusual sight or hearing. 
 Fate, destiny, or the anger of Heaven seems denoted, and as it 
 were delineated, by the monstrous birth, the horrid fact, or dire 
 event. For this reason the very persons of such relators or 
 tale-tellers, with a small help of dismal habit, suitable counte- 
 nance and tone, become sacred and tremendous in the eyes of 
 mortals who are thus addicted from their youth. The tender 
 virgins, losing their natural softness, assume this tragic passion, 
 of which they are highly susceptible, especially when a suitable 
 kind of eloquence and action attends the character of the 
 narrator. A thousand Desdemonas are then ready to present 
 themselves, and would frankly resign fathers, relations, country- 
 men, and country itself, to follow the fortunes of a hero of the 
 black tribe. 
 
 But whatever monstrous zeal or superstitious passion the 
 poet might foretell, either in the gentlemen, ladies, or common 
 people of an after age, 'tis certain that as to books the same 
 Moorish fancy, in its plain and literal sense, prevails strongly 
 at this present time. Monsters and monster-lands were never 
 more in request ; and we may often see a philosopher, or a wit, 
 run a tale-gathering in those idle deserts as familiarly as the 
 silliest woman or merest boy. 
 
 One would imagine that our philosophical writers, 1 who 
 
 1 Considering what has been so often said on this subject of philosophy, 
 learning, and the sister arts, after that ancient model which has since been 
 so much corrupted, it may not be amiss perhaps to hear the confession of 
 one of the greatest and most learned of moderns upon this head : " Scilicet 
 asseusuri isti sunt veteribus sapientibus, poeticam Trjs (re/wordr^ 0i\cxro<^as 
 elvai avwa-ov, severissimae philosophiae contubernalem esse ; quos videmus 
 omni cura morum posthabita, quae vera philosophia est, in nescio quibus 
 argumentatiunculis, in nugis sophisticis, in puerilibus argutiolis, Xw/Jots 
 denique p^a-rfcus TT?S SiaXeKTiKfy, quod sua jam aetate Euphrades, Themistius 
 conquerebatur, summam sapientiam ponere ! Scilicet facundiae Persii 
 virile robur, aut recondita ilia eruditio eos capiet, quibus pristiriam bar- 
 bariem mordicus retinere, et in antiquitatis totius ignoratione versari, 
 potius videtur esse ac melius, quam possessionem literarum, olim simili 
 socordia extiuctarum, memoria vero patrum maguo Dei immortalis beuencio 
 
 VOL. I 225 Q
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 pretend to treat of morals, should far out-do mere poets in 
 recommending virtue, and representing what was fair and 
 amiable in human actions. One would imagine that if they 
 turned their eye towards remote countries (of which they affect 
 so much to speak) they should search for that simplicity of 
 manners and innocence of behaviour which has been often 
 known among mere savages, ere they were corrupted by our 
 
 in lucem revocatarum ex alta hominum oblivione, sibi viudicare, et pro sua 
 quemque virili posteris asserere ! . . . Scribit vero Arrianus, sapientissimum 
 senem ilium Epictetum, impietatis in Deum eos insimulasse, qui in philo- 
 sophiae studiis rty airayye\TiKrii> SiW/up, sive sermonis curam tanquam rem 
 levem aspernarentur : quoniam quidem, aiebat vir divinus, do-e/joDs ivriv 
 dvOpuirov rds wapa TOV 6fov xdpiras drt/tdfetv. En Germanum philosophum ! 
 En vocem auream ! Nee minus memorabile Synesii philosophi praestan- 
 tissimi vaticinium tristi eventu confirmatum, quod multo ante ab ipso est 
 editum, cum rationem studiorum similiter perverti ab aequalibus suis 
 cerneret. Disputans enim contra eos qui ad sanctissimae theologiae studia 
 infantiam et sophisticen pro solida eruditione afferrent, fatidicam hauc quasi 
 sortem edidit. idi>8vt>os, inquit, et's &fivffff6v riva <j>\vaptas fj.ireff6vTa$ TOIJTOVS 
 dia<f>dap7Jvai. Periculum est ne ejusmodi homines in abyssum quamdam in- 
 eptiarum delapsi penitus corrumpautur. Utinam defuisset huic oraculo 
 fides. Sed profecto, depravation! illi, et hujus scieutiarum reginae, et 
 omnium aliarum, quae postea accidit, occasionem quidem Gothorum et 
 Alauorum invasiones praebuerunt : at causa illius propior ac vera est, ratio 
 studiorum perversa, et in liberalibus discipliuis prava iustitutio, ac liugu- 
 arum simul et universae literaturae melioris ignoratio. . . . Atqui non in 
 eum certe finem viri magni et praecepta et exempla virtutum memoriae 
 commendata ad posteros transmiseruut, ut ad inanem aurium oblectatiouem, 
 vel jactationem vanam inutilis eruditionis, ea cognosceremus ; verum ut suis 
 nos lucubrationibus excitareut ad effodienda et in actum producenda recti 
 honestique semina ; quae cum a natura accepissemus, vitiis tamen circum- 
 fusa, et tantum non obruta, sic in nostris animis, nisi cultura melior 
 accedat, latent, quasi in altum quendam scrobem penitus defossa. Hue 
 spectant tot ilia volumina quae de morali discipliua philosophi confecerunt. 
 Tendit eodem et Graecorum Latinorumque poetarum pleraque manus ; sed 
 itineribus diversis. Quot sunt enim poetarum genera (sunt autem quam- 
 plurima) tot fere diverticula et viarum ambages eo ducentium." Is. 
 Casaub. in Praefatioue Commentarii ad Pers. See above, pp. 124, 125, etc., 
 and 135, 136, 186, and 193, 194, and 215, etc., and 217, etc. And Mine. 
 ii. chs. i. ii., and v. ch. i. in the notes. 
 
 226
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 commerce, and, by sad example, instructed in all kinds of 
 treachery and inhumanity. 'T would be of advantage to us 
 to hear the causes of this strange corruption in ourselves, and 
 be made to consider of our deviation from nature, and from 
 that just purity of manners which might be expected, especially 
 from a people so assisted and enlightened by religion. For 
 who would not naturally expect more justice, fidelity, temper- 
 ance, and honesty from Christians than from Mahometans or 
 mere pagans ? But so far are our modern moralists from 
 condemning any unnatural vices or corrupt manners, whether 
 in our own or foreign climates, that they would have vice itself 
 appear as natural as virtue, and from the worst examples would 
 represent to us " that all actions are naturally indifferent ; that 
 they have no note or character of good or ill in themselves; 
 but are distinguished by mere fashion, law, or arbitrary decree." 
 Wonderful philosophy ! raised from the dregs of an illiterate 
 mean kind, which was ever despised among the great ancients 
 and rejected by all men of action or sound erudition ; but in 
 these ages imperfectly copied from the original, and, with 
 much disadvantage, imitated and assumed in common both by 
 devout and indevout attempters in the moral kind. 
 
 Should a writer upon music, addressing himself to the 
 students and lovers of the art, declare to them " that the 
 measure or rule of harmony was caprice or will, humour or 
 fashion," 'tis not very likely he should be heard with great 
 attention or treated with real gravity. For harmony is 
 harmony by nature, let men judge ever so ridiculously of music. 
 So is symmetry and proportion founded still in nature, let 
 men's fancy prove ever so barbarous, or their fashions ever so 
 Gothic in their architecture, sculpture, or whatever other design- 
 ing art. 'Tis the same case where life and manners are con- 
 cerned. Virtue has the same fixed standard. The same 
 numbers, harmony, and proportion will have place in morals, 
 and are discoverable in the characters and affections of man- 
 kind; in which are laid the just foundations of an art and 
 
 227
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 science superior to every other of human practice and com- 
 prehension. 
 
 This, I suppose therefore, is highly necessary that a writer 
 should comprehend. For things are stubborn and will not be 
 as we fancy them, or as the fashion varies, but as they stand 
 in nature. Now whether the writer be poet, philosopher, or of 
 whatever kind, he is in truth no other than a copyist after 
 nature. His style may be differently suited to the different 
 times he lives in, or to the different humour of his age or 
 nation ; his manner, his dress, his colouring may vary ; but if 
 his drawing be uncorrect or his design contrary to nature, his 
 piece will be found ridiculous when it comes thoroughly to be 
 examined. For Nature will not be mocked. The prepossession 
 against her can never be very lasting. Her decrees and instincts 
 are powerful and her sentiments inbred. She has a strong 
 party abroad, and as strong a one within ourselves ; and when 
 any slight is put upon her, she can soon turn the reproach 
 and make large reprisals on the taste and judgment of her 
 antagonists. 
 
 Whatever philosopher, critic, or author is convinced of this 
 prerogative of nature, will easily be persuaded to apply himself 
 to the great work of reforming his taste, which he will have 
 reason to suspect, if he be not such a one as has deliberately 
 endeavoured to frame it by the just standard of nature. 
 Whether this be his case, he will easily discover by appealing 
 to his memory ; for custom and fashion are powerful seducers ; 
 and he must of necessity have fought hard against these to 
 have attained that justness of taste which is required in one 
 who pretends to follow nature. But if no such conflict can be 
 called to mind, 'tis a certain token that the party has his taste 
 very little different from the vulgar. And on this account he 
 should instantly betake himself to the wholesome practice 
 recommended in this treatise. He should set afoot the power- 
 fullest faculties of his mind, and assemble the best forces of his 
 wit and judgment, in order to make a formal descent on the 
 
 228
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 territories of the heart ; resolving to decline no combat, nor 
 hearken to any terms, till he had pierced into its inmost 
 provinces and reached the seat of empire. No treaties should 
 amuse him ; no advantages lead him aside. All other specula- 
 tions should be suspended, all other mysteries resigned, till this 
 necessary campaign was made and these inward conflicts learnt ; 
 by which he would be able to gain at least some tolerable in- 
 sight into himself and knowledge of his own natural principles. 
 
 It may here perhaps be thought that notwithstanding the 
 particular advice we have given in relation to the forming of 
 a taste in natural characters and manners, we are still defective 
 in our performance whilst we are silent on supernatural cases, 
 and bring not into our consideration the manners and characters 
 delivered us in Holy Writ. But this objection will soon 
 vanish when we consider that there can be no rules given by 
 human wit to that which was never humanly conceived, but 
 divinely dictated and inspired. 
 
 For this reason 'twould be in vain for any poet or ingenious 
 author to form his characters after the models of our sacred 
 penmen. 1 And whatever certain critics may have advanced 
 concerning the structure of a heroic poem of this kind, I will 
 be bold to prophesy that the success will never be answerable 
 to expectation. 
 
 It must be owned that in our sacred history we have both 
 leaders, conquerors, founders of nations, deliverers, and patriots 
 who, even in a human sense, are noway behind the chief of 
 those so much celebrated by the ancients. There is nothing 
 in the story of Aeneas which is not equalled or exceeded by a 
 Joshua or a Moses. But as illustrious as are the acts of these 
 sacred chiefs, 'twould be hard to copy them in just heroic. 
 'Twould be hard to give to many of them that grateful air 
 which is necessary to render them naturally pleasing to man- 
 kind, according to the idea men are universally found to have 
 of heroism and generosity. 
 
 1 Misc. v. ch. i. in the notes. 
 
 229
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 Notwithstanding the pious endeavours which, as devout 
 Christians, we may have used in order to separate ourselves from 
 the interests of mere heathens and infidels, notwithstanding 
 the true pains we may have taken to arm our hearts in behalf 
 of a chosen people against their neighbouring nations of a 
 false religion and worship, there will be still found such a 
 partiality remaining in us towards creatures of the same make 
 and figure with ourselves, as will hinder us from viewing with 
 satisfaction the punishments inflicted by human hands on such 
 aliens and idolaters. 
 
 In mere poetry, and the pieces of wit and literature, there 
 is a liberty of thought and easiness of humour indulged to us 
 in which, perhaps, we are not so well able to contemplate 
 the divine judgments, and see clearly into the justice of those 
 ways which are declared to be so far from our ways and above 
 our highest thoughts or understandings. In such a situation 
 of mind we can hardly endure to see heathen treated as heathen, 
 and the faithful made the executioners of the divine wrath. 
 There is a certain perverse humanity in us which inwardly 
 resists the divine commission, though ever so plainly revealed. 
 The wit of the best poet is not sufficient to reconcile us 
 to the campaign of a Joshua, or the retreat of a Moses by 
 the assistance of an Egyptian loan. Nor will it be possible, 
 by the Muses 1 art, to make that royal hero appear amiable in 
 human eyes who found such favour in the eye of Heaven. Such 
 are mere human hearts that they can hardly find the least 
 sympathy with that only one which had the character of being 
 after the pattern of the Almighty's. 
 
 'Tis apparent, therefore, that the manners, actions, and 
 characters of sacred writ are in no wise the proper subject of 
 other authors than divines themselves. They are matters incom- 
 prehensible in philosophy ; they are above the pitch of the mere 
 human historian, the politician, or the moralist, and are too 
 sacred to be submitted to the poet's fancy when inspired by no 
 other spirit than that of his profane mistresses the Muses. 
 
 230
 
 I should be unwilling to examine rigorously the performance 
 of our great poet, 1 who sung so piously the Fall of Man. The 
 War in Heaven and the catastrophe of that original pair from 
 whom the generations of mankind were propagated are matters 
 so abstrusely revealed, and with such a resemblance of mythology, 
 that they can more easily bear what figurative construction 
 or fantastic turn the poet may think fit to give them. But 
 should he venture farther into the lives and characters of the 
 patriarchs, the holy matrons, heroes and heroines of the chosen 
 seed ; should he employ the sacred machine, the exhibitions 
 and interventions of divinity according to Holy Writ to sup- 
 port the action of his piece ; he would soon find the weakness 
 of his pretended orthodox Muse, and prove how little those 
 divine patterns were capable of human imitation, or of being 
 raised to any other majesty, or sublime, than that in which 
 they originally appear. 
 
 The theology or theogony of the heathens could admit of 
 such different turns and figurative expressions as suited the 
 fancy and judgment of each philosopher or poet. But the 
 purity of our faith will admit of no such variation. The 
 Christian theology, the birth, procedure, generation, and 
 personal distinction of the Divinity, are mysteries only to be 
 determined by the initiated or ordained, to whom the. State 
 has assigned the guardianship and promulgation of the divine 
 oracles. It becomes not those who are uninspired from heaven 
 and uncommissioned from earth, to search with curiosity into 
 the original of those holy rites and records by law established. 
 Should we make such an attempt, we should in probability 
 find the less satisfaction the further we presumed to carry our 
 speculations. Having dared once to quit the authority and 
 direction of the law, we should easily be subject to heterodoxy 
 and error when we had no better warrant left us for the 
 authority of our sacred symbols than the integrity, candour, 
 and disinterestedness of their compilers and registers. How 
 
 1 Milton. 
 
 231
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 great that candour and disinterestedness may have been, we 
 have no other histories to inform us than those of their own 
 licensing or composing. But busy persons, who officiously 
 search into these records, are ready even from hence to draw 
 proofs very disadvantageous to the fame and character of this 
 succession of men. And persons moderately read in these 
 histories are apt to judge no otherwise of the temper of 
 ancient councils than by that of later synods and modern 
 convocations. 
 
 When we add to this the melancholy consideration of what 
 disturbances have been raised from the disputes of this kind ; 
 what effusion of blood, what devastations of provinces, what 
 shock and ruin of empires have been occasioned by contro- 
 versies founded on the nicest distinction of an article relat- 
 ing to these mysteries, 'twill be judged vain in any poet or 
 polite author to think of rendering himself agreeable or 
 entertaining whilst he makes such subjects as these to be his 
 theme. 
 
 But though the explanation of such deep mysteries and 
 religious duties be allotted as the peculiar province of the sacred 
 order, 'tis presumed, nevertheless, that it may be lawful for 
 other authors to retain their ancient privilege of instructing 
 mankind in a way of pleasure and entertainment. Poets may 
 be allowed their fictions and philosophers their systems. Twould 
 go hard with mankind should the patentees for religion be 
 commissioned for all instruction and advice relating to manners 
 or conversation. The stage may be allowed to instruct as well 
 as the pulpit. The way of wit and humour may be serviceable 
 as well as that of gravity and seriousness ; and the way of plain 
 reason as well as that of exalted revelation. The main matter 
 is to keep these provinces distinct and settle their just boundaries. 
 And on this account it is that we have endeavoured to represent 
 to modern authors the necessity of making this separation justly 
 and in due form. 
 
 Twould be somewhat hard, methinks, if Religion, as by law 
 
 232
 
 ADVICE TO AN AUTHOR 
 
 established, 1 were not allowed the same privilege as Heraldry. 
 Tis agreed on all hands that particular persons may design or 
 paint, in their private capacity, after what manner they think 
 fit; but they must blazon only as the public directs. Their 
 lion or bear must be figured as the science appoints, and their 
 supporters and crest must be such as their wise and gallant 
 ancestors have procured for them. No matter whether the 
 shapes of these animals hold just proportion with Nature. No 
 matter though different or contrary forms are joined in one. 
 That which is denied to painters or poets is permitted to 
 heralds. Naturalists may, in their sep'arate and distinct 
 capacity, inquire as they think fit into the real existence and 
 natural truth of things ; but they must by no means dispute 
 the authorised forms. Mermaids and griffins were the wonder 
 of our forefathers, and, as such, delivered down to us by the 
 authentic traditions and delineations above mentioned. We 
 ought not so much as to criticise the features or dimensions of 
 a Saracen's face, brought by our conquering ancestors from the 
 holy wars ; nor pretend to call in question the figure or size of 
 a dragon, on which the history of our national champion and 
 the establishment of a high order and dignity of the realm 
 depends. 
 
 But as worshipful as are the persons of the illustrious heralds, 
 Clarencieux, Garter, and the rest of those eminent sustainers of 
 British honour and antiquity, 'tis to be hoped that in a more 
 civilised age, such as at present we have the good fortune to live 
 in, they will not attempt to strain their privileges to the same 
 height as formerly. Having been reduced by law or settled 
 practice from the power they once enjoyed, they will not, 'tis 
 presumed, in defiance of the magistrate and civil power, erect 
 anew their stages and lists, introduce the manner of civil 
 combat, set us to tilt and tournament, and raise again those 
 defiances and moral frays of which their Order were once the 
 chief managers and promoters. 
 
 1 Misc. i. ch. ii. ; v. ch. i. 
 
 233
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 To conclude : the only method which can justly qualify us 
 for this high privilege of giving advice, is in the first place to 
 receive it ourselves with due submission where the public has 
 vouchsafed to give it us by authority. And if in our private 
 capacity we can have resolution enough to criticise ourselves, 
 and call in question our high imaginations, florid desires, and 
 specious sentiments, according to the manner of soliloquy above 
 prescribed, we shall, by the natural course of things, as we 
 grow wiser, prove less conceited, and introduce into our char- 
 acter that modesty, condescension, and just humanity which is 
 essential to the success of all friendly counsel and admonition. 
 And honest home -philosophy must teach us the wholesome 
 practice within ourselves. Polite reading, and converse with 
 mankind of the better sort, will qualify us for what remains. 
 
 234
 
 TREATISE IV 
 
 AN INQUIRY CONCERNING 
 VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
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 Corrected, and Published entire. 
 
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 AN INQUIRY CONCERNING VIRTUE 
 OR MERIT 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 PART I 
 
 SECTION I 
 
 RELIGION and Virtue appear in many respects so nearly related, 
 that they are generally presumed inseparable companions. And 
 so willing we are to believe well of their union, that we hardly 
 allow it just to speak or even think of them apart. It may 
 however be questioned whether the practice of the world in 
 this respect be answerable to our speculation. 'Tis certain that 
 we sometimes meet with instances which seem to make against 
 this general supposition. We have known people who, having 
 the appearance of great zeal in religion, have yet wanted even 
 the common affections of humanity, and shown themselves 
 extremely degenerate and corrupt. Others again, who have 
 paid little regard to religion, and been considered as mere 
 atheists, have yet been observed to practise the rules of 
 morality, and act in many cases with such good meaning and 
 affection towards mankind as might seem to force an acknow- 
 ledgment of their being virtuous. And in general, we find 
 mere moral principles of such weight, that in our dealings with 
 men we are seldom satisfied by the fullest assurance given us 
 of their zeal in religion, till we hear something further of their 
 
 237
 
 character. If we are told a man is religious, we still ask, 
 " What are his morals ? " But if we hear at first that he has 
 honest moral principles, and is a man of natural justice and 
 good temper, we seldom think of the other question, " Whether 
 he be religious and devout ? " 
 
 This has given occasion to inquire " what honesty or virtue 
 is, considered by itself, and in what manner it is influenced by 
 religion ; how far religion necessarily implies virtue ; and whether 
 it be a true saying that it is impossible for an atheist to be 
 virtuous, or share any real degree of honesty or merit." 
 
 And here it cannot justly be wondered at if the method of 
 explaining things should appear somewhat unusual, since the 
 subject-matter has been so little examined, and is of so nice and 
 dangerous speculation. For so much is the religious part of 
 mankind alarmed by the freedom of some late pens, 1 and so 
 great a jealousy is raised everywhere on this account, that what- 
 ever an author may suggest in favour of religion, he will gain 
 little credit in the cause if he allows the least advantage to any 
 other principle. On the other side, the men of wit and raillery, 
 whose pleasantest entertainment is in the exposing the weak 
 sides of religion, are so desperately afraid of being drawn into 
 any serious thoughts of it, that they look upon a man as guilty 
 of foul play who assumes the air of a free writer, and at the 
 same time preserves any regard for the principles of Natural 
 Religion. They are apt to give as little quarter as they receive, 
 and are resolved to think as ill of the morals of their antagonists 
 as their antagonists can possibly think of theirs. Neither of 
 
 1 [The reference is probably to the Oracles of Reason of Charles Blount 
 (posthumously collected in 1695), and John Toland's Christianity not Mys- 
 terious, published in 1690. These were the first openly deistic treatises 
 after those of Lord Herbert of Cherbury and Hobbes ; but the anonymous 
 Unitarian treatise of William Freeke was burnt by the hangman in 1693 ; 
 and the more moderate work of the Rev. Arthur Bury, The Naked Gospel 
 (1690), had been similarly treated. The Account of the Growth of Deism in 
 England (1696), and Leslie's Short and Easy Method with the Deists (1697), 
 show how far matters had gone.] 
 
 238
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 them, it seems, will allow the least advantage to the other. 
 Tis as hard to persuade one sort that there is any virtue in 
 religion, as the other that there is any virtue out of the verge 
 of their particular community. So that, between both, an 
 author must pass his time ill who dares plead for religion and 
 moral virtue without lessening the force of either, but allowing 
 to each its proper province and due rank, would hinder their 
 being made enemies by detraction. 
 
 However it be, if we would pretend to give the least new 
 light, or explain anything effectually within the intended 
 compass of this inquiry, 'tis necessary to take things pretty 
 deep, and endeavour by some short scheme to represent the 
 original of each opinion, whether natural or unnatural, relating 
 to the Deity. And if we can happily get clear of this thorny 
 part of our philosophy, the rest, "'tis hoped, may prove more 
 plain and easy. 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 Ix the whole of things (or in the universe) either all is according 
 to a good order and the most agreeable to a general interest, 
 or there is that which is otherwise, and might possibly have 
 been better constituted, more wisely contrived, and with more 
 advantage to the general interest of beings, or of the whole. 
 
 If everything which exists be according to a good order, 
 and for the best, then of necessity there is no such thing as real 
 ill in the universe, nothing ill with respect to the whole. 
 
 Whatsoever then is so as that it could not really have been 
 better, or any way better ordered, is perfectly good ; what- 
 soever in the order of the world can be called ill, must imply 
 a possibility in the nature of the thing to have been better 
 contrived or ordered. For if it could not, it is perfect, and as 
 it should be. 
 
 Whatsoever is really ill, therefore, must be caused or 
 produced either by design (that is to say, with knowledge 
 
 239
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 and intelligence) or, in defect of this, by hazard and mere 
 chance. 
 
 If there be anything ill in the universe from design, then 
 that which disposes all things is no one good designing prin- 
 ciple. For either the one designing principle is itself corrupt, 
 or there is some other in being which operates contrarily and 
 is ill. 
 
 If there be any ill in the universe from mere chance, then a 
 designing principle or mind, whether good or bad, cannot be 
 the cause of all things. And consequently if there be supposed 
 a designing principle, who is the cause only of good, but cannot 
 prevent the ill which happens from chance, or from a contrary 
 ill design, then there can be supposed in reality no such thing 
 as a superior good design or mind, other than what is impotent 
 and defective ; for not to correct or totally exclude that ill of 
 chance or of a contrary ill design, must proceed either from 
 impotency or ill-will. 1 
 
 Whatsoever is superior in any degree over the world, or 
 rules in Nature with discernment and a mind, is what, by 
 universal agreement, men call God. If there are several such 
 superior minds, they are so many Gods ; but if that single or 
 those several superiors are not in their nature necessarily good, 
 they rather take the name of Daemon. 
 
 To believe therefore that everything is governed, ordered, 
 or regulated for the best, by a designing principle or mind, 
 necessarily good and permanent, is to be a perfect Theist. 
 
 To believe nothing of a designing principle or mind, nor 
 any cause, measure, or rule of things, but chance, so that in 
 Nature neither the interest of the whole nor of any particulars 
 can be said to be in the least designed, pursued, or aimed at, is 
 to be a perfect Atheist. 
 
 To believe no one supreme designing principle or mind, but 
 
 1 [Compare Spinoza, Ethics, part i. Prop, xxxiii. Schol. 2 and App. ; 
 part iv. Praef. and Prop. Ixiv. ; also Principia philots. Cartesianae, App. 
 part i. ch. vi. ; and Spino/a's first letter to Bleyenberg, Jan. 1664.] 
 
 240
 
 rather two, three, or more (though in their nature good), is to 
 be a Polytheist. 
 
 To believe the governing mind, or minds, not absolutely 
 and necessarily good, nor confined to what is best, but capable 
 of acting according to mere will or fancy, is to be a Daemonist. 
 
 There are few who think always consistently, or according to 
 one certain hypothesis, upon any subject so abstruse and intricate 
 as the cause of all things, and the economy or government of 
 the universe. For 'tis evident in the case of the most devout 
 people, even by their own confession, that there are times when 
 their faith hardly can support them in the belief of a supreme 
 Wisdom, 'and that they are often tempted to judge disadvantage- 
 ously of a providence and just administration in the whole. 
 
 That alone, therefore, is to be called a man's opinion, which 
 is of any other the most habitual to him and occurs upon most 
 occasions. So that 'tis hard to pronounce certainly of any man 
 that he is an atheist, because unless his whole thoughts are at 
 all seasons and on all occasions steadily bent against all sup- 
 position or imagination of design in things, he is no perfect 
 Atheist. In the same manner, if a man's thoughts are not at all 
 times steady and resolute against all imagination of chance, 
 fortune, or ill design in things, he is no perfect Theist. But if 
 any one believes more of chance and confusion than of design, he 
 is to be esteemed more an Atheist than a Theist, from that which 
 most predominates or has the ascendant. And in case he 
 believes more of the prevalency of an ill designing principle 
 than of a good one, he is rather a Daemonist, and may be justly 
 so called from the side to which the balance of his judgment 
 most inclines. 
 
 All these sorts both of Daemonism, Polytheism, Atheism, 
 and Theism may be mixed. 1 Religion excludes only perfect 
 
 1 As thus : 
 
 1. Theism with Daemonism; 2. Daemonism with Polytheism; 3. Theism 
 with Atheism ; 4. Daemonism with Atheism ; 5. Polytheism with Atheism ; 
 6. Theism (as it stands in opposition to Daemonism, and denotes goodness 
 
 VOL. I 241 R
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 atheism. Perfect daemonists undoubtedly there are in religion ; 
 because we know whole nations who worship a devil or fiend, 
 to whom they sacrifice and offer prayers and supplications, in 
 reality on no other account than because they fear him. And 
 we know very well that, in some religions, there are those who 
 expressly give no other idea of God than of a being arbitrary, 
 violent, causing ill and ordaining to misery ; which in effect is 
 the same as to substitute a daemon or devil in his room. 
 
 Now since there are these several opinions concerning a 
 superior Power, and since there may be found perhaps some 
 persons who have no formed opinion at all upon this subject ; 
 either through scepticism, negligence of thought, or confusion 
 of judgment; the consideration is, how any of these opinions, 
 or this want of any certain opinion, may possibly consist with 
 virtue and merit, or be compatible with an honest or moral 
 character. 
 
 in the superior Deity) with Polytheism ; 7. The same Theism or Polytheism 
 with Daemonism ; 8. Or with Daemonism and Atheism. 
 
 1. As when the one chief mind or sovereign being is (in the believer's 
 sense) divided between a good and an ill nature, by being the cause of ill 
 as well as good, or otherwise when two distinct and contrary principles 
 subsist ; one the author of all good, the other of all ill. 
 
 2. As when there is not one but several corrupt minds who govern ; 
 which opinion may be called Polydaemonism. 
 
 3. As when chance is not excluded, but God and chance divide. 
 
 4. As when an evil daemon and chance divide. 
 
 5. As when many minds and chance divide. 
 
 6. As when there are more principal minds than one, but agreeing in 
 good, with one and the same will and reason. 
 
 7. As when the same system of Deity or corresponding Deity subsists, 
 together with a contrary principle, or with several contrary principles or 
 governing minds. 
 
 8. As when the last case is, together with chance. 
 
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 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 PART II 
 
 SECTION I 
 
 WHEN we reflect on any ordinary frame or constitution either 
 of Art or Nature, and consider how hard it is to give the least 
 account of a particular part without a competent knowledge of 
 the whole, we need not wonder to find ourselves at a loss in 
 many things relating to the constitution and frame of Nature 
 herself. For to what end in Nature many things, even 
 whole species of creatures, refer, or to what purpose they serve, 
 will be hard for any one justly to determine ; but to what end 
 the many proportions and various shapes of parts in many 
 creatures actually serve, we are able, by the help of study and 
 observation, to demonstrate with great exactness. 
 
 We know that every creature has a private good and interest 
 of his own, which Nature has compelled him to seek, by all the 
 advantages afforded him within the compass of his make. 1 We 
 know that there is in reality a right and a wrong state of every 
 creature, and that his right one is by nature forwarded and by 
 himself affectionately sought. There being therefore in every 
 creature a certain interest or good, there must be also a certain 
 end to which everything in his constitution must naturally refer. 
 To this end if anything, either in his appetites, passions, or 
 affections, be not conducing but the contrary, we must of 
 necessity own it ill to him. And in this manner he is ill with 
 respect to himself, as he certainly is with respect to others of 
 his kind, when any such appetites or passions make him anyway 
 injurious to them. Now, if by the natural constitution of any 
 rational creature, the same irregularities of appetite which make 
 him ill to others, make him ill also to himself, and if the 
 same regularity of affections which causes him to be good in one 
 
 1 [On the ensuing argument compare Spinoza, Ethics, part iv. Props, 
 xix.-xxxv.] 
 
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 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 sense, causes him to be good also in the other, then is that 
 goodness by which he is thus useful to others a real good and 
 advantage to himself. And thus virtue and interest may be 
 found at last to agree. 
 
 Of this we shall consider particularly in the latter part of 
 our inquiry. Our first design is to see if we can clearly determine 
 what that quality is to which we give the name of goodness or 
 virtue. 
 
 Should a historian or traveller describe to us a certain 
 creature of a more solitary disposition than ever was yet heard 
 of; one who had neither mate nor fellow of any kind, nothing 
 of his own likeness, towards which he stood well-affected or 
 inclined, nor anything without or beyond himself for which he 
 had the least passion or concern ; we might be apt to say 
 perhaps, without much hesitation, " that this was doubtless a 
 very melancholy creature, and that in this unsociable and sullen 
 state he was like to have a very disconsolate kind of life. 11 But 
 if we were assured that, notwithstanding all appearances, the 
 creature enjoyed himself extremely, had a great relish of life, 
 and was in nothing wanting to his own good, we might ac- 
 knowledge, perhaps, "that the creature was no monster, nor 
 absurdly constituted as to himself. 11 But we should hardly, after 
 all, be induced to say of him " that he was a good creature. 11 
 
 However, should jt be urged against us " that such as he 
 was, the creature was still perfect in himself, and therefore to 
 be esteemed good ; for what had he to do with others ? * in 
 this sense, indeed, we might be forced to acknowledge "that 
 he was a good creature; if he could be understood to be 
 absolute and complete in himself, without any real relation 
 to anything in the universe besides. 11 For should there be 
 anywhere in nature a system of which this living creature 
 was to be considered as a part, then could he nowise be 
 allowed good ; whilst he plainly appeared to be such a part as 
 made rather to the harm than good of that system or whole in 
 which he was included. 
 
 244
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 If therefore in the structure of this or any other animal, 
 there be anything which points beyond himself, and by which 
 he is plainly discovered to have relation to some other being 
 or nature besides his own, then will this animal undoubtedly be 
 esteemed a part of some other system. For instance, if an 
 animal has the proportions of a male, it shows he has relation 
 to a female. And the respective proportions both of the male 
 and female will be allowed, doubtless, to have a joint relation 
 to another existence and order of things beyond themselves. 
 So that the creatures are both of them to be considered as 
 jrarts of another system, which is that of a particular race 
 or species of living creatures, who have some one common 
 nature, or are provided for by some one order or constitution 
 of things subsisting together, and co-operating towards their 
 conservation and support. 
 
 In the same manner, if a whole species of animals contribute 
 to the existence or well-being of some other, then is that 
 whole species, in general, a part only of some other system. 
 
 For instance, to the existence of the spider that of the fly 
 is absolutely necessary. The heedless flight, weak frame, and 
 tender body of this latter insect, fits and determines him as 
 much a prey as the rough make, watchfulness, and cunning of 
 the former fits him for rapine and the ensnaring part. The 
 web and wing are suited to each other. And in the structure 
 of each of these animals there is as apparent and perfect a 
 relation to the other as in our own bodies there is a relation 
 of limbs and organs ; or as in the branches or leaves of a tree 
 we see a relation of each to the other, and all, in common, to 
 one root and trunk. 
 
 In the same manner are flies also necessary to the existence 
 of other creatures, both fowls and fish. And thus are other 
 species or kinds subservient to one another, as being parts of 
 a certain system, and included in one and the same order 
 of beings. 
 
 So that there is a system of all animals : an animal-order 
 
 245
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 or economy, according to which the animal affairs are regulated 
 and disposed. 
 
 Now, if the whole system of animals, together with that of 
 vegetables, and all other things in this inferior world, be 
 properly comprehended in one system of a globe or earth, and 
 if, again, this globe or earth itself appears to have a real 
 dependence on something still beyond, as, for example, either 
 on its sun, the galaxy, or its fellow-planets, then is it in reality 
 a part only of some other system. And if it be allowed that 
 there is in like manner a system of all things, and a universal 
 nature, there can be no particular being or system which is not 
 either good or ill in that general one of the universe ; for if it 
 be insignificant and of no use, it is a fault or imperfection, and 
 consequently ill in the general system. 
 
 Therefore if any being be wholly and really ill, it must 
 be ill with respect to the universal system ; and then the system 
 of the universe is ill or imperfect. But if the ill of one private 
 system be the good of others ; if it makes still to the good of 
 the general system (as when one creature lives by the destruc- 
 tion of another ; one thing is generated from the corruption of 
 another; or one planetary system or vortex may swallow up 
 another), then is the ill of that private system no real ill in 
 itself, any more than the pain of breeding teeth is ill in a 
 system or body which is so constituted that, without this 
 occasion of pain, it would suffer worse by being defective. 
 
 So that we cannot say of any being that it is wholly and 
 absolutely ill, unless we can positively show and ascertain that 
 what we call ill is nowhere good besides, in any other system, 
 or with respect to any other order or economy whatsoever. 
 
 But were there in the world any entire species of animals 
 destructive to every other, it may be justly called an ill species, 
 as being ill in the animal system. And if in any species of 
 animals (as in men, for example) one man is of a nature 
 pernicious to the rest, he is in this respect justly styled an 
 ill man. 
 
 246
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 We do not, however, say of any one that he is an ill man 
 because he has the plague-spots upon him, or because he has 
 convulsive fits which make him strike and wound such as 
 approach him. Nor do we say on the other side that he is a 
 good man when, having his hands tied up, he is hindered from 
 doing the mischief he designs ; or (which is in a manner the 
 same) when he abstains from executing his ill purpose through 
 a fear of some impending punishment, or through the allurement 
 of some exterior reward. 
 
 So that in a sensible creature that which is not done 
 through any affection at all makes neither good nor ill in the 
 nature of that creature, who then only is supposed good when 
 the good or ill of the system to which he has relation is the 
 immediate object of some passion or affection moving him. 
 
 Since it is therefore by affection merely that a creature is 
 esteemed good or ill, natural or unnatural, our business will be 
 to examine which are the good and natural, and which the ill 
 and unnatural affections. 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 IN the first place, then, it may be observed that if there be an 
 affection towards any subject considered as private good, which 
 is not really such, 1 but imaginary, this affection, as being 
 superfluous, and detracting from the force of other requisite 
 and good affections, is in itself vicious and ill, even in respect of 
 the private interest or happiness of the creature. 
 
 If there can possibly be supposed in a creature such an 
 affection towards self-good as is actually, in its natural degree, 
 conducing to his private interest, and at the same time in- 
 consistent with the public good, this may indeed be called still 
 a vicious affection ; and on this supposition a creature l cannot 
 really be good and natural in respect of his society or public, 
 without being ill and unnatural towards himself. But if the 
 
 1 Infra, bk. ii. part i. 1 ; part ii. 3. 
 247
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 affection be then only injurious to the society when it is 
 immoderate, and not so when it is moderate, duly tempered, 
 and allayed, then is the immoderate degree of the affection 
 truly vicious, but not the moderate. And thus if there be 
 found in any creature a more than ordinary self-concernment 
 or regard to private good, which is inconsistent with the 
 interest of the species or public, this must in every respect 
 be esteemed an ill and vicious affection. And this is what we 
 commonly call selfishness, 1 and disapprove so much in whatever 
 creature we happen to discover it. 
 
 On the other side, if the affection towards private or self- 
 good, however selfish it may be esteemed, is in reality not only 
 consistent with public good, but in some measure contributing 
 to it ; if it be such, perhaps, as for the good of the species in 
 general every individual ought to share ; 'tis so far from being 
 ill or blamable in any sense, that it must be acknowledged 
 absolutely necessary to constitute a creature good. For if the 
 want of such an affection as that towards self-preservation be 
 injurious to the species, a creature is ill and unnatural as well 
 through this defect as through the want of any other natural 
 affection. And this no one would doubt to pronounce, if he 
 saw a man who minded not any precipices which lay in his way, 
 nor made any distinction of food, diet, clothing, or whatever else 
 related to his health and being. The same would be averred 
 of one who had a disposition which rendered him averse to any 
 commerce with womankind, and of consequence unfitted him 
 through illness of temper (and not merely through a defect of 
 constitution) for the propagation of his species or kind. 
 
 Thus the affection towards self-good may be a good affection 
 or an ill one. For if this private affection be too strong (as 
 when the excessive love of life unfits a creature for any generous 
 act) then is it undoubtedly vicious, and if vicious, the creature 
 who is moved by it is viciously moved, and can never be other- 
 wise than vicious in some degree when moved by that affection. 
 1 Essay on Wit and Humour, part iii. 3. 
 
 248
 
 Therefore if through such an earnest and passionate love of life 
 a creature be accidentally induced to do good (as he might be 
 upon the same terms induced to do ill) he is no more a good 
 creature for this good he executes than a man is the more an 
 honest or good man either for pleading a just cause, or fighting 
 in a good one, for the sake merely of his fee or stipend. 
 
 Whatsoever therefore is done which happens to be advan- 
 tageous to the species through an affection merely towards 
 self-good, does not imply any more goodness in the creature 
 than as the affection itself is good. Let him, in any particular, 
 act ever so well, if at the bottom it be that selfish affection 
 alone which moves him, he is in himself still vicious. Nor can 
 any creature be considered otherwise when the passion towards 
 self-good, though ever so moderate, is his real motive in the 
 doing that to which a natural affection for his kind ought by 
 right to have inclined him. 
 
 And indeed whatever exterior helps or succours an ill-disposed 
 creature may find to push him on towards the performance of 
 any one good action, there can no goodness arise in him till his 
 temper be so far changed that in the issue he comes in earnest 
 to be led by some immediate affection, directly and not acci- 
 dentally, to good and against ill. 
 
 For instance, if one of those creatures supposed to be by 
 nature tame, gentle, and favourable to mankind, be, contrary 
 to his natural constitution, fierce and savage, we instantly 
 remark the breach of temper, and own the creature to be 
 unnatural and corrupt. If at any time afterwards the same 
 creature, by good fortune or right management, comes to lose 
 his fierceness, and is made tame, gentle, and treatable like other 
 creatures of his kind, 'tis acknowledged that the creature thus 
 restored becomes good and natural. Suppose now that the 
 creature has indeed a tame and gentle carriage, but that it 
 proceeds only from the fear of his keeper, which if set aside, 
 his predominant passion instantly breaks out; then is his 
 gentleness not his real temper, but his true and genuine nature 
 
 249
 
 or natural temper remaining just as it was : the creature is still 
 as ill as ever. 
 
 Nothing therefore being properly either goodness or illness 
 in a creature, except what is from natural temper, "A good 
 creature is such a one as by the natural temper or bent of his 
 affections is carried primarily and immediately, and not second- 
 arily and accidentally, to good and against ill ; " and an ill 
 creature is just the contrary, viz. "One who is wanting in 
 right affections of force enough to cany him directly towards 
 good, and bear him out against ill ; or who is carried by other 
 affections directly to ill and against good." 
 
 When in general all the affections or passions are suited to 
 the public good, or good of the species, as above mentioned, 
 then is the natural temper entirely good. If, on the contrary, 
 any requisite passion be wanting, or if there be any one super- 
 numerary or weak, or anywise disserviceable or contrary to 
 that main end, then is the natural temper, and consequently 
 the creature himself, in some measure corrupt and ill. 
 
 There is no need of mentioning either envy, malice, 
 frowardness or other such hateful passions, to show in what 
 manner they are ill, and constitute an ill creature. But it may 
 be necessary perhaps to remark, that even as to kindness and 
 love of the most natural sort (such as that of any creature for 
 its offspring) if it be immoderate and beyond a certain degree 
 it is undoubtedly vicious. 1 For thus over-great tenderness 
 destroys the effect of love, and excessive pity renders us 
 incapable of giving succour. Hence the excess of motherly 
 love is owned to be a vicious fondness; over-great pity, effeminacy 
 and weakness; over-great concern for self-preservation, meanness 
 and cowardice ; too little, rashness ; and none at all, or that 
 which is contrary (viz. a passion leading to self-destruction), a 
 mad and desperate depravity. 
 
 1 [Cp. Spinoza, Ethics, part iv. Props, xxxix.-xliv.] 
 
 250
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 SECTION III 
 
 Bur to proceed from what is esteemed mere goodness, and lies 
 within the reach and capacity of all sensible creatures, to that 
 which is called virtue or merit, and is allowed to man only. 
 
 In a creature capable of forming general notions of things, 
 not only the outward beings which offer themselves to the sense 
 are the objects of the affection, but the very actions themselves, 
 and the affections of pity, kindness, gratitude, and their con- 
 traries, being brought into the mind by reflection, become 
 objects. So that, by means of this reflected sense, there arises 
 another kind of affection towards those very affections themselves, 
 which have been already felt, and are now become the subject 
 of a new liking or dislike. 
 
 The case is the same in the mental or moral subjects as in 
 the ordinary bodies or common subjects of sense. The shapes, 
 motions, colours, and proportions of these latter being presented 
 to our eye, there necessarily results a beauty or deformity, 1 
 according to the different measure, arrangement, and disposition 
 of their several parts. So in behaviour and actions, when 
 presented to our understanding, there must be found, of 
 necessity, an apparent difference, according to the regularity 
 or irregularity of the subjects. 
 
 The mind, which is spectator or auditor of other minds, 
 cannot be without its eye and ear, so as to discern proportion, 
 distinguish sound, and scan each sentiment or thought which 
 comes before it. It can let nothing escape its censure. It feels 
 the soft and harsh, the agreeable and disagreeable in the affec- 
 tions ; and finds a foul and fair, a harmonious and a dissonant, 
 as really and truly here as in any musical numbers or in the 
 outward forms or representations of sensible things. Nor can 
 it withhold its admiration and ecstasy, its aversion and scorn, 
 any more in what relates to one than to the other of these 
 subjects. So that to deny the common and natural sense of 
 1 The Moralists, part iii. 2. 
 
 251
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 a sublime and beautiful in things, will appear an affectation 
 merely, to any one who considers duly of this affair. 1 
 
 Now as in the sensible kind of objects the species or images 
 of bodies, colours, and sounds are perpetually moving before 
 our eyes, and acting on our senses even when we sleep ; so in 
 the moral and intellectual kind, the forms and images of things 
 are no less active and incumbent on the mind, at all seasons, 
 and even when the real objects themselves are absent. 
 
 In these vagrant characters or pictures of manners, which 
 the mind of necessity figures to itself and carries still about 
 with it, the heart cannot possibly remain neutral ; but con- 
 stantly takes part one way or other. However false or corrupt 
 it be within itself, it finds the difference, as to beauty and 
 comeliness, between one heart and another, one turn of affection, 
 one behaviour, one sentiment and another; and accordingly, 
 in all disinterested cases, must approve in some measure of what 
 is natural and honest, and disapprove what is dishonest and 
 corrupt. 
 
 Thus the several motions, inclinations, passions, dispositions, 
 and consequent carriage and behaviour of creatures in the 
 various parts of life, being in several views or perspectives 
 represented to the mind, which readily discerns the good and ill 
 towards the species or public, there arises a new trial or exercise 
 of the heart, which must either rightly and soundly affect what 
 is just and right, and disaffect what is contrary, or corruptly 
 affect what is ill and disaffect what is worthy and good. 
 
 And in this case alone it is we call any creature worthy or 
 virtuous, when it can have the notion of a public interest, and 
 can attain the speculation or science of what is morally good 
 or ill, admirable or blamable, right or wrong. For though we 
 may vulgarly call an ill horse vicious, yet we never say of a 
 good one, nor of any mere beast, idiot, or changeling, though 
 ever so good-natured, that he is worthy or virtuous. 
 
 1 Essay on Wit and Humour, part ii. 2 (end) ; Miscellaneous Reflec- 
 tions, Misc. ii. ch. i. 
 
 252
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 So that if a creature be generous, kind, constant, compas- 
 sionate, yet if he cannot reflect on what he himself does, or 
 sees others do, so as to take notice of what is worthy or honest, 
 and make that notice or conception of worth and honesty to be 
 an object of his affection, he has not the character of being 
 virtuous ; for thus, and no otherwise, he is capable of having a 
 sense of right or wrong, a sentiment or judgment of what is 
 done through just, equal, and good affection, or the contrary. 
 
 Whatsoever is done through any unequal affection is in- 
 iquitous, wicked, and wrong. If the affection be equal, sound, 
 and good, and the subject of the affection such as may with 
 advantage to society be ever in the same manner prosecuted 
 or affected, this must necessarily constitute what we call equity 
 and right in any action. For wrong is not such action as is 
 barely the cause of harm (since at this rate a dutiful son aiming 
 at an enemy, but by mistake or ill chance happening to kill his 
 father, would do a wrong), but when anything is done through 
 insufficient or unequal affection (as when a son shows no concern 
 for the safety of a father ; or, where there is need of succour, 
 prefers an indifferent person to him) this is of the nature of 
 wrong. 
 
 Neither can any weakness or imperfection in the senses be 
 the occasion of iniquity or wrong; if the object of the mind 
 itself be not at any time absurdly framed, nor any way improper, 
 but suitable, just, and worthy of the opinion and affection 
 applied to it. For if we will suppose a man who, being sound 
 and entire both in his reason and affection, has nevertheless so 
 depraved a constitution or frame of body that the natural 
 objects are, through his organs of sense, as through ill glasses, 
 falsely conveyed and misrepresented, 'twill be soon observed, in 
 such a person's case, that since his failure is not in his principal 
 or leading part, he cannot in himself be esteemed iniquitous or 
 unjust. 
 
 Tis otherwise in what relates to opinion, belief, or specula- 
 tion. For as the extravagance of judgment or belief is such 
 
 253
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 that in some countries even monkeys, cats, crocodiles, and 
 other vile or destructive animals have been esteemed holy, and 
 worshipped even as deities ; should it appear to any one of the 
 religion or belief of those countries that to save such a creature 
 as a cat, preferably to a parent, was right, and that other men 
 who had not the same religious opinion were to be treated as 
 enemies till converted ; this would be certainly wrong and 
 wicked in the believer; and every action, grounded on this 
 belief, would be an iniquitous, wicked, and vicious action. 
 
 And thus whatsoever causes a misconception or misappre- 
 hension of the worth or value of any object, so as to diminish 
 a due, or raise any undue, irregular or unsocial affection, must 
 necessarily be the occasion of wrong. Thus he who affects or 
 loves a man for the sake of something which is reputed honour- 
 able, but which is in reality vicious, is himself vicious and ill. 
 The beginnings of this corruption may be noted in many 
 occurrences ; as when an ambitious man, by the fame of his 
 high attempts, a conqueror or a pirate by his boasted enter- 
 prises, raises in another person an esteem and admiration of 
 that immoral and inhuman character which deserves abhorrence, 
 'tis then that the hearer becomes corrupt, when he secretly 
 approves the ill he hears. But on the other side, the man who 
 loves and esteems another, as believing him to have that virtue 
 which he has not, but only counterfeits, is not on this account 
 either vicious or corrupt. 
 
 A mistake therefore, in fact, being no cause or sign of ill 
 affection, can be no cause of vice. But a mistake of right 
 being the cause of unequal affection, must of necessity be the 
 cause of vicious action in every intelligent or rational being. 
 
 But as there are many occasions where the matter of right 
 may even to the most discerning part of mankind appear 
 difficult, and of doubtful decision, 'tis not a slight mistake of 
 this kind which can destroy the character of a virtuous or 
 worthy man. But when, either through superstition or ill 
 custom, there come to be very gross mistakes in the assignment 
 
 254
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 or application of the affection ; when the mistakes are either in 
 their nature so gross, or so complicated and frequent, that a 
 creature cannot well live in a natural state, nor with due 
 affections, compatible with human society and civil life ; then 
 is the character of virtue forfeited. 
 
 And thus we find how far worth and virtue depend on a 
 knowledge of right and wrong, and on a use of reason, sufficient 
 to secure a right application of the affections ; that nothing 
 horrid or unnatural, nothing unexemplary, nothing destructive 
 of that natural affection by which the species or society is upheld, 
 may on any account, or through any principle or notion of 
 honour or religion, be at any time affected or prosecuted as a 
 good and proper object of esteem. For such a principle as this 
 must be wholly vicious ; and whatsoever is acted upon it can be 
 no other than vice and immorality. And thus if there be any- 
 thing which teaches men either treachery, ingratitude, or cruelty, 
 by divine warrant or under colour and pretence of any present 
 or future good to mankind ; if there be anything which teaches 
 men to persecute their friends through love, 1 or to torment 
 captives of war in sport, or to offer human sacrifice, or to 
 torment, macerate, or mangle themselves in a religious zeal before 
 their God, or to commit any sort of barbarity or brutality as 
 amiable or becoming ; be it custom which gives applause, or 
 religion which gives a sanction ; this is not, nor ever can be, 
 virtue of any kind, or in any sense, but must remain still horrid 
 depravity, notwithstanding any fashion, law, custom or religion 
 which may be ill and vicious itself, but can never alter the eternal 
 measures and immutable independent nature of worth and 
 virtue. 
 
 SECTION IV 
 
 UPON the whole. As to those creatures who are only capable 
 of being moved by sensible objects, they are accordingly good 
 
 1 Letter Concerning Enthusiasm, 2 ; Misc. ii. ch. iii. 
 
 255
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 or vicious as the sensible affections stand with them. 'Tis 
 otherwise in creatures capable of framing rational objects of 
 moral good. For in one of this kind, should the sensible 
 affections stand ever so much amiss, yet if they prevail not, 
 because of those other rational affections spoken of, 'tis evident 
 the temper still holds good in the main, and the person is with 
 justice esteemed virtuous by all men. 
 
 More than this. If by temper any one is passionate, angry, 
 fearful, amorous, yet resists these passions, and notwithstanding 
 the force of their impression adheres to virtue, we say commonly 
 in this case that the virtue is the greater; and we say well. 
 Though if that which restrains the person and holds him to a 
 virtuous-like behaviour be no affection towards goodness or 
 virtue itself, but towards private good merely, he is not in 
 reality the more virtuous, as has been shown before. But this 
 still is evident, that if voluntarily and without foreign constraint 
 an angry temper bears, or an amorous one refrains, so that 
 neither any cruel nor immodest action can be forced from such 
 a person, though ever so strongly tempted by his constitution, 
 we applaud his virtue above what we should naturally do if he 
 were free of this temptation and these propensities. At the 
 same time, there is nobody will say that a propensity to vice 
 can be an ingredient in virtue, or any way necessary to complete 
 a virtuous character. 
 
 There seems therefore to be some kind of difficulty in the 
 case, but it amounts only to this. If there be any part of the 
 temper in which ill passions or affections are seated, whilst in 
 another part the affections towards moral good are such as 
 absolutely to master those attempts of their antagonists, this is 
 the greatest proof imaginable that a strong principle of virtue 
 lies at the bottom and has possessed itself of the natural temper. 
 Whereas if there be no ill passions stirring, a person may be 
 indeed more cheaply virtuous, that is to say, he may conform 
 himself to the known rules of virtue without sharing so much 
 of a virtuous principle as another. Yet if that other person, 
 
 256
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 who has the principle of virtue so strongly implanted, comes at 
 last to lose those contrary impediments supposed in him, he 
 certainly loses nothing in virtue; but on the contrary, losing 
 only what is vicious in his temper, is left more entire to virtue, 
 and possesses it in a higher degree. 
 
 Thus is virtue shared in different degrees by rational 
 creatures, such at least as are called rational, but who come 
 short of that sound and well-established reason which alone can 
 constitute a just affection, a uniform and steady will and 
 resolution. And thus vice and virtue are found variously mixed, 
 and alternately prevalent in the several characters of mankind. 
 For it seems evident from our inquiry, that how ill soever the 
 temper or passions may stand with respect either to the sensible 
 or the moral objects ; however passionate, furious, lustful or cruel 
 any creature may become ; however vicious the mind be, or 
 whatever ill rules or principles it goes by ; yet if there be any 
 flexibleness or favourable inclination towards the least moral 
 object, the least appearance of moral good (as if there be any 
 such thing as kindness, gratitude, bounty, or compassion), there 
 is still something of virtue left, and the creature is not wholly 
 vicious and unnatural. 
 
 Thus a ruffian who out of a sense of fidelity and honour of 
 any kind refuses to discover his associates, and rather than 
 betray them is content to endure torments and death, has 
 certainly some principle of virtue, however he may misapply it. 
 Twas the same case with that malefactor who, rather than do 
 the office of executioner to his companions, chose to keep them 
 company in their execution. 
 
 In short, as it seems hard to pronounce of any man " that 
 he is absolutely an atheist, 11 so it appears altogether as hard 
 to pronounce of any man "that he is absolutely corrupt or 
 vicious," there being few, even of the horridest villains, who 
 have not something of virtue in this imperfect sense. Nothing 
 is more just than a known saying, " That it is as hard to find a 
 man wholly ill as wholly good, 11 because wherever there is any 
 VOL. I 257 S
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 good affection left, there is certainly some goodness or virtue 
 still in being. 
 
 And having considered thus of virtue, what it is in itself, 
 we may now consider how it stands with respect to the opinions 
 concerning a Deity, as above mentioned. 
 
 PART III 
 
 SECTION I 
 
 THE nature of virtue consisting (as has been explained) in a 
 certain just disposition or proportionable affection of a rational 
 creature towards the moral objects of right and wrong, nothing 
 can possibly in such a creature exclude a principle of virtue, or 
 render it ineffectual, except what 
 
 1. Either takes away the natural and just sense of right and 
 wrong ; 
 
 2. Or creates a wrong sense of it ; 
 
 3. Or causes the right sense to be opposed by contrary 
 affections. 
 
 On the other side, nothing can assist or advance the 
 principle of virtue except what either in some manner nourishes 
 and promotes a sense of right and wrong, or preserves it genuine 
 and uncorrupt, or causes it when such to be obeyed, by subduing 
 and subjecting the other affections to it. 
 
 We are to consider, therefore, how any of the above- 
 mentioned opinions on the subject of a Deity may influence 
 in these cases, or produce either of these three effects. 
 
 1. As to the first case, the taking away the natural sense 
 of right and wrong. 
 
 It will not surely be understood that by this is meant the 
 taking away the notion of what is good or ill in the species 
 or society. For of the reality of such a good and ill, no 
 rational creature can possibly be insensible. Every one discerns 
 
 258
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 and owns a public interest, and is conscious of what affects his 
 fellowship or community. When we say, therefore, of a 
 creature "that he has wholly lost the sense of right and 
 wrong, " we suppose that being able to discern the good and ill 
 of his species, he has at the same time no concern for either, 
 nor any sense of excellency or baseness in any moral action 
 relating to one or the other. So that except merely with 
 respect to a private and narrowly confined self -good, 'tis 
 supposed there is in such a creature no liking or dislike of 
 manners ; no admiration or love of anything as morally good, 
 nor hatred of anything as morally ill, be it ever so unnatural 
 or deformed. 
 
 There is in reality no rational creature whatsoever who 
 knows not that when he voluntarily offends or does harm 
 to any one, he cannot fail to create an apprehension and fear 
 of like harm, and consequently a resentment and animosity 
 in every creature who observes him. So that the offender 
 must needs be conscious of being liable to such treatment 
 from every one as if he had in some degree offended all. 
 
 Thus offence and injury are always known as punishable 
 by every one; and equal behaviour (which is therefore called 
 merit) as rewardable and well-deserving from every one. Of 
 this even the wickedest creature living must have a sense. So 
 that if there be any further meaning in this sense of right and 
 wrong ; if in reality there be any sense of this kind which an 
 absolute wicked creature has not ; it must consist in a real anti- 
 pathy or aversion to injustice or wrong, and in a real affection 
 or love towards equity and right for its own sake, and on the 
 account of its own natural beauty and worth. 
 
 'Tis impossible to suppose a mere sensible creature originally 
 so ill-constituted and unnatural as that, from the moment he 
 comes to be tried by sensible objects, he should have no one 
 good passion towards his kind, no foundation either of pity, 
 love, kindness, or social affection. 'Tis full as impossible to 
 conceive that a rational creature coming first to be tried by 
 
 259
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 rational objects, and receiving into his mind the images or 
 representations of justice, generosity, gratitude, or other virtue, 
 should have no liking of these or dislike of their contraries, 
 but be found absolutely indifferent towards whatsoever is 
 presented to him of this sort. A soul, indeed, may as well be 
 without sense as without admiration in the things of which 
 it has any knowledge. Coming therefore to a capacity of 
 seeing and admiring in this new way, it must needs find a 
 beauty and a deformity as well in actions, minds, and tempers, 
 as in figures, sounds, or colours. If there be no real amiableness 
 or deformity in moral acts, there is at least an imaginary one 
 of full force. Though perhaps the thing itself should not be 
 allowed in Nature, the imagination or fancy of it must be 
 allowed to be from Nature alone. Nor can anything besides 
 art and strong endeavour, with long practice and meditation, 
 overcome such a natural prevention or prepossession of the 
 mind in favour of this moral distinction. 1 
 
 Sense of right and wrong therefore being as natural to us 
 as natural affection itself, and being a first principle in our 
 constitution and make, there is no speculative opinion, per- 
 suasion, or belief, which is capable immediately or directly 
 to exclude or destroy it. That which is of original and pure 
 nature, nothing beside contrary habit and custom (a second 
 nature) is able to displace. And this affection being an original 
 one of earliest rise in the soul or affectionate part, nothing 
 beside contrary affection, by frequent check and control, can 
 operate upon it, so as either to diminish it in part or destroy 
 it in the whole. 
 
 Tis evident in what relates to the frame and order of our 
 
 bodies, that no particular odd mien or gesture, which is either 
 
 natural to us and consequent to our make, or accidental and 
 
 by habit acquired, can possibly be overcome by our immediate 
 
 disapprobation, or the contrary bent of our will ever so 
 
 strongly set against it. Such a change cannot be effected 
 
 1 The Moralists, part iii. 2. 
 
 260
 
 without extraordinary means, and the intervention of art and 
 method, a strict attention, and repeated check. And even 
 thus, Nature we find is hardly mastered, but lies sullen, and 
 ready to revolt on the first occasion. Much more is this the 
 mind's case in respect of that natural affection and anticipating 
 fancy which makes the sense of right and wrong. 'Tis impos- 
 sible that this can instantly, or without much force and 
 violence, be effaced, or struck out of the natural temper, even 
 by means of the most extravagant belief or opinion in the 
 world. 
 
 Neither Theism therefore, nor Atheism, nor Daemonism, 
 nor any religious or irreligious belief of any kind being able 
 to operate immediately or directly in this case, but indirectly, 
 by the intervention of opposite or of favourable affections 
 casually excited by any such belief, we may consider of this 
 effect in our last case, where we come to examine the agreement 
 or disagreement of other affections with this natural and moral 
 one which relates to right and wrong. 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 2. As to the second case, viz. the wrong sense or false imagina- 
 tion of right and wrong. 
 
 This can proceed only from the force of custom and educa- 
 tion in opposition to Nature, as may be noted in those countries 
 where, according to custom or politic institution, certain actions 
 naturally foul and odious are repeatedly viewed with applause, 
 and honour ascribed to them. For thus 'tis possible that a 
 man, forcing himself, may eat the flesh of his enemies, not only 
 against his stomach, but against his nature, and think it 
 nevertheless both right and honourable, as supposing it to be 
 of considerable service to his community, and capable of 
 advancing the name and spreading the terror of his nation. 
 
 But to speak of the opinions relating to a Deity, and what 
 effect they may have in this place. As to atheism, it does not 
 
 261
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 seem that it can directly have any effect at all towards the 
 setting tip a false species of right or wrong. For notwith- 
 standing a man may through custom, or by licentiousness of 
 practice, favoured by atheism, come in time to lose much of 
 his natural moral sense, 1 yet it does not seem that atheism 
 should of itself be the cause of any estimation or valuing of 
 anything as fair, noble, and deserving, which was the contrary. 
 It can never, for instance, make it be thought that the being 
 able to eat man's flesh, or commit bestiality, is good and 
 excellent in itself. But this is certain, that by means of 
 corrupt religion or superstition, many things the most horridly 
 unnatural and inhuman come to be received as excellent, good, 
 and laudable in themselves. 
 
 Nor is this a wonder. For wherever anything, in its nature 
 odious and abominable, is by religion advanced, as the supposed 
 will or pleasure of a supreme Deity, if in the eye of the believer 
 it appears not indeed in any respect the less ill or odious on 
 this account, then must the Deity of necessity bear the blame, 
 and be considered as a being naturally ill and odious, how- 
 ever courted and solicited through mistrust and fear. But 
 this is what religion, in the main, forbids us to imagine. It 
 everywhere prescribes esteem and honour in company with 
 worship and adoration. Whensoever therefore it teaches the 
 love and admiration of a Deity who has any apparent character 
 of ill, it teaches at the same time a love and admiration of that 
 ill, and causes that to be taken for good and amiable which is 
 in itself horrid and detestable. 
 
 For instance, if Jupiter be he who is adored and reverenced, 
 and if his history represents him amorously inclined, and per- 
 mitting his desires of this kind to wander in the loosest manner, 
 ^tis certain that his worshippers, believing this history to be 
 literally and strictly true, must of course be taught a greater 
 
 1 [This expression appears to have been first introduced into ethics 
 by Shaftesbury. It occurs several times above in the marginal headings 
 of the Inquiry.] 
 
 262
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 love of amorous and wanton acts. If there be a religion which 
 teaches the adoration and love of a God whose character it is to 
 be captious and of high resentment, subject to wrath and anger, 
 furious, revengeful, and revenging himself, when offended, on 
 others than those who gave the offence ; and if there be added 
 to the character of this God a fraudulent disposition, encouraging 
 deceit and treachery amongst men, favourable to a few, though 
 for slight causes, and cruel to the rest, 'tis evident that such a 
 religion as this being strongly enforced must of necessity raise 
 even an approbation and respect towards the vices of this kind, 
 and breed a suitable disposition, a capricious, partial, revengeful, 
 and deceitful temper. For even irregularities and enormities of 
 a heinous kind must in many cases appear illustrious to one 
 who considers them in a being admired and contemplated with 
 the highest honour and veneration. 
 
 This indeed must be allowed, that if in the cult or worship 
 of such a Deity there be nothing beyond common form, nothing 
 beside what proceeds from mere example, custom, constraint, or 
 fear ; if there be, at the bottom, no real heartiness, no esteem 
 or love implied, the worshipper perhaps may not be much misled 
 as to his notion of right and wrong. If in following the precepts 
 of his supposed God, or doing what he esteems necessary towards 
 the satisfying of such his Deity, he is compelled only by fear, 
 and, contrary to his inclination, performs an act which he 
 secretly detests as barbarous and unnatural, then has he an 
 apprehension or sense still of right and wrong, and, according 
 to what has been already observed, is sensible of ill in the char- 
 acter of his God, however cautious he may be of pronouncing 
 anything on this subject, or so thinking of it as to frame any 
 formal or direct opinion in the case. But if by insensible 
 degrees, as he proceeds in his religious faith and devout exercise, 
 he comes to be more and more reconciled to the malignity, 
 arbitrariness, partiality, or revengefulness of his believed Deity, 
 his reconciliation with these qualities themselves will soon grow 
 in proportion, and the most cruel, unjust, and barbarous acts 
 
 263
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 will, by the power of this example, be often considered by 
 him not only as just and lawful, but as divine and worthy of 
 imitation. 
 
 For whoever thinks there is a God, and pretends formally to 
 believe that he is just and good, must suppose that there is 
 independently such a thing as justice and injustice, truth and 
 falsehood, right and wrong, according to which he pronounces 
 that God is just, righteous, and true. If the mere will, decree, 
 or law of God be said absolutely to constitute right and wrong, 
 then are these latter words of no significancy at all. 1 For thus, 
 if each part of a contradiction were affirmed for truth by the 
 Supreme Power, they would consequently become true. Thus 
 if one person were decreed to suffer for another's fault, the 
 sentence would be just and equitable. And thus, in the same 
 manner, if arbitrarily and without reason some beings were 
 destined to endure perpetual ill, and others as constantly to 
 enjoy good, this also would pass under the same denomination. 
 But to say of anything that it is just or unjust on such a 
 foundation as this, is to say nothing, or to speak without a 
 meaning. 
 
 And thus it appears that where a real devotion and hearty 
 worship is paid to a Supreme Being, who in his history or char- 
 acter is represented otherwise than as really and truly just and 
 good, there must ensue a loss of rectitude, a disturbance of 
 thought, and a corruption of temper and manners in the 
 believer. His honesty will of necessity be supplanted by his 
 zeal, whilst he is thus unnaturally influenced, and rendered 
 thus immorally devout 
 
 To this we need only add, that as the ill character of a 
 God does injury to the affections of men, and disturbs and 
 impairs the natural sense of right and wrong, so, on the other 
 hand, nothing can more highly contribute to the fixing of right 
 apprehensions, and a sound judgment or sense of right and 
 
 1 [The reference is probably to Locke, Essay, bk. i. ch. iii. 6. Cp. 
 Spinoza, Ethics, part i. Prop. xvii. Scholium.] 
 
 264
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 wrong, than to believe a God who is ever and on all accounts 
 represented such as to be actually a true model and example of 
 the most exact justice and highest goodness and worth. Such 
 a view of divine providence and bounty extended to all, and 
 expressed in a constant good affection towards the whole, must 
 of necessity engage us, within our compass and sphere, to act 
 by a like principle and affection. And having once the good 
 of our species or public in view, as our end or aim, 'tis impossible 
 we should be misguided by any means to a false apprehension 
 or sense of right or wrong. 
 
 As to this second case therefore, religion (according as the 
 kind may prove) is capable of doing great good or harm, and 
 atheism nothing positive in either way. For however it may 
 be indirectly an occasion of men's losing a good and sufficient 
 sense of right and wrong, it will not, as atheism merely, be the 
 occasion of setting up a false species of it, which only false 
 religion or fantastical opinion, derived commonly from supersti- 
 tion and credulity, is able to effect. 
 
 SECTION III 
 
 Now as to the last case, the opposition made by other affections 
 to the natural sense of right and wrong. 
 
 Tis evident that a creature having this sort of sense or good 
 affection in any degree must necessarily act according to it, if 
 it happens not to be opposed, either by some settled sedate 
 affection towards a conceived private good, or by some sudden, 
 strong, and forcible passion, as of lust or anger, which may not 
 only subdue the sense of right and wrong, but the very sense of 
 private good itself, and over-rule even the most familiar and 
 received opinion of what is conducing to self-interest. 
 
 But it is not our business in this place to examine the 
 several means or methods by which this corruption is intro- 
 duced or increased. We are to consider only how the opinions 
 concerning a Deity can influence one way or another. 
 
 265
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 That it is possible for a creature capable of using reflection 
 to have a liking or dislike of moral actions, and consequently 
 a sense of right and wrong, before such time as he may have 
 any settled notion of a God, is what will hardly be questioned ; 
 it being a thing not expected, or any way possible, that a 
 creature such as man, arising from his childhood slowly and 
 gradually to several degrees of reason and reflection, should 
 at the very first be taken up with those speculations or more 
 refined sort of reflections, about the subject of God's existence. 
 
 Let us suppose a creature who, wanting reason and being 
 unable to reflect, has notwithstanding many good qualities 
 and affections, as love to his kind, courage, gratitude, or pity. 
 'Tis certain that if you give to this creature a reflecting faculty, 
 it will at the same instant approve of gratitude, kindness, and 
 pity ; be taken with any show or representation of the social 
 passion, and think nothing more amiable than this, or more 
 odious than the contrary. And this is to be capable of virtue, 
 and to have a sense of right and wrong. 
 
 Before the time, therefore, that a creature can have any 
 plain or positive notion one way or other concerning the 
 subject of a God, he may be supposed to have an apprehension 
 or sense of right and wrong, and be possessed of virtue and vice 
 in different degrees, as we know by experience of those who, 
 having lived in such places and in such a manner as never to 
 have entered into any serious thoughts of religion, are neverthe- 
 less very different among themselves, as to their characters of 
 honesty and worth : some being naturally modest, kind, friendly, 
 and consequently lovers of kind and friendly actions; others 
 proud, harsh, cruel, and consequently inclined to admire rather 
 the acts of violence and mere power. 
 
 Now as to the belief of a Deity, and how men are influenced 
 by it, we may consider, in the first place, on what account men 
 yield obedience, and act in conformity to such a supreme Being. 
 It must be either in the way of his power, as presupposing some 
 disadvantage or benefit to accrue from him ; or in the way of 
 
 266
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 his excellency and worth, as thinking it the perfection of nature 
 to imitate and resemble him. 
 
 If (as in the first case) there be a belief or conception of a 
 Deity who is considered only as powerful over his creature, and 
 enforcing obedience to his absolute will by particular rewards 
 and punishments ; and if on this account, through hope merely 
 of reward, or fear of punishment, the creature be incited to do 
 the good he hates, or restrained from doing the ill to which he 
 is not otherwise in the least degree averse, there is in this case 
 (as has been already shown) no virtue or goodness whatsoever. 
 The creature, notwithstanding his good conduct, is intrinsically 
 of as little worth as if he acted in his natural way, when under 
 no dread or terror of any sort. There is no more of rectitude, 
 piety, or sanctity in a creature thus reformed, than there is 
 meekness or gentleness in a tiger strongly chained, or innocence 
 and sobriety in a monkey under the discipline of the whip. 
 For however orderly and well those animals, or man himself 
 upon like terms, may be induced to act, whilst the will is neither 
 gained nor the inclination wrought upon, but awe alone prevails 
 and forces obedience, the obedience is servile, and all which is 
 done through it merely servile. The greater degree of such a 
 submission or obedience is only the greater servility, whatever 
 may be the object. For whether such a creature has a good 
 master or an ill one, he is neither more nor less servile in his 
 own nature. Be the master or superior ever so perfect or 
 excellent, yet the greater submission caused in this case, through 
 this sole principle or motive, is only the lower and more abject 
 servitude, and implies the greater wretchedness and meanness 
 in the creature, who has those passions of self-love so pre- 
 dominant, and is in his temper so vicious and defective as has 
 been explained. 
 
 As to the second case. If there be a belief or conception of 
 a Deity who is considered as worthy and good, and admired 
 and reverenced as such, being understood to have, besides mere 
 power and knowledge, the highest excellence of nature, such as 
 
 267
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 renders him justly amiable to all ; and if in the manner this 
 Sovereign and mighty Being is represented, or as he is historic- 
 ally described, there appears in him a high and eminent regard 
 to what is good and excellent, a concern for the good of all, 
 and an affection of benevolence and love towards the whole, 
 such an example must undoubtedly serve (as above explained) 
 to raise and increase the affection towards virtue, and help to 
 submit and subdue all other affections to that alone. 
 
 Nor is this good effected by example merely. For where 
 the theistical belief is entire and perfect, there must be a steady 
 opinion of the superintendency of a supreme Being, a witness 
 and spectator of human life, and conscious of whatsoever is felt 
 or acted in the universe; so that in the perfectest recess or 
 deepest solitude there must be One still presumed remaining 
 with us, whose presence singly must be of more moment than 
 that of the most august assembly on earth. In such a presence, 
 'tis evident that as the shame of guilty actions must be the 
 greatest of any, so must the honour be of well-doing, even 
 under the unjust censure of a world. And in this case 'tis very 
 apparent how conducing a perfect theism must be to virtue, 
 and how great deficiency there is in atheism. 
 
 What the fear of future punishment and hope of future 
 reward, added to this belief, may further contribute towards 
 virtue, we come now to consider more particularly. So much 
 in the meanwhile may be gathered from what has been said 
 above, that neither this fear nor hope can possibly be of the 
 kind called good affections, such as are acknowledged the 
 springs and sources of all actions truly good. Nor can this 
 fear or hope, as above intimated, consist in reality with virtue 
 or goodness, if it either stands as essential to any moral 
 performance, or as a considerable motive to any act, of which 
 some better affection ought alone to have been a sufficient cause. 
 
 It may be considered withal, that in this religious sort of 
 discipline, the principle of self-love, which is naturally so pre- 
 vailing in us, being no way moderated or restrained, but rather 
 
 268
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 improved and made stronger every day by the exercise of the 
 passions in a subject of more extended self-interest, there may 
 be reason to apprehend lest the temper of this kind should 
 extend itself in general through all the parts of life. For if 
 the habit be such as to occasion, in every particular, a stricter 
 attention to self good and private interest, it must insensibly 
 diminish the affections towards public good or the interest of 
 society, and introduce a certain narrowness of spirit, which (as 
 some pretend) is peculiarly observable in the devout persons 
 and zealots of almost every religious persuasion. 
 
 This, too, must be confessed : that if it be true piety to 
 love God for his own sake, the over-solicitous regard to private 
 good expected from him must of necessity prove a diminution 
 of piety. For whilst God is beloved only as the cause of private 
 good, he is no otherwise beloved than as any other instrument 
 or means of pleasure by any vicious creature. Now the more 
 there is of this violent affection towards private good, the less 
 room is there for the other sort towards goodness itself, or any 
 good and deserving object, worthy of love and admiration for 
 its own sake, such as God is universally acknowledged, or at 
 least by the generality of civilised or refined worshippers. 1 
 
 'Tis in this respect that the strong desire and love of life 
 may also prove an obstacle to piety, as well as to virtue 
 and public love. For the stronger this affection is in any one, 
 the less will he be able to have true resignation, or submission 
 to the rule and order of the Deity. And if that which he calls 
 resignation depends only on the expectation of infinite retribu- 
 tion or reward, he discovers no more worth or virtue here 
 than in any other bargain of interest. The meaning of his 
 resignation being only this, " That he resigns his present life 
 and pleasures conditionally, for that which he himself confesses 
 to be beyond an equivalent : eternal living in a state of highest 
 pleasure and enjoyment." 
 
 1 [Cp. Spinoza, Ethics, part ii. (end) ; part iv. Prop. Ixiii ; part v. 
 Props, xvii.-xix.] 
 
 269
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 But notwithstanding the injury which the principle of 
 virtue may possibly suffer by the increase of the selfish passion 
 in the way we have been mentioning, "'tis certain, on the other 
 side, that the principle of fear of future punishment, and hope 
 of future reward, how mercenary or servile soever it may be 
 accounted, is yet in many circumstances a great advantage, 
 security, and support to virtue. 
 
 It has been already considered, that notwithstanding there 
 may be implanted in the heart a real sense of right and wrong, 
 a real good affection towards the species or society, yet by 
 the violence of rage, lust, or any other counter-working passion, 
 this good affection may frequently be controlled and overcome. 
 Where therefore there is nothing in the mind capable to render 
 such ill passions the objects of its aversion, and cause them 
 earnestly to be opposed, 'tis apparent how much a good 
 temper in time must suffer, and a character by degrees change 
 for the worse. But if religion, interposing, creates a belief 
 that the ill passions of this kind, no less than their consequent 
 actions, are the objects of a Deity's animadversion, 'tis certain 
 that such a belief must prove a seasonable remedy against 
 vice, and be in a particular manner advantageous to virtue. 
 For a belief of this kind must be supposed to tend considerably 
 towards the calming of the mind, and disposing or fitting the 
 person to a better recollection of himself, and to a stricter 
 observance of that good and virtuous principle which needs 
 only his attention to engage him wholly in its party and 
 interest. 
 
 And as this belief of a future reward and punishment is 
 capable of supporting those who through ill practice are like 
 to apostatise from virtue, so when by ill opinion and wrong 
 thought the mind itself is bent against the honest course, 
 and debauched even to an esteem and deliberate preference of 
 a vicious one, the belief of the kind mentioned may prove on 
 this occasion the only relief and safety. 
 
 A person, for instance, who has much of goodness and 
 
 270
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 natural rectitude in his temper, but withal so much softness or 
 effeminacy as unfits him to bear poverty, crosses, or adversity, 
 if by ill fortune he meets with many trials of this kind, it must 
 certainly give a sourness and distaste to his temper, and- make 
 him exceedingly averse to that which he may falsely presume 
 the occasion of such calamity or ill. Now if his own thoughts, 
 or the corrupt insinuations of other men, present it often to 
 his mind "that his honesty is the occasion of this calamity, 
 and that if he were delivered from this restraint of virtue and 
 honesty, he might be much happier, 11 'tis very obvious that 
 his esteem of these good qualities must in proportion diminish 
 every day as the temper grows uneasy and quarrels with itself. 
 But if he opposes to this thought the consideration " that 
 honesty carries with it, if not a present, at least a future 
 advantage, such as to compensate that loss of private good 
 which he regrets," then may this injury to his good temper 
 and honest principle be prevented, and his love or affection 
 towards honesty and virtue remain as it was before. 
 
 In the same manner, where instead of regard or love there 
 is rather an aversion to what is good and virtuous (as, for 
 instance, where lenity and forgiveness are despised, and revenge 
 highly thought of and beloved), if there be this consideration 
 added, "That lenity is, by its rewards, made the cause of a 
 greater self -good and enjoyment than what is found in 
 revenge," that very affection of lenity and mildness may 
 come to be industriously nourished, and the contrary passion 
 depressed. And thus temperance, modesty, candour, benignity, 
 and other good affections, however despised at first, may come 
 at last to be valued for their own sakes, the contrary species 
 rejected, and the good and proper object beloved and prose- 
 cuted, when the reward or punishment is not so much as 
 thought of. 
 
 Thus in a civil state or public we see that a virtuous 
 administration, and an equal and just distribution of rewards 
 and punishments, is of the highest service, not only by 
 
 271
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 restraining the vicious, and forcing them to act usefully to 
 society, but by making virtue to be apparently the interest 
 of every one, so as to remove all prejudices against it, create 
 a fair reception for it, and lead men into that path which 
 afterwards they cannot easily quit. For thus a people raised 
 from barbarity or despotic rule, civilised by laws, and made 
 virtuous by the long course of a lawful and just administration, 
 if they chance to fall suddenly under any misgovernment of 
 unjust and arbitrary power, they will on this account be the 
 rather animated to exert a stronger virtue in opposition to 
 such violence and corruption. And even where, by long and 
 continued arts of a prevailing tyranny, such a people are at 
 last totally oppressed, the scattered seeds of virtue will for a 
 long time remain alive, even to a second generation, ere the 
 utmost force of misapplied rewards and punishments can 
 bring them to the abject and compliant state of long-accustomed 
 slaves. 
 
 But though a right distribution of justice in a government 
 be so essential a cause of virtue, we must observe in this case 
 that it is example which chiefly influences mankind, and forms 
 the character and disposition of a people. For a virtuous 
 administration is in a manner necessarily accompanied with 
 virtue in the magistrate. Otherwise it could be of little effect, 
 and of no long duration. But where it is sincere and well 
 established, there virtue and the laws must necessarily be 
 respected and beloved. So that, as to punishments and rewards, 
 their efficacy is not so much from the fear or expectation which 
 they raise, as from a natural esteem of virtue and detestation 
 of villainy, which is awakened and excited by these public ex- 
 pressions of the approbation and hatred of mankind in each 
 case. For in the public executions of the greatest villains 
 we see generally that the infamy and odiousness of their crime, 
 and the shame of it before mankind, contribute more to their 
 misery than all besides ; and that it is not the immediate pain 
 of death itself which raises so much horror either in the 
 
 272
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 sufferers or spectators, as that ignominious kind of death 
 which is inflicted for public crimes and violations of justice 
 and humanity. 
 
 And as the case of reward and punishment stands thus in 
 the public, so, in the same manner, as to private families. For 
 slaves and mercenary servants, restrained and made orderly by 
 punishment and the severity of their master, are not on this 
 account made good or honest. Yet the same master of the 
 family using proper rewards and gentle punishments towards his 
 children, teaches them goodness, and by this help instructs them 
 in a virtue which afterwards they practise upon other grounds, 
 and without thinking of a penalty or bribe. And this is what 
 we call a liberal education and a liberal service ; the contrary 
 service and obedience, whether towards God or man, being 
 illiberal and unworthy of any honour or commendation. 
 
 In the case of religion, however, it must be considered that 
 if by the hope of reward be understood the love and desire of 
 virtuous enj oyment, or of the very practice and exercise of virtue 
 in another life, the expectation or hope of this kind is so far 
 from being derogatory to virtue, that it is an evidence of our 
 loving it the more sincerely and for its own sake. Nor can this 
 principle be justly called selfish ; for if the love of virtue be not 
 mere self-interest, the love and desire of life for virtue's sake 
 cannot be esteemed so. But if the desire of life be only through 
 the violence of that natural aversion to death, if it be through 
 the love of something else than virtuous affection, or through 
 the unwillingness of parting with something else than what is 
 purely of this kind, then is it no longer any sign or token of 
 real virtue. 
 
 Thus a person loving life for life's sake, and virtue not at all, 
 may by the promise or hope of life, and fear of death or other 
 evil, be induced to practise virtue, and even endeavour to be 
 truly virtuous by a love of what he practises. Yet neither is 
 this very endeavour to be esteemed a virtue. For though he 
 may intend to be virtuous, he is not become so for having only 
 VOL. I 273 T
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 intended or aimed at it through love of the reward. But as 
 soon as he is come to have any affection towards what is morally 
 good, and can like or affect such good for its own sake, as good 
 and amiable in itself, then is he in some degree good and 
 virtuous, and not till then. 
 
 Such are the advantages or disadvantages which accrue to 
 virtue from reflection upon private good or interest. For 
 though the habit of selfishness and the multiplicity of interested 
 views are of little improvement to real merit or virtue, yet 
 there is a necessity for the preservation of virtue, that it should 
 be thought to have no quarrel with true interest and self- 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Whoever, therefore, by any strong persuasion or settled 
 judgment, thinks in the main that virtue causes happiness and 
 vice misery, carries with him that security and assistance to 
 virtue which is required. Or though he has no such thought, 
 nor can believe virtue his real interest, either with respect to 
 his own nature and constitution, or the circumstances of human 
 life, yet if he believes any supreme powers concerned in the 
 present affairs of mankind, immediately interposing in behalf 
 of the honest and virtuous against the impious and unjust, this 
 will serve to preserve in him, however, that just esteem of virtue 
 which might otherwise considerably diminish. Or should he 
 still believe little of the immediate interposition of Providence 
 in the affairs of this present life, yet if he believes a God 
 dispensing rewards and punishments to vice and virtue in a 
 future, he carries with him still the same advantage and 
 security, whilst his belief is steady and nowise wavering or 
 doubtful. For it must be observed, that an expectation and 
 dependency so miraculous and great as this, must naturally 
 take off from other inferior dependencies and encouragements. 
 Where infinite rewards are thus enforced, and the imagination 
 strongly turned towards them, the other common and natural 
 motives to goodness are apt to be neglected and lose much by 
 disuse. Other interests are hardly so much as computed, whilst 
 
 274
 
 the mind is thus transported in the pursuit of a high advantage, 
 and self-interest so narrowly confined within ourselves. On 
 this account, all other affections towards friends, relations, 
 or mankind are often slightly regarded, as being worldly and of 
 little moment in respect of the interest of our soul. And so 
 little thought is there of any immediate satisfaction arising from 
 such good offices of life, that it is customary with many devout 
 people zealously to decry all temporal advantages of goodness, 
 all natural benefits of virtue, and magnifying the contrary 
 happiness of a vicious state, to declare " that except only for 
 the sake of future reward and fear of future punishment, they 
 would divest themselves of all goodness at once, and freely allow 
 themselves to be most immoral and profligate." From whence 
 it appears that in some respects there can be nothing more 
 fatal to virtue than the weak and uncertain belief of a future 
 reward and punishment. 1 For the stress being laid wholly here, 
 if this foundation come to fail, there is no further prop or 
 security to men^s morals. And thus virtue is supplanted and 
 betrayed. 
 
 Now as to atheism ; though it be plainly deficient and 
 without remedy, in the case of ill judgment on the happiness of 
 virtue, yet it is not, indeed, of necessity the cause of any such 
 ill judgment. For without an absolute assent to any hypothesis 
 of theism, the advantages of virtue may possibly be seen and 
 owned, and a high opinion of it established in the mind. 
 However, it must be confessed that the natural tendency of 
 atheism is very different. 
 
 Tis in a manner impossible to have any great opinion of the 
 happiness of virtue without conceiving high thoughts of the satis- 
 faction resulting from the generous admiration and love of it ; 
 and nothing beside the experience of such a love is likely to 
 make this satisfaction credited. The chief ground and support 
 therefore of this opinion of happiness in virtue must arise from 
 the powerful feeling of this generous moral affection, and the 
 1 Essay on Wit and Humour, part ii. 3. 
 
 275
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 knowledge of its power and strength. But this is certain, that 
 it can be no great strengthening to the moral affection, no 
 great support to the pure love of goodness and virtue, to suppose 
 there is neither goodness nor beauty in the Whole itself; nor 
 any example or precedent of good affection in any superior 
 Being. Such a belief must tend rather to the weaning the 
 affections from anything amiable or self-worthy, and to the 
 suppressing the very habit and familiar custom of admiring 
 natural beauties, or whatever in the order of things is according 
 to just design, harmony, and proportion. For how little dis- 
 posed must a person be to love or admire anything as orderly 
 in the universe who thinks the universe itself a pattern of 
 disorder? How unapt to reverence or respect any particular 
 subordinate beauty of a part, when even the Whole itself is 
 thought to want perfection, and to be only a vast and infinite 
 deformity ? 
 
 Nothing indeed can be more melancholy than the thought 
 of living in a distracted universe, from whence many ills may be 
 suspected, and where there is nothing good or lovely which 
 presents itself, nothing which can satisfy in contemplation, or 
 raise any passion besides that of contempt, hatred, or dislike. 
 Such an opinion as this may by degrees embitter the temper, 
 and not only make the love of virtue to be less felt, but help to 
 impair and ruin the very principle of virtue, viz. natural and 
 kind affection. 
 
 Upon the whole, whoever has a firm belief of a God whom 
 he does not merely call good, but of whom in reality he believes 
 nothing beside real good, nothing beside what is truly suitable 
 to the exactest character of benignity and goodness; such a 
 person believing rewards or retributions in another life, must 
 believe them annexed to real goodness and merit, real villainy 
 and baseness, and not to any accidental qualities or circum- 
 stances, in which respect they cannot properly be styled rewards 
 or punishments, but capricious distributions of happiness or 
 unhappiness to creatures. These are the only terms on which 
 
 276
 
 the belief of a world to come can happily influence the believer. 
 And on these terms, and by virtue of this belief, man perhaps 
 may retain his virtue and integrity, even under the hardest 
 thoughts of human nature, when either by any ill circumstance 
 or untoward doctrine he is brought to that unfortunate opinion 
 of Virtue's being naturally an enemy to happiness in life. 
 
 This, however, is an opinion which cannot be supposed 
 consistent with sound theism. For whatever be decided as to 
 a future life, or the rewards and punishments of hereafter, he 
 who, as a sound theist, believes a reigning mind sovereign in 
 Nature, and ruling all things with the highest perfection of 
 goodness, as well as of wisdom and power, must necessarily 
 believe virtue to be naturally good and advantageous. 1 For 
 what could more strongly imply an unjust ordinance, a blot 
 and imperfection in the general constitution of things, than to 
 suppose virtue the natural ill, and vice the natural good of any 
 creature ? 
 
 And now, last of all, there remains for us to consider a yet 
 further advantage to virtue, in the theistical belief above the 
 atheistical. The proposition may at first sight appear over- 
 refined, and of a sort which is esteemed too nicely philosophical. 
 But after what has been already examined, the subject perhaps 
 may be more easily explained. 
 
 There is no creature, according to what has been already 
 proved, who must not of necessity be ill in some degree, by 
 having any affection or aversion in a stronger degree than is 
 suitable to his own private good, or that of the system to which 
 he is joined. For in either case the affection is ill and vicious. 
 Now if a rational creature has that degree of aversion which is 
 requisite to arm him against any particular misfortune, and 
 alarm him against the approach of any calamity, this is regular 
 and well. Hut if after the misfortune is happened, his aversion 
 continues still, and his passion rather grows upon him, whilst 
 he rages at the accident and exclaims against his private fortune 
 1 [Cp. Spinoza, Ethics, part v. Prop. xli. and Scholium.] 
 
 277
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 or lot, this will be acknowledged both vicious in present and for 
 the future, as it affects the temper, and disturbs that easy course 
 of the affections on which virtue and goodness so much depend. 
 On the other side, the patient enduring of the calamity, and 
 the bearing up of the mind under it, must be acknowledged 
 immediately virtuous and preservative of virtue. Now, accord- 
 ing to the hypothesis of those who exclude a general mind, it 
 must be confessed there can nothing happen in the course of 
 things to deserve either our admiration and love or our anger 
 and abhorrence. However, as there can be no satisfaction at 
 the best in thinking upon what atoms and chance produce, so 
 upon disastrous occasions, and under the circumstances of a 
 calamitous and hard fortune, 'tis scarce possible to prevent a 
 natural kind of abhorrence and spleen, which will be entertained 
 and kept alive by the imagination of so perverse an order of 
 things. But in another hypothesis (that of perfect theism) it 
 is understood " that whatever the order of the world produces, 
 is in the main both just and good." Therefore in the course of 
 things in this world, whatever hardship of events may seem to 
 force from any rational creature a hard censure of his private 
 condition or lot, he may by reflection nevertheless come to have 
 patience, and to acquiesce in it. Nor is this all. He may go 
 further still in this reconciliation, and from the same principle 
 may make the lot itself an object of his good affection, whilst 
 he strives to maintain this generous fealty, and stands so well 
 disposed towards the laws and government of his higher 
 country. 
 
 Such an affection must needs create the highest constancy 
 in any state of sufferance, and make us in the best manner 
 support whatever hardships are to be endured for virtue's sake. 
 And as this affection must of necessity cause a greater acquies- 
 cence and complacency with respect to ill accidents, ill men, and 
 injuries, so of course it cannot fail of producing still a greater 
 equality, gentleness, and benignity in the temper. Consequently 
 the affection must be a truly good one, and a creature the more 
 
 278
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 truly good and virtuous by possessing it. For whatsoever is 
 the occasion or means of more affectionately uniting a rational 
 creature to his part in society, and causes him to prosecute the 
 public good or interest of his species with more zeal and 
 affection than ordinary, is undoubtedly the cause of more than 
 ordinary virtue in such a person. 
 
 This too is certain, that the admiration and love of order, 
 harmony, and proportion, in whatever kind, is naturally improv- 
 ing to the temper, advantageous to social affection, and highly 
 assistant to virtue, which is itself no other than the love of 
 order and beauty in society. In the meanest subjects of the 
 world, the appearance of order gains upon the mind and draws 
 the affection towards it. But if the order of the world itself 
 appears just and beautiful, the admiration and esteem of order 
 must run higher, and the elegant passion or love of beauty, 
 which is so advantageous to virtue, must be the more improved 
 by its exercise in so ample and magnificent a subject. For 'tis 
 impossible that such a divine order should be contemplated 
 without ecstasy and rapture, since in the common subjects of 
 science and the liberal arts, whatever is according to just 
 harmony and proportion is so transporting to those who have 
 any knowledge or practice in the kind. 
 
 Now if the subject and ground of this divine passion be not 
 really just or adequate (the hypothesis of theism being supposed 
 false) the passion still in itself is so far natural and good, as it 
 proves an advantage to virtue and goodness, according to what 
 has been above demonstrated. But if, on the other side, 
 the subject of this passion be really adequate and just (the 
 hypothesis of theism being real, and not imaginary), then is 
 the passion also just, and becomes absolutely due and requisite 
 in every rational creature. 
 
 Hence we may determine justly the relation which Virtue 
 has to Piety, the first being not complete but in the latter, 
 since where the latter is wanting, there can neither be the same 
 
 279
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 benignity, firmness, or constancy, the same good composure of 
 the affections or uniformity of mind. 
 
 And thus the perfection and height of virtue must be owing 
 to the belief of a God. 1 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 PART I 
 
 SECTION I 
 
 WE have considered what virtue is and to whom the character 
 belongs. It remains to inquire, what obligation there is to 
 virtue, or what reason to embrace it. 
 
 We have found that, to deserve the name of good or 
 virtuous, a creature must have all his inclinations and affections, 
 his dispositions of mind and temper, suitable, and agreeing with 
 the good of his kind, or of that system in which he is included, 
 and of which he constitutes a part. To stand thus well affected, 
 and to have one's affections right and entire, not only in respect 
 of oneself but of society and the public, this is rectitude, 
 integrity, or virtue. And to be wanting in any of these, or to 
 have their contraries, is depravity, corruption, and vice. 
 
 It has been already shown, that in the passions and affec- 
 tions of particular creatures there is a constant relation to the 
 interest of a species or common nature. This has been demon- 
 strated in the case of natural affection, parental kindness, zeal 
 for posterity, concern for the propagation and nurture of the 
 young, love of fellowship and company, compassion, mutual 
 succour, and the rest of this kind. Nor will any one deny that 
 this affection of a creature towards the good of the species or 
 common nature is as proper and natural to him as it is to any 
 
 1 [Cp. Spinoza, Ethics, part iv. Prop, xxviii.] 
 
 280
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 organ, part, or member of an animal body, or mere vegetable, 
 to work in its known course and regular way of growth. Tis 
 not more natural for the stomach to digest, the lungs to 
 breathe, the glands to separate juices, or other entrails to 
 perform their several offices, however they may by particular 
 impediments be sometimes disordered or obstructed in their 
 operations. 
 
 There being allowed therefore in a creature such affections 
 as these towards the common nature or system of the kind, 
 together with those other which regard the private nature or 
 self-system, it will appear that in following the first of these 
 affections, the creature must on many occasions contradict and 
 go against the latter. How else should the species be preserved ? 
 Or what would signify that implanted natural affection, by 
 which a creature through so many difficulties and hazards 
 preserves its offspring and supports its kind ? 
 
 It may therefore be imagined, perhaps, that there is a plain 
 and absolute opposition between these two habits or affections. 
 It may be presumed that the pursuing the common interest or 
 public good through the affections of one kind, must be a 
 hindrance to the attainment of private good through the 
 affections of another. For it being taken for granted that 
 hazards and hardships of whatever sort are naturally the ill of 
 the private state, and it being certainly the nature of those 
 public affections to lead often to the greatest hardships and 
 hazards of every kind, 'tis presently inferred " that 'tis the 
 creature's interest to be without any public affection whatsoever." 
 
 This we know for certain, that all social love, friendship, 
 gratitude, or whatever else is of this generous kind, does by its 
 nature take place of the self-interesting passions, draws us out 
 of ourselves, and makes us disregardful of our own convenience 
 and safety. So that according to a known way of reasoning 
 on self-interest, 1 that which is of a social kind in us should of 
 
 1 [i.e. that of Hobbes. See the Essay on Wit and Humour, part ii. 1, 
 and part Hi. 3.] 
 
 281
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 right be abolished. Thus kindness of every sort, indulgence, 
 tenderness, compassion, and, in short, all natural affection, should 
 be industriously suppressed, and as mere folly and weakness of 
 nature be resisted and overcome ; that by this means there 
 might be nothing remaining in us which was contrary to a 
 direct self-end ; nothing which might stand in opposition to a 
 steady and deliberate pursuit of the most narrowly confined 
 self-interest. 
 
 According to this extraordinary hypothesis, it must be 
 taken for granted " that in the system of a kind or species, 
 the interest of the private nature is directly opposite to that of 
 the common one, the interest of particulars directly opposite to 
 that of the public in general." A strange constitution ! in 
 which it must be confessed there is much disorder and unto- 
 wardness, unlike to what we observe elsewhere in Nature. As 
 if in any vegetable or animal body the part or member could 
 be supposed in a good and prosperous state as to itself, when 
 under a contrary disposition and in an unnatural growth or 
 habit as to its whole. 
 
 Now that this is in reality quite otherwise, we shall endeavour 
 to demonstrate, so as to make appear " that what men repre- 
 sent as an ill order and constitution in the universe, by making 
 moral rectitude appear the ill, and depravity the good or 
 advantage of a creature, is in Nature just the contrary. That 
 to be well affected towards the public interest and one's own 
 is not only consistent but inseparable ; and that moral rectitude 
 or virtue must accordingly be the advantage, and vice the 
 inj ury and disadvantage of every creature." 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 THERE are few perhaps who, when they consider a creature 
 void of natural affection and wholly destitute of a communica- 
 tive or social principle, will suppose him at the same time 
 either tolerably happy in himself, or as he stands abroad, with 
 
 282
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 respect to his fellow-creatures or kind. 'Tis generally thought 
 that such a creature as this feels slender joy in life, and finds 
 little satisfaction in the mere sensual pleasures which remain 
 with him, after the loss of social enjoyment and whatever can 
 be called humanity or good nature. We know that to such a 
 creature as this 'tis not only incident to be morose, rancorous, 
 and malignant ; but that of necessity a mind or temper thus 
 destitute of mildness and benignity must turn to that which 
 is contrary, and be wrought by passions of a different kind. 
 Such a heart as this must be a continual seat of perverse 
 inclinations and bitter aversions, raised from a constant ill- 
 humour, sourness, and disquiet. The consciousness of such a 
 nature, so obnoxious to mankind, and to all beings which 
 approach it, must overcloud the mind with dark suspicion and 
 jealousy, alarm it with fears and horror, and raise in it a con- 
 tinual disturbance, even in the most seeming fair and secure state 
 of fortune, and in the highest degree of outward prosperity. 
 
 This, as to the complete immoral state, is what, of their 
 own accord, men readily remark. Where there is this absolute 
 degeneracy, this total apostasy from all candour, equity, trust, 
 sociableness, or friendship, there are few who do not see and 
 acknowledge the misery which is consequent. Seldom is the 
 case misconstrued when at worst. The misfortune is, we look 
 not on this depravity, nor consider how it stands, in less 
 degrees. The calamity, we think, does not of necessity hold 
 proportion with the injustice or iniquity. As if to be absolutely 
 immoral and inhuman were indeed the greatest misfortune and 
 misery; but that to be so in a little degree should be no 
 misery nor harm at all. Which to allow, is just as reasonable 
 as to own that 'tis the greatest ill of a body to be in the 
 utmost manner distorted and maimed ; but that to lose the 
 use only of one limb, or to be impaired in some one single 
 organ or member, is no inconvenience or ill worthy the least 
 notice. 
 
 The parts and proportions of the mind, their mutual 
 
 283
 
 relation and dependency, the connection and frame of those 
 passions which constitute the soul or temper, may easily be 
 understood by any one who thinks it worth his while to study 
 this inward anatomy. 'Tis certain that the order or symmetry 
 of this inward part is in itself no less real and exact than 
 that of the body. However, 'tis apparent that few of us 
 endeavour to become anatomists of this sort. Nor is any one 
 ashamed of the deepest ignorance in such a subject. For 
 though the greatest misery and ill is generally owned to be 
 from disposition and temper ; though "'tis allowed that temper 
 may often change, and that it actually varies on many occasions, 
 much to our disadvantage ; yet how this matter is brought 
 about we inquire not. We never trouble ourselves to consider 
 thoroughly by what means or methods our inward constitution 
 comes at any time to be impaired or injured. The solutio 
 contlnui^ which bodily surgeons talk of, is never applied in 
 this case by surgeons of another sort. The notion of a whole 
 and parts is not apprehended in this science. We know not 
 what the effect is of straining any affection, indulging any 
 wrong passion, or relaxing any proper and natural habit or 
 good inclination. Nor can we conceive how a particular action 
 should have such a sudden influence on the whole mind as to 
 make the person an immediate sufferer. We suppose rather 
 that a man may violate his faith, commit any wickedness 
 unfamiliar to him before, engage in any vice or villainy, without 
 the least prejudice to himself, or any misery naturally following 
 from the ill action. 
 
 'Tis thus we hear it often said, " Such a person has done 
 ill indeed; but what is he the worse for it?" Yet, speaking 
 of any nature thoroughly savage, curst, and inveterate, we say 
 truly, " Such a one is a plague and torment to himself." And 
 we allow "that through certain humours or passions, and 
 from temper merely, a man may be completely miserable, let 
 his outward circumstances be ever so fortunate." These 
 different judgments sufficiently demonstrate that we are not 
 
 284
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 accustomed to think with much coherency on these moral 
 subjects ; and that our notions in this respect are not a little 
 confused and contradictory. 
 
 Now if the fabric of the mind or temper appeared such to 
 us as it really is ; if we saw it impossible to remove hence 
 any one good or orderly affection, or introduce any ill or 
 disorderly one, without drawing on, in some degree, that 
 dissolute state, which at its height is confessed to be so 
 miserable; 'twould then undoubtedly be owned that since no 
 ill, immoral, or unjust action could be committed without either 
 a new inroad and breach on the temper and passions, or a 
 farther advancing of that execution already begun, whoever 
 did ill, or acted in prejudice of his integrity, good-nature, 
 or worth, would of necessity act with greater cruelty towards 
 himself than he who scrupled not to swallow what was poisonous, 
 or who with his own hands should voluntarily mangle or wound 
 his outward form or constitution, natural limbs or body. 
 
 SECTION III 
 
 IT has been shown before, that no animal can be said properly 
 to act otherwise than through affections or passions, such as 
 are proper to an animal. For in convulsive fits, where a 
 creature strikes either himself or others, 'tis a simple mechanism, 
 an engine, or piece of clockwork, which acts, and not the 
 animal. 
 
 Whatsoever therefore is done or acted by any animal as 
 such, is done only through some affection or passion, as of fear, 
 love, or hatred moving him. 
 
 And as it is impossible that a weaker affection should over- 
 come a stronger, so it is impossible but that where the affections 
 or passions are strongest in the main, and form in general the 
 most considerable party, either by their force or number, 
 thither the animal must incline : and according to this balance 
 he must be governed and led to action. 
 
 285
 
 The affections or passions which must influence and govern 
 the animal are either 
 
 1. The natural affections, which lead to the good of the 
 public. 
 
 2. Or the self affections, which lead only to the good of 
 the private. 
 
 3. Or such as are neither of these, nor tending either to 
 any good of the public or private, but contrary-wise ; and which 
 may therefore be justly styled unnatural affections. 
 
 So that according as these affections stand, a creature must 
 be virtuous or vicious, good or ill. 
 
 The latter sort of these affections, 'tis evident, are wholly 
 vicious. The two former may be vicious or virtuous according 
 to their degree. 
 
 It may seem strange, perhaps, to speak of natural affections 
 as too strong, or of self affections as too weak. But to clear 
 this difficulty we must call to mind what has been already 
 explained, "That natural affection may, in particular cases, 
 be excessive, and in an unnatural degree. 1 " As when pity is 
 so overcoming as to destroy its own end, and prevent the 
 succour and relief required ; or as when love to the offspring 
 proves such a fondness as destroys the parent, and consequently 
 the offspring itself. And notwithstanding it may seem harsh to 
 call that unnatural and vicious which is only an extreme of some 
 natural and kind affection, yet 'tis most certain that wherever 
 any single good affection of this sort is over-great, it must be 
 injurious to the rest, and detract in some measure from their 
 force and natural operation. For a creature possessed with such 
 an immoderate degree of passion, must of necessity allow too 
 much to that one, and too little to others of the same character, 
 and equally natural and useful as to their end. And this must 
 necessarily be the occasion of partiality and injustice whilst 
 only one duty or natural part is earnestly followed, and other 
 parts or duties neglected, which should accompany it, and 
 perhaps take place and be preferred. 
 
 286
 
 This may well be allowed true in all other respects, since 
 even religion itself, considered as a passion, not of the selfish 
 but nobler kind, may in some characters be strained beyond 
 its natural proportion, and be said also to be in too high a 
 degree. For as the end of religion is to render us more perfect 
 and accomplished in all moral duties and performances ; if by 
 the height of devout ecstasy and contemplation we are rather 
 disabled in this respect, and rendered more unapt to the real 
 duties and offices of civil life, it may be said that religion 
 indeed is then too strong in us. For how, possibly, can we 
 call this superstition, whilst the object of the devotion is 
 acknowledged just and the faith orthodox? Tis only the 
 excess of zeal which in this case is so transporting as to 
 render the devout person more remiss in secular affairs, and 
 less concerned for the inferior and temporal interests of 
 mankind. 
 
 Now as in particular cases public affection, on the one hand, 
 may be too high, so private affection may, on the other hand, 
 be too weak. For if a creature be self-neglectful and insensible 
 of danger, or if he want such a degree of passion in any kind 
 as is useful to preserve, sustain, or defend himself, this must 
 certainly be esteemed vicious in regard of the design and end of 
 Nature. She herself discovers this in her known method and 
 stated rule of operation. 'Tis certain that her provisionary 
 care and concern for the whole animal must at least be equal 
 to her concern for a single part or member. Now to the several 
 parts she has given, we see proper affections, suitable to their 
 interest and security, so that even without our consciousness 
 they act in their own defence, and for their own benefit and 
 preservation. Thus an eye, in its natural state, fails not to 
 shut together of its own accord, unknowingly to us, by a 
 peculiar caution and timidity, which if it wanted, however we 
 might intend the preservation of our eye, we should not in 
 effect be able to preserve it, by any observation or forecast of 
 our own. To be wanting therefore in those principal affections 
 
 287
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 which respect the good of the whole constitution, must be a vice 
 and imperfection as great surely in the principal part (the soul 
 or temper) as it is in any of those inferior and subordinate parts 
 to want the self-preserving affections which are proper to them. 
 
 And thus the affections towards private good become 
 necessary and essential to goodness. For though no creature 
 can be called good or virtuous merely for possessing these 
 affections, yet since it is impossible that the public good or 
 good of the system can be preserved without them, it follows 
 that a creature really wanting in them is in reality wanting in 
 some degree to goodness and natural rectitude, and may thus 
 be esteemed vicious and defective. 
 
 Tis thus we say of a creature, in a kind way of reproof, that 
 he is too good, when his affection towards others is so warm and 
 zealous as to carry him even beyond his part; or when he 
 really acts beyond it, not through too warm a passion of that 
 sort, but through an over-cool one of another, or through want 
 of some self-passion to restrain him within due bounds. 
 
 It may be objected here, that the having the natural 
 affections too strong (where the self affections are overmuch so), 
 or the having the self affections defective or weak (where the 
 natural affections are also weak), may prove upon occasion 
 the only cause of a creature's acting honestly and in moral 
 proportion. For, thus, one who is to a fault regardless of his 
 life, may with the smallest degree of natural affection do all 
 which can be expected from the highest pitch of social love or 
 zealous friendship. And thus, on the other hand, a creature 
 excessively timorous may, by as exceeding a degree of natural 
 affection, perform whatever the perfectest courage is able to 
 inspire. 
 
 To this it is answered, that whenever we arraign any passion 
 as too strong, or complain of any as too weak, we must speak 
 with respect to a certain constitution or economy of a particular 
 creature or species. For if a passion, leading to any right end, 
 be only so much the more serviceable and effectual for being 
 
 288
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 strong, if we may be assured that the strength of it will not be 
 the occasion of any disturbance within, nor of any dispropor- 
 tion between itself and other affections, then consequently the 
 passion, however strong, cannot be condemned as vicious. But 
 if to have all the passions in equal proportion with it, be what 
 the constitution of the creature cannot bear, so that only some 
 passions are raised to this height, whilst others are not, nor can 
 possibly be wrought up to the same proportion, then may those 
 strong passions, though of the better kind, be called excessive. 
 For being in unequal proportion to the others, and causing an 
 ill balance in the affection at large, they must of course be the 
 occasion of inequality in the conduct, and incline the party to 
 a wrong moral practice. 
 
 But to show more particularly what is meant by the 
 economy of the passions, from instances in the species or kinds 
 below us. 1 As for the creatures who have no manner of power 
 or means given them by Nature for their defence against 
 violence, nor anything by which they can make themselves 
 formidable to such as injure or offend them, 'tis necessary they 
 should have an extraordinary degree of fear, but little or no 
 animosity, such as might cause them to make resistance, or 
 incline them to delay their flight. For in this their safety lies, 
 and to this passion of fear is serviceable, by keeping the senses 
 on the watch, and holding the spirits in readiness to give 
 the start. 
 
 And thus timorousness, and an habitual strong passion of 
 fear, may be according to the economy of a particular creature, 
 both with respect to himself and to the rest of his species. 
 On the other hand, courage may be contrary to his economy, 
 and therefore vicious. Even in one and the same species, this 
 is by Nature differently ordered, with respect to different sexes, 
 ages, and growths. The tamer creatures of the grazing kind, 
 who live in herds, are different from the wilder, who herd not, 
 but live in pairs only, apart from company, as is natural and 
 
 1 Infra, bk. ii. part ii. 1 ; Moralists, part ii. 4 ; Misc. iv. ch. ii. 
 
 VOL. I 289 u
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 suitable to their rapacious life. Yet is there found, even 
 among the former inoffensive kind, a courage proportionable 
 to their make and strength. At a time of danger, when the 
 whole herd flies, the bull alone makes head against the lion, or 
 other whatever invading beast of prey, and shows himself 
 conscious of his make. Even the female of this kind is armed, 
 we see, by Nature, in some degree, to resist violence, so as not 
 to fly a common danger. As for a hind or doe, or any other 
 inoffensive and mere defenceless creature, 'tis no way unnatural 
 or vicious in them, when the enemy approaches, to desert their 
 offspring, and fly for safety. But for creatures who are able to 
 make resistance, and are by Nature armed offensively, be they 
 of the poorest insect kind, such as bees or wasps, 'tis natural to 
 them to be roused with fury, and at the hazard of their lives 
 oppose any enemy or invader of their species. For by this 
 known passion in the creature, the species itself is secured, when 
 by experience 'tis found that the creature, though unable to 
 repel the injury, yet voluntarily exposes his life for the punish- 
 ment of the invader, and suffers not his kind to be injured with 
 impunity. And of all other creatures, man is in this sense the 
 most formidable, since if he thinks it just and exemplary, he 
 may, possibly in his own or in his country's cause, revenge an 
 injury on any one living, and by throwing away his own life 
 (if he be resolute to that degree) is almost certain master of 
 another's, however strongly guarded. Examples of this nature 
 have often served to restrain those in power from using it to 
 the utmost extent, and urging their inferiors to extremity. 
 
 Upon the whole, it may be said properly to be the same 
 with the affections or passions in an animal constitution as 
 with the cords or strings of a musical instrument. If these, 
 though in ever so just proportion one to another, are strained 
 beyond a certain degree, 'tis more than the instrument will 
 bear : the lute or lyre is abused, and its effect lost. On the 
 other hand, if while some of the strings are duly strained, 
 others are not wound up to their due proportion, then is the 
 
 290
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 instrument still in disorder, and its part ill performed. The 
 several species of creatures are like different sorts of instru- 
 ments ; and even in the same species of creatures (as in the 
 same sort of instrument) one is not entirely like the other, nor 
 will the same strings fit each. The same degree of strength 
 which winds up one, and fits the several strings to a just 
 harmony and consort, may in another burst both the strings 
 and instrument itself. Thus men who have the liveliest sense, 
 and are the easiest affected with pain or pleasure, have need of 
 the strongest influence or force of other affections, such as 
 tenderness, love, sociableness, compassion, in order to preserve 
 a right balance within, and to maintain them in their duty, and 
 in the just performance of their part, whilst others, who are of 
 a cooler blood, or lower key, need not the same allay or counter- 
 part, nor are made by Nature to feel those tender and endearing 
 affections in so exquisite a degree. 
 
 It might be agreeable, one would think, to inquire thus into 
 the different tunings of the passions, the various mixtures and 
 allays by which men become so different from one another. 
 For as the highest improvements of temper are made in human 
 kind, so the greatest corruptions and degeneracies are dis- 
 coverable in this race. In the other species of creatures around 
 us, there is found generally an exact proportionableness, con- 
 stancy, and regularity in all their passions and affections ; no 
 failure in the care of the offspring or of the society to which 
 they are united ; no prostitution of themselves ; no intemperance 
 or excess in any kind. The smaller creatures, who live as it 
 were in cities (as bees and ants), continue the same train and 
 harmony of life, nor are they ever false to those affections 
 which move them to operate towards their public good. Even 
 those creatures of prey who live the farthest out of society, 
 maintain, we see, such a conduct towards one another as is 
 exactly suitable to the good of their own species. Whilst man, 
 notwithstanding the assistance of religion and the direction of 
 laws, is often found to live in less conformity with Nature, and 
 
 291
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 by means of religion itself is often rendered the more barbarous 
 and inhuman. Marks are set on men ; distinctions formed ; 
 opinions decreed under the severest penalties ; antipathies 
 instilled, and aversions raised in men against the generality of 
 their own species. So that 'tis hard to find in any region a 
 human society which has human laws. No wonder if in such 
 societies 'tis so hard to find a man who lives naturally and 
 as a man. 
 
 But having shown what is meant by a passion's being in too 
 high or in too low a degree ; and that " to have any natural 
 affection too high, or any self affection too low," though it be 
 often approved as virtue, is yet, strictly speaking, a vice and 
 imperfection ; we come now to the plainer and more essential 
 part of vice, and which alone deserves to be considered as such ; 
 that is to say 
 
 1. "When either the public affections are weak or de- 
 ficient. 
 
 2. " Or the private and self affections too strong. 
 
 3. " Or that such affections arise as are neither of these, nor 
 in any degree tending to the support either of the public or 
 private system." 
 
 Otherwise than thus, it is impossible any creature can be 
 such as we call ill or vicious. So that if once we prove that it 
 is really not the creature's interest to be thus viciously affected, 
 but contrariwise, we shall then have proved "that it is his 
 interest to be wholly good and virtuous," since in a wholesome 
 and sound state of his affections, such as we have described, he 
 cannot possibly be other than sound, good, and virtuous in his 
 action and behaviour. 
 
 Our business, therefore, will be to prove 
 
 1. " That to have the natural, kindly, or generous affections 
 strong and powerful towards the good of the public, is to have 
 the chief means and power of self-enjoyment"; and "that to 
 want them, is certain misery and ill." 
 
 2. " That to have the private or self affections too strong, 
 
 292
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 or beyond their degree of subordinacy to the kindly and natural, 
 is also miserable." 
 
 3. And "that to have the unnatural affections (viz. such 
 as are neither founded on the interest of the kind or public, nor 
 of the private person or creature himself) is to be miserable in 
 the highest degree." 
 
 PART II 
 
 SECTION I 
 
 To begin therefore with this proof, " That to have the natural 
 affections (such as are founded in love, complacency, good-will, 
 and in a sympathy with the kind or species) is to have the chief 
 means and power of self-enjoyment; and that to want them is 
 certain misery and ill." 
 
 We may inquire first what those are which we call pleasures 
 or satisfactions, from whence happiness is generally computed. 
 They are (according to the common distinction) satisfactions 
 and pleasures either of the body or of the mind. 
 
 That the latter of these satisfactions are the greatest, is 
 allowed by most people, and may be proved by this : that when- 
 ever the mind, having conceived a high opinion of the worth of any 
 action or behaviour, has received the strongest impression of this 
 sort, and is wrought up to the highest pitch or degree of passion 
 towards the subject, at such time it sets itself above all bodily 
 pain as well as pleasure, and can be no way diverted from its 
 purpose by flattery or terror of any kind. Thus we see Indians, 
 barbarians, malefactors, and even the most execrable villains, for 
 the sake of a particular gang or society, or through some 
 cherished notion or principle of honour or gallantry, revenge 
 or gratitude, embrace any manner of hardship, and defy 
 torments and death. Whereas, on the other hand, a person 
 being placed in all the happy circumstances of outward enjoy- 
 ment, surrounded with everything which can allure or charm 
 
 293
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 the sense, and being then actually in the very moment of such 
 a pleasing indulgence, yet no sooner is there anything amiss 
 within, no sooner has he conceived any internal ail or disorder, 
 anything inwardly vexatious or distempered, than instantly his 
 enjoyment ceases, the pleasure of sense is at an end, and every 
 means of that sort becomes ineffectual, and is rejected as uneasy 
 and subject to give distaste. 
 
 The pleasures of the mind being allowed, therefore, superior 
 to those of the body, it follows " that whatever can create in 
 any intelligent being a constant flowing series or train of mental 
 enjoyments, or pleasures of the mind, is more considerable to his 
 happiness than that which can create to him a like constant 
 course or train of sensual enjoyments or pleasures of the body." 
 
 Now the mental enjoyments are either actually the very 
 natural affections themselves in their immediate operation, or 
 they wholly in a manner proceed from them, and are no other 
 than their effects. 
 
 If so, it follows that, the natural affections duly established 
 in a rational creature being the only means which can procure 
 him a constant series or succession of the mental enjoyments, 
 they are the only means which can procure him a certain and 
 solid happiness. 
 
 Now, in the first place, to explain " how much the natural 
 affections are in themselves the highest pleasures and enjoy- 
 ments," there should methinks be little need of proving this 
 to any one of human kind who has ever known the condition 
 of the mind under a lively affection of love, gratitude, bounty, 
 generosity, pity, succour, or whatever else is of a social or 
 friendly sort. He who has ever so little knowledge of human 
 nature is sensible what pleasure the mind perceives when it is 
 touched in this generous way. The difference we find between 
 solitude and company, between a common company and that 
 of friends ; the reference of almost all our pleasures to mutual 
 converse, and the dependence they have on society either present 
 or imagined ; all these are sufficient proofs in our behalf. 
 
 294
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 How much the social pleasures are superior to any other 
 may be known by visible tokens and effects. The very outward 
 features, the marks and signs which attend this sort of joy, are 
 expressive of a more intense, clear, and undisturbed pleasure 
 than those which attend the satisfaction of thirst, hunger, and 
 other ardent appetites. But more particularly still may this 
 superiority be known from the actual prevalence and ascendency 
 of this sort of affection over all besides. Wherever it presents 
 itself with any advantage, it silences and appeases every other 
 motion of pleasure. No joy, merely of sense, can be a match 
 for it. Whoever is judge of both the pleasures will ever give 
 the preference to the former. But to be able to judge of both, 
 'tis necessary to have a sense of each. The honest man indeed 
 can j udge of sensual pleasure, and knows its utmost force. For 
 neither is his taste or sense the duller; but, on the contrary, 
 the more intense and clear on the account of his temperance 
 and a moderate use of appetite. But the immoral and pro- 
 fligate man can by no means be allowed a good judge of social 
 pleasure, to which he is so mere a stranger by his nature. 
 
 Nor is it any objection here, that in many natures the good 
 affection, though really present, is found to be of insufficient 
 force. For where it is not in its natural degree, 'tis the same 
 indeed as if it were not, or had never been. The less there is 
 of this good affection in any untoward creature, the greater the 
 wonder is that it should at any time prevail ; as in the very 
 worst of creatures it sometimes will. And if it prevails but 
 for once in any single instance, it shows evidently that if 
 the affection were thoroughly experienced or known, it would 
 prevail in all. 
 
 Thus the charm of kind affection is superior to all other 
 pleasure, since it has the power of drawing from every other 
 appetite or inclination. And thus in the case of love to the 
 offspring and a thousand other instances, the charm is found to 
 operate so strongly on the temper as, in the midst of other 
 temptations, to render it susceptible of this passion alone ; 
 
 295
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 which remains as the master-pleasure and conqueror of the 
 rest. 
 
 There is no one who, by the least progress in science or 
 learning, has come to know barely the principles of mathematics, 
 but has found, that in the exercise of his mind on the discoveries 
 he there makes, though merely of speculative truths, he receives 
 a pleasure and delight superior to that of sense. When we 
 have thoroughly searched into the nature of this contemplative 
 delight, we shall find it of a kind which relates not in the least 
 to any private interest of the creature, nor has for its object 
 any self-good or advantage of the private system. The admira- 
 tion, joy, or love turns wholly upon what is exterior and foreign 
 to ourselves. And though the reflected joy or pleasure which 
 arises from the notice of this pleasure once perceived, may be 
 interpreted a self-passion or interested regard, yet the original 
 satisfaction can be no other than what results from the love of 
 truth, proportion, order and symmetry in the things without. 
 If this be the case, the passion ought in reality to be ranked 
 with natural affection. For having no object within the 
 compass of the private system, it must either be esteemed 
 superfluous and unnatural (as having no tendency towards the 
 advantage or good of anything in Nature) or it must be judged 
 to be what it truly is, 1 "A natural joy in the contemplation of 
 those numbers, that harmony, proportion, and concord which 
 supports the universal nature, and is essential in the constitution 
 and form of every particular species or order of beings. 11 
 
 But this speculative pleasure, however considerable and 
 valuable it may be, or however superior to any motion of mere 
 sense, must yet be far surpassed by virtuous 'motion, and the 
 exercise of benignity and goodness, where, together with the 
 most delightful affection of the soul, there is joined a pleasing 
 assent and approbation of the mind to what is acted in this 
 good disposition and honest bent. For where is there on earth 
 a fairer matter of speculation, a goodlier view or contemplation, 
 
 1 Misc. ii. ch. i. 
 
 296
 
 than that of a beautiful, proportioned, and becoming action ? 
 Or what is there relating to us, of which the consciousness and 
 memory is more solidly and lastingly entertaining ? 
 
 We may observe that in the passion of love between the 
 sexes, where, together with the affection of a vulgar sort, there 
 is a mixture of the kind and friendly, the sense or feeling of 
 this latter is in reality superior to the former; since often 
 through this affection, and for the sake of the person beloved, 
 the greatest hardships in the world have been submitted to, 
 and even death itself voluntarily embraced without any expected 
 compensation. For where should the ground of such an expect- 
 ation lie ? Not here in this world, surely ; for death puts an 
 end to all. Nor yet hereafter, in any other ; for who has ever 
 thought of providing a heaven or future recompense for the 
 suffering virtue of lovers ? 
 
 We may observe withal, in favour of the natural affections, 
 that it is not only when joy and sprightliness are mixed with 
 them that they carry a real enjoyment above that of the 
 sensual kind. The very disturbances which belong to natural 
 affection, though they may be thought wholly contrary to 
 pleasure, yield still a contentment and satisfaction greater than 
 the pleasures of indulged sense. And where a series or con- 
 tinued succession of the tender and kind affections can be 
 carried on, even through fears, horrors, sorrows, griefs, the 
 emotion of the soul is still agreeable. We continue pleased 
 even with this melancholy aspect or sense of virtue. Her 
 beauty supports itself under a cloud and in the midst of 
 suiTounding calamities. For thus when by mere illusion, as 
 in a tragedy, the passions of this kind are skilfully excited in 
 us, we prefer the entertainment to any other of equal duration. 
 We find by ourselves that the moving our passions in this 
 mournful way, the engaging them in behalf of merit and worth, 
 and the exerting whatever we have of social affection and 
 human sympathy, is of the highest delight, and affords a 
 greater enjoyment in the way of thought and sentiment than 
 
 297
 
 anything besides can do in a way of sense and common appetite. 
 And after this manner it appears "how much the mental 
 enjoyments are actually the very natural affections them- 
 selves. 11 
 
 Now, in the next place, to explain "how they proceed 
 from them, as their natural effects," we may consider first, 
 that the effects of love or kind affection, in a way of mental 
 pleasure, are "an enjoyment of good by communication. 
 A receiving it, as it were, by reflection, or by way of partici- 
 pation in the good of others v ; and " a pleasing consciousness 
 of the actual love, merited esteem, or approbation of others. 11 
 
 How considerable a part of happiness arises from the 
 former of these effects will be easily apprehended by one who 
 is not exceedingly ill-natured. It will be considered how many 
 the pleasures are of sharing contentment and delight with 
 others ; of receiving it in fellowship and company ; and gather- 
 ing it, in a manner, from the pleased and happy states of those 
 around us, from accounts and relations of such happinesses, 
 from the very countenances, gestures, voices and sounds, even 
 of creatures foreign to our kind, whose signs of joy and 
 contentment we can anyway discern. So insinuating are these 
 pleasures of sympathy, and so widely diffused through our 
 whole lives, that there is hardly such a thing as satisfaction 
 or contentment of which they make not an essential part. 
 
 As for that other effect of social love, viz. the consciousness 
 of merited kindness or esteem, 'tis not difficult to perceive how 
 much this avails in mental pleasure, and constitutes the chief 
 enjoyment and happiness of those who are, in the narrowest 
 sense, voluptuous. How natural is it for the most selfish 
 among us to be continually drawing some sort of satisfaction 
 from a character, and pleasing ourselves in the fancy of 
 deserved admiration and esteem ? For though it be mere 
 fancy, we endeavour still to believe it truth, and flatter our- 
 selves all we can with the thought of merit of some kind, and 
 the persuasion of our deserving well from some few at least 
 
 298
 
 with whom we happen to have a more intimate and familiar 
 commerce. 
 
 What tyrant is there, what robber, or open violator of the 
 laws of society, who has not a companion, or some particular 
 set, either of his own kindred, or such as he calls friends, with 
 whom he gladly shares his good, in whose welfare he delights, 
 and whose joy and satisfaction he makes his own? What 
 person in the world is there who receives not some impressions 
 from the flattery or kindness of such as are familiar with him ? 
 'Tis to this soothing hope and expectation of friendship that 
 almost all our actions have some reference. 1r Tis this which 
 goes through our whole lives, and mixes itself even with most 
 of our vices. Of this, vanity, ambition, and luxury have a 
 share, and many other disorders of our life partake. Even 
 the unchastest love borrows largely from this source. So that 
 were pleasure to be computed in the same way as other things 
 commonly are, it might properly be said, that out of these 
 two branches (viz. community or participation in the pleasures 
 of others, and belief of meriting well from others) would arise 
 more than nine- tenths of whatever is enjoyed in life. And 
 thus in the main sum of happiness there is scarce a single 
 article but what derives itself from social love, and depends 
 immediately on the natural and kind affections. 
 
 Now such as causes are, such must be their effects. And 
 therefore as natural affection or social love is perfect or 
 imperfect, so must be the content and happiness depending 
 on it. 
 
 But lest any should imagine with themselves that an inferior 
 degree of natural affection, or an imperfect partial regard of 
 this sort, can supply the place of an entire, sincere, and truly 
 moral one ; lest a small tincture of social inclination should 
 be thought sufficient to answer the end of pleasure in society, 
 and give us that enjoyment of participation and community 
 which is so essential to our happiness ; we may consider first, 
 that partial affection, or social love in part, without regard 
 
 299
 
 to a complete society or whole, is in itself an inconsistency, 
 and implies an absolute contradiction. Whatever affection we 
 have towards anything besides ourselves, if it be not of the 
 natural sort towards the system or kind, it must be of all 
 other affections the most dissociable, and destructive of the 
 enjoyments of society. If it be really of the natural sort, and 
 applied only to some one part of society, or of a species, but 
 not to the species or society itself, there can be no more 
 account given of it than of the most odd, capricious, or 
 humorsome passion which may arise. The person, therefore, 
 who is conscious of this affection can be conscious of no merit 
 or worth on the account of it. Nor can the persons on whom 
 this capricious affection has chanced to fall, be in any manner 
 secure of its continuance of force. As it has no foundation 
 or establishment in reason, so it must be easily removable, 
 and subject to alteration without reason. Now the variableness 
 of such sort of passion, which depends solely on capriciousness 
 and humour, and undergoes the frequent successions of alternate 
 hatred and love, aversion and inclination, must of necessity 
 create continual disturbance and disgust, give an allay to what 
 is immediately enjoyed in the way of friendship and society, 
 and in the end extinguish, in a manner, the very inclination 
 towards friendship and human commerce. Whereas, on the 
 other hand, entire affection (from whence integrity has its 
 name) as it is answerable to itself, proportionable, and rational, 
 so it is irrefragable, solid, and durable. And as in the case 
 of partiality, or vicious friendship, which has no rule or order, 
 every reflection of the mind necessarily makes to its disad- 
 vantage and lessens the enjoyment, so in the case of integrity, 
 the consciousness of just behaviour towards mankind in general, 
 casts a good reflection on each friendly affection in particular, 
 and raises the enjoyment of friendship still the higher, in the 
 way of community or participation above mentioned. 
 
 And in the next place, as partial affection is fitted only to 
 a short and slender enjoyment of those pleasures of sympathy 
 
 300
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 or participation with others, so neither is it able to derive 
 any considerable enjoyment from that other principal branch 
 of human happiness, viz. consciousness of the actual or merited 
 esteem of others. From whence should this esteem arise ? 
 The merit, surely, must in itself be mean, whilst the affection 
 is so precarious and uncertain. What trust can there be to 
 a mere casual inclination or capricious liking? Who can 
 depend on such a friendship as is founded on no moral rule, 
 but fantastically assigned to some single person, or small part 
 of mankind, exclusive of society and the whole ? 
 
 It may be considered, withal, as a thing impossible, that 
 they who esteem or love by any other rule than that of virtue, 
 should place their affection on such subjects as they can long 
 esteem or love. 'Twill be hard for them, in the number of 
 their so beloved friends, to find any in whom they can heartily 
 rejoice, or whose reciprocal love or esteem they can sincerely 
 prize and enjoy. Nor can those pleasures be sound or lasting 
 which are gathered from a self-flattery and false persuasion 
 of the esteem and love of others who are incapable of any 
 sound esteem or love. It appears therefore how much the 
 men of narrow or partial affection must be losers in this sense, 
 and of necessity fall short in this second principal part of 
 mental enjoyment. 
 
 Meanwhile entire affection has all the opposite advantages. 
 It is equal, constant, accountable to itself, ever satisfactory and 
 pleasing. It gains applause and love from the best, and in all 
 disinterested cases from the very worst of men. We may say of 
 it with justice, that it carries with it a consciousness of merited 
 love and approbation from all society, from all intelligent 
 creatures, and from whatever is original to all other intelligence. 
 And if there be in Nature any such original, we may add that 
 the satisfaction which attends entire affection is full and noble 
 in proportion to its final object, which contains all perfection, 
 according to the sense of theism above noted. For this, as has 
 been shown, is the result of virtue. And to have this entire 
 
 301
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 affection or integrity of mind is to live according to Nature, 
 and the dictates and rules of supreme wisdom. This is morality, 
 justice, piety, and natural religion. 1 
 
 But lest this argument should appear perhaps too schol- 
 astically stated, and in terms and phrases which are not of 
 familiar use, we may try whether possibly we can set it yet in a 
 plainer light. 
 
 Let any one, then, consider well those pleasures which he 
 receives either in private retirement, contemplation, study and 
 converse with himself, or in mirth, jollity, and entertainment 
 with others, and he will find that they are wholly founded in 
 an easy temper, free of harshness, bitterness, or distaste ; and in 
 a mind or reason well composed, quiet, easy within itself, and 
 such as can freely bear its own inspection and review. Now 
 such a mind and such a temper, which fit and qualify for the 
 enjoyment of the pleasures mentioned, must of necessity be 
 owing to the natural and good affections. 
 
 As to what relates to temper, it may be considered thus. 
 There is no state of outward prosperity or flowing fortune 
 where inclination and desire are always satisfied, fancy and 
 humour pleased. There are almost hourly some impediments 
 or crosses to the appetite ; some accidents or other from without, 
 or something from within, to check the licentious course of the 
 indulged affections. They are not always to be satisfied by 
 mere indulgence. And when a life is guided by fancy only, 
 there is sufficient ground of contrariety and disturbance. The 
 very ordinary lassitudes, uneasinesses, and defects of disposition 
 in the soundest body ; the interrupted course of the humours or 
 spirits in the healthiest people; and the accidental disorders 
 common to every constitution, are sufficient, we know, on many 
 occasions to breed uneasiness and distaste. And this in time 
 must grow into a habit, where there is nothing to oppose its 
 progress and hinder its prevailing on the temper. Now the only 
 sound opposite to ill-humour is natural and kind affection. 
 1 [Cp. Spinoza, Ethics, part iv. Prop, xxxv.] 
 
 302
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 For we may observe, that when the mind upon reflection 
 resolves at any time to suppress this disturbance already risen 
 in the temper, and sets about this reforming work with hearti- 
 ness and in good earnest, it can no otherwise accomplish the 
 undertaking than by introducing into the affectionate part some 
 gentle feeling of the social and friendly kind, some enlivening 
 motion of kindness, fellowship, complacency, or love, to allay 
 and convert that contrary motion of impatience and discontent. 1 
 If it be said, perhaps, that in the case before us, religious 
 affection or devotion is a sufficient and proper remedy, we 
 answer, that 'tis according as the kind may happily prove. 
 For if it be of the pleasant and cheerful sort, 'tis of the very 
 kind of natural affection itself ; if it be of the dismal or fearful 
 sort ; 2 if it brings along with it any affection opposite to man- 
 hood, generosity, courage, or free thought, there will be nothing 
 gained by this application, and the remedy will, in the issue, 
 be undoubtedly found worse than the disease. The severest 
 reflections on our duty, and the consideration merely of what is 
 by authority and under penalties enjoined, will not by any 
 means serve to calm us on this occasion. The more dismal our 
 thoughts are on such a subject, the worse our temper will be, 
 and the readier to discover itself in harshness and austerity. 
 If perhaps by compulsion, or through any necessity or fear 
 incumbent, a different carriage be at any time affected, or 
 different maxims owned, the practice at the bottom will be 
 still the same. If the countenance be composed, the heart, 
 however, will not be changed. The ill passion may for the 
 time be withheld from breaking into action, but will not be 
 subdued, or in the least debilitated against the next occasion. 
 So that in such a breast as this, whatever devotion there may be, 
 'tis likely there will in time be little of an easy spirit or good 
 temper remaining, and consequently few and slender enjoyments 
 of a mental kind. 
 
 1 [Cp. Spinoza, Ethics, part iv. Prop, vii.] 
 2 Letter Concerning Enthusiasm, 4 ; Misc. ii. ch. iii. 
 
 303
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 If it be objected, on the other hand, that though in melan- 
 choly circumstances ill-humour may prevail, yet in a course of 
 outward prosperity, and in the height of fortune, there can 
 nothing probably occur which should thus sour the temper and 
 give it such disrelish as is suggested, we may consider, that the 
 most humoured and indulged state is apt to receive the most 
 disturbance from every disappointment or smallest ail. And if 
 provocations are easiest raised, and the passions of anger, offence, 
 and enmity are found the highest in the most indulged state of 
 will and humour, there is still the greater need of a supply 
 from social affection, to preserve the temper from running into 
 savageness and inhumanity. And this the case of tyrants 
 and most unlimited potentates may sufficiently verify and 
 demonstrate. 
 
 Now as to the other part of our consideration, which relates 
 to a mind or reason well composed and easy within itself, upon 
 what account this happiness may be thought owing to natural 
 affection, we may possibly resolve ourselves after this manner. 
 It will be acknowledged that a creature such as man, who from 
 several degrees of reflection has risen to that capacity which we 
 call reason and understanding, must in the very use of this his 
 reasoning faculty be forced to receive reflections back into 
 his mind of what passes in itself, as well as in the affections or 
 will ; in short, of whatsoever relates to his character, conduct, 
 or behaviour amidst his fellow-creatures and in society. Or 
 should he be of himself unapt, there are others ready to remind 
 him, and refresh his memory in this way of criticism. We 
 have all of us remembrancers enow to help us in this work. 
 Nor are the greatest favourites of Fortune exempted from this 
 task of self -inspection. Even flattery itself, by making the 
 view agreeable, renders us more attentive this way, and en- 
 snares us in the habit. The vainer any person is, the more he 
 has his eye inwardly fixed upon himself, and is after a certain 
 manner employed in this home survey. And when a true 
 regard to ourselves cannot oblige us to this inspection, a false 
 
 304
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 regard to others and a fondness for reputation raises a watchful 
 jealousy, and furnishes us sufficiently with acts of reflection on 
 our own character and conduct. 
 
 In whatever manner we consider of this, we shall find still, 
 that every reasoning or reflecting creature is by his nature 
 forced to endure the review of his own mind and actions, and to 
 have representations of himself and his inward affairs constantly 
 passing before him, obvious to him, and revolving in his mind. 
 Now as nothing can be more grievous than this is to one who 
 has thrown off natural affection, so nothing can be more delight- 
 ful to one who has preserved it with sincerity. 
 
 There are two things which to a rational creature must be 
 horridly offensive and grievous, viz. " To have the reflection in 
 his mind of any unjust action or behaviour which he knows to 
 be naturally odious and ill-deserving ; or of any foolish action 
 or behaviour which he knows to be prejudicial to his own 
 interest or happiness. 11 
 
 The former of these is alone properly called Conscience, 
 whether in a moral or religious sense. For to have a"we and 
 terror of the Deity does not, of itself, imply conscience. No 
 one is esteemed the more conscientious for the fear of evil 
 spirits, conjurations, enchantments, or whatever may proceed 
 from any unjust, capricious, or devilish nature. Now to fear 
 God any otherwise than as in consequence of some justly 
 blamable and imputable act, is to fear a devilish nature, not 
 a divine one. Nor does the fear of hell or a thousand terrors 
 of the Deity imply conscience, unless where there is an appre- 
 hension of what is wrong, odious, morally deformed, and 
 ill -deserving. And where this is the case, there conscience 
 must have effect, and punishment of necessity be apprehended, 
 even though it be not expressly threatened. 
 
 And thus religious conscience supposes moral or natural 
 
 conscience. And though the former be understood to carry 
 
 with it the fear of divine punishment, it has its force however 
 
 from the apprehended moral deformity and odiousness of any 
 
 VOL. I 305 x
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 act with respect purely to the Divine Presence, and the natural 
 veneration due to such a supposed being. For in such a presence 
 the shame of villainy or vice must have its force, independently 
 on that further apprehension of the magisterial capacity of such 
 a being, and his dispensation of particular rewards or punish- 
 ments in a future state. 
 
 It has been already said, that no creature can maliciously 
 and intentionally do ill without being sensible at the same 
 time that he deserves ill. And in this respect, every sensible 
 creature may be said to have conscience. For with all mankind, 
 and all intelligent creatures, this must ever hold, " That what 
 they know they deserve from every one, that they necessarily 
 must fear and expect from all." And thus suspicious and ill 
 apprehensions must arise, with terror both of men and of the 
 Deity. But besides this, there must in every rational creature 
 be yet farther conscience, viz. from sense of deformity in what 
 is thus ill -deserving and unnatural, and from a consequent 
 shame or regret of incurring what is odious and moves 
 aversion. 
 
 There scarcely is, or can be, any creature whom conscious- 
 ness of villainy, as such merely, does not at all offend ; nor any- 
 thing opprobrious or heinously imputable move or affect. If 
 there be such a one, 'tis evident he must be absolutely indifferent 
 towards moral good or ill. If this indeed be his case, 'twill be 
 allowed he can be no way capable of natural affection ; if not 
 of that, then neither of any social pleasure or mental enjoyment 
 as shown above, but on the contrary, he must be subject to all 
 manner of horrid, unnatural, and ill affection. So that to want 
 conscience, or natural sense of the odiousness of crime and 
 injustice, is to be most of all miserable in life; but where 
 conscience or sense of this sort remains, there, consequently, 
 whatever is committed against it must of necessity, by means 
 of reflection, as we have shown, be continually shameful, grievous, 
 and offensive. 
 
 A man who in a passion happens to kill his companion, 
 
 306
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 relents immediately on the sight of what he has done. His 
 revenge is changed into pity, and his hatred turned against 
 himself. And this merely by the power of the object. On this 
 account he suffers agonies : ' the subject of this continually occurs 
 to him, and of this he has a constant ill remembrance and 
 displeasing consciousness. If on the other side we suppose him 
 not to relent or suffer any real concern or shame, then, either 
 he has no sense of the deformity of the crime and injustice, no 
 natural affection, and consequently no happiness or peace 
 within ; or if he has any sense of moral worth or goodness, it 
 must be of a perplexed and contradictory kind. He must 
 pursue an inconsistent notion, idolise some false species of 
 virtue, and affect as noble, gallant, or worthy that which is 
 irrational and absurd. And how tormenting this must be to 
 him, is easy to conceive. For never can such a phantom as 
 this be reduced to any certain form. Never can this Proteus 
 of honour be held steady to one shape. The pursuit of it can 
 only be vexatious and distracting. There is nothing beside 
 real virtue (as has been shown) which can possibly hold any 
 proportion to esteem, approbation, or good conscience. And 
 he who, being led by false religion or prevailing custom, has 
 learnt to esteem or admire anything as virtue which is not 
 really such, must either through the inconsistency of such an 
 esteem, and the perpetual immoralities occasioned by it, come at 
 last to lose all conscience, and so be miserable in the worst way ; 
 or, if he retains any conscience at all, it must be of a kind never 
 satisfactory, or able to bestow content. For 'tis impossible 
 that a cruel enthusiast or bigot, a persecutor, a murderer, a 
 bravo, a pirate, or any villain of less degree, who is false to the 
 society of mankind in general, and contradicts natural affection, 
 should have any fixed principle at all, any real standard or 
 measure by which he can regulate his esteem, or any solid 
 reason by which to form his approbation of any one moral act. 
 And thus the more he sets up honour or advances zeal, the 
 worse he renders his nature, and the more detestable his char- 
 
 307
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 acter. The more he engages in the love or admiration of any 
 action or practice as great and glorious, which is in itself 
 morally ill and vicious, the more contradiction and self-dis- 
 approbation he must incur. For there being nothing more 
 certain than this, " That no natural affection can be contradicted, 
 nor any unnatural one advanced, without a prejudice in some 
 degree to all natural affection in general," it must follow, " That 
 inward deformity growing greater by the encouragement of 
 unnatural affection, there must be so much the more subject for 
 dissatisfactory reflection, the more any false principle of honour, 
 any false religion or superstition prevails. 1 ' 
 
 So that whatever notions of this kind are cherished, or 
 whatever character affected, which is contrary to moral equity 
 and leads to inhumanity, through a false conscience, or wrong 
 sense of honour, serves only to bring a man the more under the 
 lash of real and just conscience, shame, and self-reproach. Nor 
 can any one who, by any pretended authority, commits one 
 single immorality, be able to satisfy himself with any reason 
 why he should not at another time be carried further into all 
 manner of villainy, such perhaps as he even abhors to think of. 
 And this is a reproach which a mind must of necessity make to 
 itself upon the least violation of natural conscience, in doing 
 what is morally deformed and ill-deserving, though warranted 
 by any example or precedent amongst men, or by any supposed 
 injunction or command of higher powers. 
 
 Now, as for that other part of conscience, viz. the remem- 
 brance of what was at any time unreasonably and foolishly 
 done in prejudice of one's real interest or happiness ; this 
 dissatisfactory reflection must follow still and have effect, 
 wheresoever there is a sense of moral deformity contracted by 
 crime and injustice. For even where there is no sense of moral 
 deformity as such merely, there must be still a sense of the 
 ill merit of it with respect to God and man. Or though there 
 were a possibility of excluding for ever all thoughts or suspicions 
 of any superior powers, yet considering that this insensibility 
 
 308
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 towards moral good or ill implies a total defect in natural 
 affection, and that this defect can by no dissimulation be 
 concealed, 'tis evident that a man of this unhappy character 
 must suffer a very sensible loss in the friendship, trust, and 
 confidence of other men, and consequently must suffer in his 
 interest and outward happiness. Nor can the sense of this 
 disadvantage fail to occur to him, when he sees, with regret 
 and envy, the better and more grateful terms of friendship and 
 esteem on which better people live with the rest of mankind. 
 Even therefore where natural affection is wanting, 'tis certain 
 still, that by immorality, necessarily happening through want 
 of such affection, there must be disturbance from conscience of 
 this sort, viz. from sense of what is committed imprudently 
 and contrary to real interest and advantage. 
 
 From all this we may easily conclude how much our happi- 
 ness depends on natural and good affection. For if the chief 
 happiness be from the mental pleasures, and the chief mental 
 pleasures are such as we have described, and are founded in 
 natural affection, it follows " that to have the natural affections 
 is to have the chief means and power of self-enjoyment, the 
 highest possession and happiness of life." 
 
 Now as to the pleasures of the body and the satisfactions 
 belonging to mere sense, 'tis evident they cannot possibly have 
 their effect or afford any valuable enjoyment otherwise than by 
 the means of social and natural affection. 
 
 To live well has no other meaning with some people than 
 to eat and drink well. And methinks 'tis an unwary concession 
 we make in favour of these pretended good livers when we 
 join with them in honouring their way of life with the title of 
 living fast. As if they lived the fastest who took the greatest 
 pains to enjoy least of life ; for if our account of happiness be 
 right, the greatest enjoyments in life are such as these men 
 pass over in their haste, and have scarce ever allowed themselves 
 the liberty of tasting. 
 
 But as considerable a part of voluptuousness as is founded 
 
 309
 
 in the palate, and as notable as the science is which depends 
 on it, one may justly presume that the ostentation of elegance, 
 and a certain emulation and study how to excel in this 
 sumptuous art of living, goes very far in the raising such a 
 high idea of it as is observed among the men of pleasure. 
 For were the circumstances of a table and company, equipages, 
 services, and the rest of the management withdrawn, there 
 would be hardly left any pleasure worth acceptance, even in 
 the opinion of the most debauched themselves. 
 
 The very notion of a debauch (which is a sally into whatever 
 can be imagined of pleasure and voluptuousness) carries with it 
 a plain reference to society or fellowship. It may be called a 
 surfeit or excess of eating and drinking, but hardly a debauch 
 of that kind, when the excess is committed separately, out 
 of all society or fellowship. And one who abuses himself in 
 this way is often called a sot, but never a debauchee. The 
 courtezans, and even the commonest of women, who live by 
 prostitution, know very well how necessary it is that every one 
 whom they entertain with their beauty should believe there 
 are satisfactions reciprocal, and that pleasures are no less given 
 than received. And were this imagination to be wholly taken 
 away, there would be hardly any of the grosser sort of mankind 
 who would not perceive their remaining pleasure to be of 
 slender estimation. 
 
 Who is there can well or long enjoy anything, when alone, 
 and abstracted perfectly, even in his very mind and thought? 
 from everything belonging to society ? Who would not, on 
 such terms as these, be presently cloyed by any sensual indul- 
 gence ? Who would not soon grow uneasy with his pleasure, 
 however exquisite, till he had found means to impart it, and 
 make it truly pleasant to him, by communicating and sharing 
 it at least with some one single person ? Let men imagine 
 what they please, let them suppose themselves ever so selfish, 
 or desire ever so much to follow the dictates of that narrow 
 principle by which they would bring Nature under restraint, 
 
 310
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 Nature will break out; and in agonies, disquiets, and a dis- 
 tempered state, demonstrate evidently the ill consequence of 
 such violence, the absurdity of such a device, and the punish- 
 ment which belongs to such a monstrous and horrid endeavour. 
 
 Thus, therefore, not only the pleasures of the mind, but 
 even those of the body, depend on natural affection ; insomuch 
 that where this is wanting, they not only lose their force, but 
 are in a manner converted into uneasiness and disgust. The 
 sensations which should naturally afford contentment and 
 delight produce rather discontent and sourness, and breed 
 a wearisomeness and restlessness in the disposition. This 
 we may perceive by the perpetual inconstancy and love of 
 change so remarkable in those who have nothing communi- 
 cative or friendly in their pleasures. Good fellowship, in its 
 abused sense, seems indeed to have something more constant 
 and determining. The company supports the humour. Tis 
 the same in love. A certain tenderness and generosity of 
 affection supports the passion, which otherwise would instantly 
 be changed. The perfectest beauty cannot, of itself, retain or 
 fix it. And that love which has no other foundation, but 
 relies on this exterior kind, is soon turned into aversion. Satiety, 
 perpetual disgust, and feverishness of desire attend those who 
 passionately study pleasure. They best enjoy it who study to 
 regulate their passions. And by this they will come to know 
 how absolute an incapacity there is in anything sensual to 
 please or give contentment, where it depends not on something 
 friendly or social, something conjoined, and in affinity with 
 kind or natural affection. 
 
 But ere we conclude this article of social or natural affection 
 we may take a general view of it, and bring it once for all into 
 the scale, to prove what kind of balance it helps to make 
 within, 1 and what the consequence may be of its deficiency or 
 light weight. 
 
 There is no one of ever so little understanding in what 
 1 Supra, p. 289. 
 
 311
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 belongs to a human constitution who knows not that without 
 action, motion, and employment the body languishes and is 
 oppressed ; its nourishment turns to disease ; the spirits, un- 
 employed abroad, help to consume the parts within ; and 
 Nature, as it were, preys upon herself. In the same manner, 
 the sensible and living part, the soul or mind, wanting its proper 
 and natural exercise, is burdened and diseased. Its thoughts 
 and passions being unnaturally withheld from their due objects, 
 turn against itself, and create the highest impatience and ill- 
 humour. 
 
 In brutes and other creatures who have not the use of 
 reason and reflection l (at least not after the manner of mankind) 
 'tis so ordered in Nature that by their daily search after food, 
 and their application either towards the business of their 
 livelihood or the affairs of their species or kind, almost their 
 whole time is taken up, and they fail not to find full employ- 
 ment for their passion according to that degree of agitation 
 to which they are fitted, and which their constitution requires. 
 If any one of these creatures be taken out of his natural labori- 
 ous state and placed amidst such a plenty as can profusely 
 administer to all his appetites and wants, it may be observed 
 that as his circumstances grow thus luxuriant, his temper and 
 passions have the same growth. When he comes at any time 
 to have the accommodations of life at a cheaper and easier rate 
 than was at first intended him by Nature, he is made to pay 
 dear for them in another way, by losing his natural good 
 disposition and the orderliness of his kind or species. 
 
 This needs not to be demonstrated by particular instances. 
 Whoever has the least knowledge of Natural History, or has 
 been an observer of the several breeds of creatures, and their 
 ways of life and propagation, will easily understand this 
 difference of orderliness between the wild and the tame of the 
 same species. The latter acquire new habits, and deviate from 
 their original nature. They lose even the common instinct 
 1 Supra, p. 289 ; and Moralists, part vi. 4 ; and Misc. iv. ch. ii. 
 
 312
 
 and ordinary ingenuity of their kind, nor can they ever regain 
 it whilst they continue in this pampered state ; but being 
 turned to shift abroad, they resume the natural affection and 
 sagacity of their species. They learn to unite in stricter 
 fellowship, and grow more concerned for their offspring. They 
 provide against the seasons, and make the most of every 
 advantage given by Nature for the support and maintenance 
 of their particular species against such as are foreign and 
 hostile. And thus as they grow busy and employed, they 
 grow regular and good. Their petulancy and vice forsakes 
 them with their idleness and ease. 
 
 It happens with mankind that whilst some are by necessity 
 confined to labour, others are provided with abundance of all 
 things by the pains and labour of inferiors. Now, if among 
 the superior and easy sort there be not something of fit and 
 proper employment raised in the room of what is wanting in 
 common labour and toil ; if instead of an application to any 
 sort of work, such as has a good and honest end in society 
 (as letters, sciences, arts, husbandry, public affairs, economy, 
 or the like), there be a thorough neglect of all duty or employ- 
 ment ; a settled idleness, supineness, and inactivity ; this of 
 necessity must occasion a most relaxed and dissolute state : it 
 must produce a total disorder of the passions, and break out in 
 the strangest irregularities imaginable. 
 
 We see the enormous growth of luxury in capital cities, 
 such as have been long the seat of empire. We see what 
 improvements are made in vice of every kind where numbers 
 of men are maintained in lazy opulence and wanton plenty. 
 Tis otherwise with those who are taken up in honest and due 
 employment, and have been well inured to it from their youth. 
 This we may observe in the hardy remote provincials, the 
 inhabitants of smaller towns, and the industrious sort of 
 common people, where 'tis rare to meet with any instances 
 of those irregularities which are known in courts and palaces, 
 and in the rich foundations of easy and pampered priests. 
 
 313
 
 Now if what we have advanced concerning an inward 
 constitution be real and just ; if it be true that Nature works 
 by a just order and regulation as well in the passions and 
 affections as in the limbs and organs which she forms; if it 
 appears withal that she has so constituted this inward part 
 that nothing is so essential to it as exercise, and no exercise 
 so essential as that of social or natural affection ; it follows 
 that where this is removed or weakened, the inward part must 
 necessarily suffer and be impaired. Let indolence, indifference, 
 or insensibility be studied as an art, or cultivated with the 
 utmost care, the passions thus restrained will force their prison, 
 and in one way or other procure their liberty and find full em- 
 ployment. They will be sure to create to themselves unusual 
 and unnatural exercise where they are cut off from such as is 
 natural and good. And thus in the room of orderly and natural 
 affection, new and unnatural must be raised, and all inward order 
 and economy destroyed. 
 
 One must have a very imperfect idea of the order of Nature 
 in the formation and structure of animals to imagine that so 
 great a principle, so fundamental a part as that of natural 
 affection, should possibly be lost or impaired, without any 
 inward ruin or subversion of the temper and frame of mind. 
 
 Whoever is the least versed in this moral kind of archi- 
 tecture, will find the inward fabric so adjusted, and the whole 
 so nicely built, that the barely extending of a single passion 
 a little too far, or the continuance of it too long, is able to 
 bring irrecoverable ruin and misery. He will find this ex- 
 perienced in the ordinary case of frenzy and distraction, 
 when the mind, dwelling too long upon one subject (whether 
 prosperous or calamitous) sinks under the weight of it, and 
 proves what the necessity is of a due balance and counterpoise 
 in the affections. He will find that in every different creature 
 and distinct sex there is a different and distinct order, set, or 
 suit of passions, proportionable to the different order of life, the 
 different functions and capacities assigned to each. As the 
 
 314
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 operations and effects are different, so are the springs and 
 causes in each system. The inside work is fitted to the out- 
 ward action and performance. So that where habits or affections 
 are dislodged, misplaced, or changed, where those belonging 
 to one species are intermixed with those belonging to another, 
 there must of necessity be confusion and disturbance within. 
 
 All this we may observe easily by comparing the more 
 perfect with the imperfect natures, such as are imperfect from 
 their birth, by having suffered violence within in their earliest 
 form and inmost matrix. We know how it is with monsters, 
 such as are compounded of different kinds or different sexes. 
 Nor are they less monsters who are misshapen or distorted in 
 an inward part. The ordinary animals appear unnatural and 
 monstrous when they lose their proper instincts, forsake their 
 kind, neglect their offspring, and pervert those functions or 
 capacities bestowed by Nature. How wretched must it be, 
 therefore, for man, of all other creatures, to lose that sense and 
 feeling which is proper to him as a man, and suitable to his 
 character and genius ? How unfortunate must it be for a 
 creature whose dependence on society is greater than any 
 others, to lose that natural affection by which he is prompted 
 to the good and interest of his species and community ? Such 
 indeed is man's natural share of this affection, that he, of all 
 other creatures, is plainly the least able to bear solitude. Nor 
 is anything more apparent than that there is naturally in 
 every man such a degree of social affection as inclines him to 
 seek the familiarity and friendship of his fellows. 'Tis here 
 that he lets loose a passion, and gives reins to a desire which 
 can hardly by any struggle or inward violence be withheld ; 
 or if it be, is sure to create a sadness, dejection, and melancholy 
 in the mind. For whoever is unsociable, and voluntarily shuns 
 society or commerce with the world, must of necessity be 
 morose and ill-natured. He, on the other side, who is with- 
 held by force or accident, finds in his temper the ill effects of 
 this restraint. The inclination, when suppressed, breeds dis- 
 
 315
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 content, and on the contrary affords a healing and enlivening 
 joy when acting at its liberty and with full scope ; as we may 
 see particularly when after a time of solitude and long absence 
 the heart is opened, the mind disburdened, and the secrets of 
 the breast unfolded to a bosom friend. 
 
 This we see yet more remarkably instanced in persons of the 
 most elevated stations, even in princes, monarchs, and those who 
 seem by their condition to be above ordinary human commerce, 
 and who affect a sort of distant strangeness from the rest of 
 mankind. But their carriage is not the same towards all men. 
 The wiser and better sort, it is true, are often held at a distance, 
 as unfit for their intimacy or secret trust. But to compensate 
 this there are others substituted in their room, who though they 
 have the least merit, and are perhaps the most vile and con- 
 temptible of men, are sufficient, however, to serve the purpose 
 of an imaginary friendship, and can become favourites in form. 
 These are the subjects of humanity in the great. For these we 
 see them often in concern and pain ; in these they easily confide ; 
 to these they can with pleasure communicate their power and 
 greatness, be open, free, generous, confiding, bountiful, as 
 rejoicing in the action itself; having no intention or aim 
 beyond it ; and their interest, in respect of policy, often standing 
 a quite contrary way. But where neither the love of mankind 
 nor the passion for favourites prevails, the tyrannical temper 
 fails not to show itself in its proper colours and to the life, 
 with all the bitterness, cruelty, and mistrust which belong to 
 that solitary and gloomy state of uncommunicative and un- 
 friendly greatness. Nor needs there any particular proof from 
 history or present time to second this remark. 
 
 Thus it may appear how much natural affection is pre- 
 dominant : how it is inwardly joined to us, and implanted in 
 our natures ; how interwoven with our other passions, and how 
 essential to that regular motion and course of our affections on 
 which our happiness and self-enjoyment so immediately depend. 
 
 And thus we have demonstrated that as, on one side, to 
 
 316
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 have the natural and good affections is to have the chief means 
 and power of self-enjoyment; so, on the other side, to want 
 them is certain misery and ill. 
 
 SECTION II 
 
 WE are now to prove, that by having the self-passions too 
 intense or strong, a creature becomes miserable. 
 
 In order to this we must, according to method, enumerate 
 those home-affections which relate to the private interest or 
 separate economy of the creature, such as love of life ; resentment 
 of injury; pleasure, or appetite towards nourishment and the 
 means of generation ; interest, or desire of those conveniences 
 by which we are well provided for and maintained ; emulation, 
 or love of praise and honour; indolence, or love of ease and 
 rest. These are the affections which relate to the private 
 system, and constitute whatever we call interestedness or 
 self-love. 
 
 Now these affections, if they are moderate and within 
 certain bounds, are neither injurious to social life nor a 
 hindrance to virtue; but being in an extreme degree, they 
 become cowardice, revengefulness, luxury, avarice, vanity and 
 ambition, sloth ; and as such are owned vicious and ill with 
 respect to human society. How they are ill also with respect to 
 the private person, and are to his own disadvantage as well as 
 that of the public, we may consider as we severally examine them. 
 
 If there were any of these self-passions which for the good 
 and happiness of the creature might be opposed to natural 
 affection, and allowed to over-balance it, the desire and love of 
 life would have the best pretence. But it will be found perhaps 
 that there is no passion which, by having much allowed to it, is 
 the occasion of more disorder and misery. 
 
 There is nothing more certain or more universally agreed 
 than this, " That life may sometimes be even a misfortune and 
 misery."" To enforce the continuance of it in creatures reduced 
 to such extremity is esteemed the greatest cruelty. And 
 
 317
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 though religion forbids that any one should be his own 
 reliever, yet if by some fortunate accident, death offers of itself, 
 it is embraced as highly welcome. And on this account the 
 nearest friends and relations often rejoice at the release of one 
 entirely beloved, even though he himself may have been so weak 
 as earnestly to decline death, and endeavour the utmost pro- 
 longment of his own uneligible state. 
 
 Since life, therefore, may frequently prove a misfortune and 
 misery, and since it naturally becomes so by being only 
 prolonged to the infirmities of old age ; since there is nothing, 
 withal, more common than to see life over- valued, and purchased 
 at such a cost as it can never justly be thought worth; it 
 follows evidently that the passion itself (viz. the love of life, 
 and abhorrence or dread of death) if beyond a certain degree, 
 and over-balancing in the temper of any creature, must lead him 
 directly against his own interest ; make him, upon occasion, 
 become the greatest enemy to himself, and necessitate him to 
 act as such. 
 
 But though it were allowed the interest and good of a 
 creature, by all courses and means whatsoever, in any circum- 
 stances or at any rate, to preserve life, yet would it be against 
 his interest still to have this passion in a high degree. For it 
 would by this means prove ineffectual, and no way conducing 
 to its end. Various instances need not be given. For what is 
 there better known, than that at all times an excessive fear 
 betrays to danger instead of saving from it? "Tis impossible 
 for any one to act sensibly and with presence of mind, even 
 in his own preservation and defence, when he is strongly 
 pressed by such a passion. On all extraordinary emergencies 
 'tis courage and resolution saves, whilst cowardice robs us of the 
 means of safety, and not only deprives us of our defensive 
 faculties, but even runs us to the brink of ruin, and makes us 
 meet that evil which of itself would never have invaded us. 
 
 But were the consequences of this passion less injurious than 
 we have represented, it must be allowed still that in itself it can 
 
 318
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 be no other than miserable, if it be misery to feel cowardice, 
 and be haunted by those spectres and horrors which are proper 
 to the character of one who has a thorough dread of death. 
 For 'tis not only when dangers happen, and hazards are incurred, 
 that this sort of fear oppresses and distracts. If it in the least 
 prevails, it gives no quarter so much as at the safest, stillest 
 hour of retreat and quiet. Every object suggests thought 
 enough to employ it. It operates when it is least observed by 
 others, and enters at all times into the pleasantest parts of life, 
 so as to corrupt and poison all enjoyment and content. One 
 may safely aver that by reason of this passion alone many a 
 life, if inwardly and closely viewed, would be found to be 
 thoroughly miserable, though attended with all other circum- 
 stances which in appearance render it happy. But when we 
 add to this the meannesses and base condescensions occasioned 
 by such a passionate concern for living, when we consider how 
 by means of it we are driven to actions we can never view 
 without dislike, and forced by degrees from our natural conduct 
 into still greater crookednesses and perplexity, there is no one 
 surely so disingenuous as not to allow that life in this case 
 becomes a sorry purchase, and is passed with little freedom or 
 satisfaction. For how can this be otherwise, whilst everything 
 which is generous and worthy, even the chief relish, happiness, 
 and good of life, is for life's sake abandoned and renounced ? 
 
 And thus it seems evident " that to have this affection of 
 desire and love of life too intense, or beyond a moderate degree, 
 is against the interest of a creature, and contrary to his happi- 
 ness and good." 
 
 There is another passion very different from that of fear 
 and which in a certain degree is equally preservative to us, and 
 conducing to our safety. As that is serviceable in prompting 
 us to shun danger, so is this in fortifying us against it, and 
 enabling us to repel injury and resist violence when offered. 
 Tis true that according to strict virtue, and a just regulation 
 of the affections in a wise and virtuous man, such efforts towards 
 
 319
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 action amount not to what is justly styled passion or commotion. 
 A man of courage may be cautious without real fear; and a 
 man of temper may resist or punish without anger ; but in 
 ordinary characters there must necessarily be some mixture of 
 the real passions themselves, which, however, in the main, are 
 able to allay and temper one another. And thus anger in a 
 manner becomes necessary. Tis by this passion that one 
 creature offering violence to another is deterred from the 
 execution, whilst he observes how the attempt affects his fellow, 
 and knows by the very signs which accompany this rising 
 motion, that if the injury be carried further it will not pass 
 easily or with impunity. 'Tis this passion withal which, after 
 violence and hostility executed, rouses a creature in opposition, 
 and assists him in returning like hostility and harm on the 
 invader. For thus, as rage and despair increase, a creature 
 grows still more terrible, and being urged to the greatest 
 extremity, finds a degree of strength and boldness unexperi- 
 enced till then, and which had never risen except through the 
 height of provocation. As to this affection therefore, not- 
 withstanding its immediate aim be indeed the ill or punishment 
 of another, yet it is plainly of the sort of those which tend to 
 the advantage and interest of the self-system, the animal 
 himself, and is withal in other respects contributing to the 
 good and interest of the species. But there is hardly need we 
 should explain how mischievous and self-destructive anger is, 
 if it be what we commonly understand by that word : if it be 
 such a passion as is rash and violent in the instant of provocation, 
 or such as imprints itself deeply, and causes a settled revenge 
 and an eager vindicative pursuit. No wonder indeed that so 
 much is done in mere revenge, and under the weight of a deep 
 resentment, when the relief and satisfaction found in that 
 indulgence is no other than the assuaging of the most torturous 
 pain, and the alleviating the most weighty and pressing sensation 
 of misery. The pain of this sort being for awhile removed or 
 alleviated by the accomplishment of the desire in the ill of 
 
 320
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 another, leaves indeed behind it the perception of a delicious 
 ease, and an over-flowing of soft and pleasing sensation. Yet 
 is this, in truth, no better than the rack itself. For whoever 
 has experienced racking pains, can tell in what manner a sudden 
 cessation or respite is used to affect him. From hence are those 
 untoward delights of perverseness, frowardness, and an en- 
 venomed malignant disposition acting at its liberty. For 
 this is only a perpetual assuaging of anger perpetually renewed. 
 In other characters, the passion arises not so suddenly or on 
 slight causes, but being once moved, is not so easily quieted. 
 The dormant fury, Revenge, being raised once, and wrought up 
 to her highest pitch, rests not till she attains her end ; and, 
 that attained, is easy and reposes, making our succeeding relief 
 and ease so much the more enjoyed as our preceding anguish 
 and incumbent pain was of long duration and bitter sense. 
 Certainly if among lovers, and in the language of gallantry, the 
 success of ardent love is called the assuaging of a pain, this 
 other success may be far more justly termed so. However soft 
 or flattering the former pain may be esteemed, this latter surely 
 can be no pleasing one ; nor can it be possibly esteemed other 
 than sound and thorough wretchedness, a grating and disgustful 
 feeling, without the least mixture of anything soft, gentle, 
 or agreeable. 
 
 'Tis not very necessary to mention the ill effects of this 
 passion in respect of our minds or bodies, our private condition, 
 or circumstances of life. By these particulars we may grow too 
 tedious. These are of the moral sort of subjects, joined com- 
 monly with religion, and treated so rhetorically and with such 
 enforced repetition in public as to be apt to raise the satiety of 
 mankind. What has been said may be enough perhaps to 
 make this evident, " That to be subject to such a passion as we 
 have been mentioning, is in reality to be very unhappy "" ; and 
 " that the habit itself is a disease of the worst sort, from which 
 misery is inseparable." 
 
 Now as to luxury, and what the world calls pleasure : were 
 VOL. I 321 Y
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 it true (as has been proved the contrary) that the most con- 
 siderable enjoyments were those merely of the sense ; and were 
 it true, withal, that those enjoyments of the sense lay in certain 
 outward things capable of yielding always a due and certain 
 portion of pleasure, according to their degree and quality, it 
 would then follow that the certain way to obtain happiness 
 would be to procure largely of these subjects to which happi- 
 ness and pleasure were thus infallibly annexed. But however 
 fashionably we may apply the notion of good living, 'twill 
 hardly be found that our inward faculties are able to keep pace 
 with these outward supplies of a luxuriant fortune. And if the 
 natural disposition and aptness from within be not concurring, 
 'twill be in vain that these subjects are thus multiplied from 
 abroad, and acquired with ever so great facility. 
 
 It may be observed in those who by excess have gained a 
 constant nauseating and distaste, that they have nevertheless 
 as constant a craving or eagerness of stomach. But the 
 appetite of this kind is false and unnatural, as is that of thirst 
 arising from a fever, or contracted by habitual debauch. Now 
 the satisfactions of the natural appetite, in a plain way, are 
 infinitely beyond those indulgences of the most refined and 
 elegant luxury. This is often perceived by the luxurious 
 themselves. It has been experienced in people bred after the 
 sumptuous way, and used never to wait, but to prevent 
 appetite, that when by any new turn of life they came to fall 
 into a more natural course, or for awhile, as on a journey, or 
 a day of sport, came accidentally to experience the sweet of a 
 plain diet, recommended by due abstinence and exercise, they 
 have with freedom owned that it was then they received the 
 highest satisfaction and delight which a table could possibly 
 afford. 
 
 On the other side, it has been as often remarked in persons 
 accustomed to an active life and healthful exercise, that having 
 once thoroughly experienced this plainer and more natural diet, 
 they have upon a following change of life regretted their loss, 
 
 322
 
 and undervalued the pleasures received from all the delicacies 
 of luxury in comparison with those remembered satisfactions 
 of a preceding state. 'Tis plain that by urging Nature, forcing 
 the appetite, and inciting sense, the keenness of the natural 
 sensations is lost. And though through vice or ill habit the 
 same subjects of appetite may every day be sought with 
 less satisfaction ; though the impatience of abstaining be 
 greater, the pleasure of indulgence is really less ; the palls or 
 nauseatings which continually intervene are of the worst and 
 most hateful kind of sensation. Hardly is there anything 
 tasted which is wholly free from this ill relish of a surfeited 
 sense and ruined appetite. So that instead of a constant and 
 flowing delight afforded in such a state of life, the very state 
 itself is in reality a sickness and infirmity, a corruption of 
 pleasure, and destructive of every natural and agreeable sensa- 
 tion. So far is it from being true "that in this licentious 
 course we enjoy life best, or are likely to make the most of it." 
 
 As to the consequences of such an indulgence : how fatal to 
 the body, by diseases of many kinds, and to the mind, by 
 sottishness and stupidity ; this needs not any explanation. 
 
 The consequences as to interest are plain enough. Such a 
 state of impotent and unrestrained desire, as it increases our 
 wants, so it must subject us to a greater dependence on others. 
 Our private circumstances, however plentiful or easy they may 
 be, can less easily content us. Ways and means must be 
 invented to procure what may administer to such an imperious 
 luxury as forces us to sacrifice honour to fortune, and runs us 
 out into all irregularity and extravagance of conduct. The 
 injuries we do ourselves, by excess and unforbearance, are then 
 surely apparent, when through an impotence of this sort, and 
 an impossibility of restraint, we do what we ourselves declare to 
 be destructive to us. But these are matters obvious of them- 
 selves. And from less than what has been said 'tis easy to 
 conclude " that luxury, riot, and debauch are contrary to 
 real interest, and to the true enjoyment of life. 1 " 
 
 VOL. I 323 Y 2
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 There is another luxury superior to the kind we have been 
 mentioning, and which in strictness can 'scarce be called a self- 
 passion, since the sole end of it is the advantage and promotion 
 of the species. But whereas all other social affections are 
 joined only with a mental pleasure, and founded in mere kind- 
 ness and love, this has more added to it and is joined with a 
 pleasure of sense. Such concern and care has Nature shown for 
 the support and maintenance of the several species, that by a 
 certain indigence l and kind of necessity of their natures they 
 are made to regard the propagation of their kind. Now 
 whether it be the interest or good of the animal to feel this 
 indigence beyond a natural and ordinary degree, is what we 
 may consider. 
 
 Having already said so much concerning natural and un- 
 natural appetite, there needs less to be said on this occasion. 
 If it be allowed that to all other pleasures there is a measure 
 of appetite belonging, which cannot possibly be exceeded with- 
 out prejudice to the creature, even in his very capacity of 
 enjoying pleasure, it will hardly be thought that there is 
 no certain limit or just boundary of this other appetite of the 
 amorous kind. There are other sorts of ardent sensations 
 accidentally experienced, which we find pleasant and acceptable 
 whilst they are held within a certain degree; but which, as 
 they increase, grow oppressive and intolerable. Laughter pro- 
 voked by titillation grows an excessive pain, though it retains 
 still the same features of delight and pleasure. And though in 
 the case of that particular kind of itch which belongs to a 
 distemper named from that effect, there are some who, far from 
 disliking the sensation, find it highly acceptable and delightful, 
 yet it will hardly be reputed such among the more refined sort, 
 even of those who make pleasure their chief study and highest 
 
 Now if there be in every sensation of mere pleasure a certain 
 
 pitch or degree of ardour, which by being further advanced 
 
 1 [In the common Latin sense, indigentia est libido inexplebilis. Cicero.] 
 
 324
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 comes the nearer to mere rage and fury ; if there be indeed 
 a necessity of stopping somewhere, and determining on some 
 boundary for the passion ; where can we fix our standard, or 
 how regulate ourselves but with regard to Nature, beyond which 
 there is no measure or rule of things ? Now Nature may be 
 known from what we see of the natural state of creatures, and 
 of man himself, when unprejudiced by vicious education. 
 
 Where happily any one is bred to a natural life, inured to 
 honest industry and sobriety, and unaccustomed to anything 
 immoderate or intemperate, he is found to have his appetites 
 and inclinations of this sort at command. Nor are they on 
 this account less able to afford him the pleasure or enjoyment 
 of each kind. On the contrary, as they are more sound, healthy, 
 and uninjured by excess and abuse, they must afford him pro- 
 portionate satisfaction. So that were both these sensations to 
 be experimentally compared ; that of a virtuous course which 
 belonged to one who lived a natural and regular life, and that 
 of a vicious course which belonged to one who was relaxed and 
 dissolute ; there is no question but judgment would be given 
 in favour of the former, without regard to consequences, and 
 only with respect to the very pleasure of sense itself. 
 
 As to the consequences of this vice, with respect to the 
 health and vigour of the body, there is no need to mention 
 anything. The injury it does the mind, though less noticed, is 
 yet greater. The hindrance of all improvement, the wretched 
 waste of time, the effeminacy, sloth, supineness, the disorder 
 and looseness of a thousand passions through such a relaxation 
 and enervating of the mind, are all of them effects sufficiently 
 apparent when reflected on. 
 
 What the disadvantages are of this intemperance, in respect 
 of interest, society, and the world ; and what the advantages 
 are of a contrary sobriety and self-command, would be to little 
 purpose to mention. "Tis well known there can be no slavery 
 greater than what is consequent to the dominion and rule of 
 such a passion. Of all other, it is the least manageable by 
 
 325
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 favour or concession, and assumes the most from privilege and 
 indulgence. What it costs us in the modesty and ingenuity 
 of our natures, and in the faith and honesty of our characters, 
 is as easily apprehended by any one who will reflect. And it 
 will from hence appear " that there is no passion which in its 
 extravagance and excess more necessarily occasions disorder and 
 unhappiness. r> 
 
 Now as to that passion which is esteemed peculiarly interest- 
 ing, as having for its aim the possession of wealth, and what we 
 call a settlement or fortune in the world : if the regard towards 
 this kind be moderate and in a reasonable degree ; if it occasions 
 no passionate pursuit, nor raises any ardent desire or appetite ; 
 there is nothing in this case which is not compatible with 
 virtue, and even suitable and beneficial to society. The public 
 as well as private system is advanced by the industry which 
 this affection excites. But if it grows at length into a real 
 passion, the injury and mischief it does the public is not greater 
 than that which it creates to the person himself. Such a one 
 is in reality a self-oppressor, and lies heavier on himself than 
 he can ever do on mankind. 
 
 How far a coveting or avaricious temper is miserable, needs 
 not surely be explained. Who knows not how small a portion 
 of worldly matters is sufficient for a man's single use and con- 
 venience ; and how much his occasions and wants might be 
 contracted and reduced if a just frugality were studied, and 
 temperance and a natural life came once to be pursued with 
 half that application, industry, and art which is bestowed on 
 sumptuousness and luxury ? Now if temperance be in reality 
 so advantageous, and the practice as well as the consequences of 
 it so pleasing and happy,' as has been before expressed, there is 
 little need, on the other side, to mention anything of the 
 miseries attending those covetous and eager desires after things 
 which have no bounds or rule ; as being out of Nature, beyond 
 which there can be no limits to desire. For where shall we 
 once stop when we are beyond this boundary ? How shall we 
 
 326
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 fix or ascertain a thing wholly unnatural and unreasonable? 
 Or what method, what regulation, shall we set to mere imagina- 
 tion, or the exorbitancy of fancy, in adding expense to expense, 
 or possession to possession. 
 
 Hence that known restlessness of covetous and eager minds 
 in whatever state or degree of fortune they are placed ; there 
 being no thorough or real satisfaction, but a kind of insatiable- 
 ness belonging to this condition. For 'tis impossible there 
 should be any real enjoyment except in consequence of natural 
 and just appetite. Nor do we readily call that an enjoyment 
 of wealth or of honour when through covetousness or ambition 
 the desire is still forward, and can never rest satisfied with its 
 gains. But against this vice of covetousness there is enough 
 said continually in the world ; and in our common way of speak- 
 ing "a covetous and a miserable temper has, in reality, one 
 and the same signification."" 
 
 Nor is there less said abroad as to the ills of that other 
 aspiring temper, which exceeds an honest emulation or love of 
 praise, and passes the bounds even of vanity and conceit. Such 
 is that passion which breaks into an enormous pride and 
 ambition. Now if we consider once the ease, happiness, and 
 security which attend a modest disposition and quiet mind, 
 such as is of easy self-command, fitted to every station in 
 society, and able to suit itself with any reasonable circumstances 
 whatever, 'twill on the first view present us with the most 
 agreeable and winning character. Nor will it be found necessary 
 after this to call to mind the excellence and good of moderation, 
 or the mischief and self-injury of immoderate desires, and con- 
 ceited fond imagination of personal advantage, in such things 
 as titles, honours, precedencies, fame, glory, or vulgar astonish- 
 ment, admiration, and applause. 
 
 This too is obvious, that as the desires of this kind are 
 raised and become impetuous, and out of our command, so the 
 aversions and fears of the contrary part grow proportionably 
 strong and violent, and the temper accordingly suspicious, 
 
 327
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 jealous, captious, subject to apprehensions from all events, 
 and incapable of bearing the least repulse or ordinary dis- 
 appointment. And hence it may be concluded " that all rest 
 and security as to what is future, and all peace, contentedness, 
 and ease as to what is present, is forfeited by the aspiring 
 passions of this emulous kind ; and by having the appetites 
 towards glory and outward appearance thus transporting and 
 beyond command." 
 
 There is a certain temper placed often in opposition to 
 those eager and aspiring aims of which we have been speaking. 
 Not that it really excludes either the passion of covetousness 
 or ambition, but because it hinders their effects, and keeps 
 them from breaking into open action. 'Tis this passion which 
 by soothing the mind and softening it into an excessive love 
 of rest and indolence, renders high attempts impracticable, 
 and represents as insuperable the difficulties of a painful and 
 laborious course towards wealth and honours. Now though 
 an inclination to ease, and a love of moderate recess and rest 
 from action, be as natural and useful to us as the inclination 
 we have towards sleep, yet an excessive love of rest, and a 
 contracted aversion to action and employment, must be a 
 disease in the mind equal to that of a lethargy in the body. 
 
 How necessary action and exercise are to the body may be 
 judged by the difference we find between those constitutions 
 which are accustomed, and those which are wholly strangers 
 to it ; and by the different health and complexion which labour 
 and due exercise create, in comparison with that habit of body 
 we see consequent to an indulged state of indolence and rest. 
 Nor is the lazy habit ruinous to the body only. The languish- 
 ing disease corrupts all the enjoyments of a vigorous and healthy 
 sense, and carries its infection into the mind, where it spreads 
 a worse contagion. For however the body may for awhile hold 
 out, 'tis impossible that the mind, in which the distemper is 
 seated, can escape without an immediate affliction and dis- 
 order. The habit begets a tediousness and anxiety, which 
 
 328
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 influences the whole temper, and converts the unnatural rest 
 into an unhappy sort of activity, ill-humour, and spleen, of 
 which there has been enough said above, where we considered 
 the want of a due balance in the affections. 
 
 Tis certain that as in the body, when no labour or natural 
 exercise is used, the spirits which want their due employment 
 turn against the constitution, and find work for themselves in 
 a destructive way ; so in a soul or mind unexercised, and which 
 languishes for want of proper action and employment, the 
 thoughts and affections being obstructed in their due course, 
 and deprived of their natural energy, raise disquiet, and foment 
 a rancorous eagerness and tormenting irritation. The temper 
 from hence becomes more impotent in passion, more incapable 
 of real moderation, and, like prepared fuel, readily takes fire by 
 the least spark. 
 
 As to interest, how far it is here concerned : how wretched 
 that state is in which by this habit a man is placed towards 
 all the circumstances and affairs of life when at any time he is 
 called to action ; how subjected he must be to all incon- 
 veniencies, wanting to himself, and deprived of the assistance 
 of others; whilst being unfit for all offices and duties of 
 society he yet of any other person most needs the help of it, 
 as being least able to assist or support himself; all this is 
 obvious. And thus 'tis evident "that to have this over- 
 biassing inclination towards rest, this slothful, soft, or effeminate 
 temper, averse to labour and employment, is to have an un- 
 avoidable mischief and attendant plague." 
 
 Thus have we considered the self-passions, and what the 
 consequence is of their rising beyond a moderate degree. 
 These affections, as self-interesting as they are, can often, we 
 see, become contrary to our real interest. They betray us 
 into most misfortunes and into the greatest of unhappinesses, 
 that of a profligate and abject character. As they grow 
 imperious and high, they are the occasion that a creature in 
 proportion becomes mean and low. They are original to that 
 
 329
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 which we call selfishness, and give rise to that sordid disposition 
 of which we have already spoken. It appears there can be 
 nothing so miserable in itself, or so wretched in its consequence, 
 as to be thus impotent in temper, thus mastered by passion, 
 and by means of it brought under the most servile subjection 
 to the world. 
 
 Tis evident, withal, that as this selfishness increases in us, 
 so must a certain subtlety and feignedness of carriage which 
 naturally accompanies it. And thus the candour and ingenuity 
 of our natures, the ease and freedom of our minds, must be 
 forfeited; all trust and confidence in. a manner lost, and sus- 
 picions, jealousies, and envies multiplied. A separate end and 
 interest must be every day more strongly formed in us ; 
 generous views and motives laid aside; and the more we are 
 thus sensibly disjoined every day from society and our fellows, 
 the worse opinion we shall have of those uniting passions 
 which bind us in strict alliance and amity with others. Upon 
 these terms we must of course endeavour to silence and suppress 
 our natural and good affections, since they are such as would 
 carry us to the good of society against what we fondly 
 conceive to be our private good and interest, as has been 
 shown. 
 
 Now if these selfish passions, besides what other ill they are 
 the occasion of, are withal the certain means of losing us our 
 natural affections ; then (by what has been proved before) 'tis 
 evident " that they must be the certain means of losing us the 
 chief enjoyment of life, and raising in us those horrid and 
 unnatural passions, and that savageness of temper, which makes 
 the greatest of miseries and the most wretched state of life," 
 as remains for us to explain. 
 
 SECTION III 
 
 THE passions, therefore, which in the last place we are to 
 examine, are those which lead neither to a public nor a private 
 
 330
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 good, and are neither of any advantage to the species in general 
 nor the creature in particular. These, in opposition to the social 
 and natural, we call the unnatural affections. 
 
 Of this kind is that unnatural and inhuman delight in behold- 
 ing torments, and in viewing distress, calamity, blood, massacre 
 and destruction, with a peculiar joy and pleasure. This has 
 been the reigning passion of many tyrants and barbarous 
 nations, and belongs in some degree to such tempers as have 
 thrown off' that courteousness of behaviour which retains in us 
 a just reverence of mankind, and prevents the growth of 
 harshness and brutality. This passion enters not where civility 
 or affable manners have the least place. Such is the nature of 
 what we call good breeding, that in the midst of many other 
 corruptions it admits not of inhumanity or savage pleasure. 
 To see the sufferance of an enemy with cruel delight may 
 proceed from the height of anger, revenge, fear, and other 
 extended self-passions ; but to delight in the torture and pain 
 of other creatures indifferently, natives or foreigners, of our own 
 or of another species, kindred or no kindred, known or unknown ; 
 to feed as it were on death, and be entertained with dying 
 agonies ; this has nothing in it accountable in the way of self- 
 interest or private good above mentioned, but is wholly and 
 absolutely unnatural, as it is horrid and miserable. 
 
 There is another affection nearly related to this, which is a 
 gay and frolicsome delight in what is injurious to others ; a sort 
 of wanton mischievousness, and pleasure in what is destructive ; 
 a passion which, instead of being restrained, is usually encouraged 
 in children ; l so that 'tis indeed no wonder if the effects of it 
 are very unfortunately felt in the world. For 'twill be hard, 
 perhaps, for any one to give a reason why that temper which 
 was used to delight in disorder and ravage when in a nursery, 
 
 1 [This is one of the testimonies which prove a distinct change for the 
 better to have taken place in the ordinary parental attitude towards 
 the characters of children. Compare Montaigne, Essais, i. xxii. as to 
 the usages of his day : " It is a pastime for mothers to see a child wring 
 
 331
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 should not afterwards find delight in other disturbances, and be 
 the occasion of equal mischief in families, amongst friends, and 
 in the public itself. But of this passion there is not any 
 foundation in Nature, as has been explained. 
 
 Malice, malignity or ill-will, such as is grounded on no self- 
 consideration, and where there is no subject of anger or jealousy, 
 nor anything to provoke or cause such a desire of doing ill to 
 another, this also is of that kind of passion. 
 
 Envy too, when it is such as arises from the prosperity or 
 happiness of another creature no ways interfering with ours, is 
 of the same kind of passion. 
 
 There is also among these a sort of hatred of mankind and 
 society, a passion which has been known perfectly reigning in 
 some men, and has had a peculiar name given to it. A large 
 share of this belongs to those who have long indulged themselves 
 in a habitual moroseness, or who by force of ill-nature and ill- 
 breeding have contracted such a reverse of affability and civil 
 manners that to see or meet a stranger is offensive. The very 
 aspect of mankind is a disturbance to them, and they are sure 
 always to hate at first sight. The distemper of this kind is 
 sometimes found to be in a manner national, but peculiar to the 
 more savage nations, and a plain characteristic of uncivilised 
 manners and barbarity. This is the immediate opposite to 
 that noble affection which in ancient language was termed 
 hospitality, 1 viz. extensive love of mankind and relief of 
 strangers. 
 
 We may add likewise to the number of the unnatural 
 passions all those which are raised from superstition (as before 
 mentioned) and from the customs of barbarous countries ; all 
 
 the neck of a chicken, and struggle to hurt a dog or cat ; and a father can 
 be found fool enough to take it as good promise of a martial spirit when he 
 sees his son beating a peasant or a lacquey who does not resist ; and as 
 proof of cleverness when he sees him overreach a companion by some 
 malicious disloyalty or treachery " (Ed. Firmin-Didot, 1882, vol. i. p. 88). 
 Montaigne and Shaftesbury agree in their comment.] 
 1 Misc. iii. ch. i. in the notes. 
 
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 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 which are too horrid and odious in themselves to need any 
 proof of their being miserable. 
 
 There might be other passions named, such as unnatural 
 lusts, in foreign kinds or species, with other perversions of the 
 amorous desire within our own. But as to these depravities of 
 appetite we need add nothing here, after what has been already 
 said on the subject of the more natural passion. 
 
 Such as these are the only affections or passions we can 
 strictly call unnatural, ill, and of no tendency so much as to 
 any separate or private good. Others indeed there are which 
 have this tendency, but are so exorbitant and out of measure, 
 so beyond the common bent of any ordinary self-passion, and so 
 utterly contrary and abhorrent to all social and natural affection, 
 that they are generally called, and may be justly esteemed, 
 unnatural and monstrous. 
 
 Among these may be reckoned such an enormous pride or 
 ambition, such an arrogance and tyranny, as would willingly 
 leave nothing eminent, nothing free, nothing prosperous in the 
 world; such an anger as would sacrifice everything to itself; 
 such a revenge as is never to be extinguished, nor ever satisfied 
 without the greatest cruelties ; such an inveteracy and rancour 
 as seeks, as it were, occasion to exert itself, and lays hold of the 
 least subject, so as often to make the weight of its malevolence 
 fall even upon such as are mere objects of pity and compassion. 
 
 Treachery and ingratitude are in strictness mere negative 
 vices, and in themselves no real passions, having neither 
 aversion nor inclination belonging to them, but are derived 
 from the defect, unsoundness, or corruption of the affections in 
 general. But when these vices become remarkable in a 
 character, and arise in a manner from inclination and choice ; 
 when they are so forward and active as to appear of their own 
 accord, without any pressing occasion ; 'tis apparent they 
 borrow something of the mere unnatural passions, and are 
 derived from malice, envy, and inveteracy, as explained above. 
 
 It may be objected here that these passions, unnatural as 
 
 333
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 they are, cany still a sort of pleasure with them, and that 
 however barbarous a pleasure it be, yet still it is a pleasure and 
 satisfaction which is found in pride, or tyranny, revenge, malice, 
 or cruelty exerted. Now if it be possible in Nature that any 
 one can feel a barbarous or malicious joy otherwise than in 
 consequence of mere anguish and torment, then may we perhaps 
 allow this kind of satisfaction to be called pleasure or delight. 
 But the case is evidently contrary. To love, and to be kind ; 
 to have social or natural affection, complacency, and good- will, 
 is to feel immediate satisfaction and genuine content. Tis in 
 itself original joy, depending on no preceding pain or un- 
 easiness, and producing nothing beside satisfaction merely. On 
 the other side, animosity, hatred, and bitterness, is original 
 misery and torment, producing no other pleasure or satisfaction 
 than as the unnatural desire is for the instant satisfied by some- 
 thing which appeases it. How strong soever this pleasure 
 therefore may appear, it only the more implies the misery of 
 that state which produces it. For as the cruellest bodily pains 
 do by intervals of assuagement produce (as has been shown) the 
 highest bodily pleasure, so the fiercest and most raging torments 
 of the mind do, by certain moments of relief, afford the 
 greatest of mental enjoyments to those who know little of the 
 truer kind. 
 
 The men of gentlest dispositions and best of tempers have 
 at some time or other been sufficiently acquainted with those 
 disturbances which, at ill hours, even small occasions are* apt to 
 raise. From these slender experiences of harshness and ill- 
 humour they fully know and will confess the ill moments which 
 are passed when the temper is ever so little galled or fretted. 
 How must it fare, therefore, with those who hardly know any 
 better hours in life, and who, for the greatest part of it, are 
 agitated by a thorough active spleen, a close and settled 
 malignity and rancour ? How lively must be the sense of every 
 thwarting and controlling accident ? How great must be the 
 shocks of disappointment, the stings of affront, and the agonies 
 
 334
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 of a working antipathy, against the multiplied objects of 
 offence ? Nor can it be wondered at if, to persons thus 
 agitated and oppressed, it seems a high delight to appease and 
 allay for the while those furious and rough motions, by an 
 indulgence of their passion in mischief and revenge. 
 
 Now as to the consequences of this unnatural state in 
 respect of interest and the common circumstances of life ; upon 
 what terms a person who has in this manner lost all which we 
 call Nature can be supposed to stand in respect of the society 
 of mankind ; how he feels himself in it ; what sense he has of 
 his own disposition towards others, and of the mutual dis- 
 position of others towards himself ; this is easily conceived. 
 
 What enjoyment or rest is there for one who is not conscious 
 of the merited affection or love, but, on the contrary, of the 
 ill-will and hatred of every human soul ? What ground must 
 this afford for horror and despair ? What foundation of fear, 
 and continual apprehension from mankind and from superior 
 powers? How thorough and deep must be that melancholy 
 which, being once moved, has nothing soft or pleasing from the 
 side of friendship to allay or divert it? Wherever such a 
 creature turns himself, whichever way he cast his eye, everything 
 around must appear ghastly and horrid ; everything hostile and, 
 as it were, bent against a private and single being, who is thus 
 divided from everything, and at defiance and war with the rest 
 of Nature. 
 
 "Tis thus, at last, that a mind becomes a wilderness, where 
 all is laid waste, everything fair and goodly removed, and 
 nothing extant beside what is savage and deformed. Now if 
 banishment from one's country, removal to a foreign place, or 
 anything which looks like solitude or desertion, be so heavy to 
 endure, what must it be to feel this inward banishment, this 
 real estrangement from human commerce, and to be after this 
 manner in a desert, and in the horridest of solitudes even when 
 in the midst of society? What must it be to live in this 
 
 335
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 disagreement with everything, this irreconcilableness and oppo- 
 sition to the order and government of the universe ? 
 
 Hence it appears that the greatest of miseries accompanies 
 that state which is consequent to the loss of natural affection ; 
 and that to have those horrid, monstrous, and unnatural 
 affections is to be miserable in the highest degree. 
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 THUS have we endeavoured to prove what was proposed in the 
 beginning. And since in the common and known sense of vice 
 and illness, no one can be vicious or ill except either 
 
 1. By the deficiency or weakness of natural affections ; 
 
 Or, 2. By the violence of the selfish ; 
 
 Or, 3. By such as are plainly unnatural ; 
 
 It must follow that, if each of these are pernicious and 
 destructive to the creature, insomuch that his completest state 
 of misery is made from hence, to be wicked or vicious is to 
 be miserable and unhappy. 
 
 And since every vicious action must in proportion, more or 
 less, help towards this mischief and self-ill, it must follow that 
 every vicious action must be self-injurious and ill. 
 
 On the other side, the happiness and good of virtue has 
 been proved from the contrary effect of other affections, such 
 as are according to Nature and the economy of the species or 
 kind. We have cast up all those particulars from whence (as 
 by way of addition and subtraction) the main sum or general 
 account of happiness is either augmented or diminished. And 
 if there be no article exceptionable in this scheme of moral 
 arithmetic, the subject treated may be said to have an evidence 
 as great as that which is found in numbers or mathematics. 
 For let us carry scepticism ever so far, let us doubt, if we can, 
 of everything about us, we cannot doubt of what passes within 
 ourselves. Our passions and affections are known to us. They 
 
 336
 
 CONCERNING VIRTUE OR MERIT 
 
 are certain, whatever the objects may be on which they are 
 employed. Nor is it of any concern to our argument how 
 these exterior objects stand : whether they are realities or mere 
 illusions ; whether we wake or dream. For ill dreams will be 
 equally disturbing ; and a good dream (if life be nothing else) 
 will be easily and happily passed. In this dream of life, there- 
 fore, our demonstrations have the same force ; our balance and 
 economy hold good, and our obligation to virtue is in every 
 respect the same. 
 
 Upon the whole there is not, I presume, the least degree of 
 certainty wanting in what has been said concerning the prefer- 
 ableness of the mental pleasures to the sensual ; and even of the 
 sensual, accompanied with good affection, and under a temperate 
 'and right use, to those which are no ways restrained, nor 
 supported by anything social or affectionate. 
 
 Nor is there less evidence in what has -been said of the 
 united structure and fabric of the mind, and of those passions 
 which constitute the temper or soul, and on which its happiness 
 or misery so immediately depend. It has been shown that in 
 this constitution the impairing of any one part must instantly 
 tend to the disorder and ruin of other parts, and of the whole 
 itself, through the necessary connection and balance of the 
 affections; that those very passions through which men are 
 vicious are of themselves a torment and disease; and that 
 whatsoever is done which is knowingly ill must be of ill 
 consciousness ; and in proportion as the act is ill must impair 
 and corrupt social enjoyment, and destroy both the capacity of 
 kind affection and the consciousness of meriting any such. So 
 that neither can we participate thus in joy or happiness with 
 others, nor receive satisfaction from the mutual kindness or 
 imagined love of others, on which, however, the greatest of all 
 our pleasures are founded. 
 
 If this be the case of moral delinquency, and if the state 
 which is consequent to this defection from Nature be of all 
 other the most horrid, oppressive, and miserable, 'twill appear 
 
 337
 
 SHAFTESBURY'S CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 " that to yield or consent to anything ill or immoral is a 
 breach of interest, and leads to the greatest ills " ; and " that on 
 the other side, everything which is an improvement of virtue, 
 or an establishment of right affection and integrity, is an 
 advancement of interest, and leads to the greatest and most 
 solid happiness and enjoyment. 1 ' 
 
 Thus the wisdom of what rules, and is first and chief in 
 Nature, has made it to be according to the private interest and 
 good of every one to work towards the general good, which if 
 a creature ceases to promote, he is actually so far wanting to 
 himself, and ceases to promote his own happiness and welfare. 
 He is on this account directly his own enemy, nor can he 
 any otherwise be good or useful to himself than as he continues 
 good to society, and to that whole of which he is himself a 
 part. So that virtue, which of all excellences and beauties is 
 the chief and most amiable ; that which is the prop and 
 ornament of human affairs ; which upholds communities, main- 
 tains union, friendship, and correspondence amongst men ; that 
 by which countries, as well as private families, flourish and are 
 happy, and for want of which everything comely, conspicuous, 
 great, and worthy, must perish and go to ruin ; that single 
 quality, thus beneficial to all society, and to mankind in general, 
 is found equally a happiness and good to each creature in par- 
 ticular, and is that by which alone man can be happy, and 
 without which he must be miserable. 
 
 And thus virtue is the good, and vice the ill of every one. 
 
 END OF VOL. I 
 
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