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 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE 
 
 DIALOGUES CONCERNING NATURAL RELIGION 
 
 DAVID HUME 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 A TREATISE 
 
 OF 
 
 HUMAN NATURE 
 
 BEING AN 
 
 ATTEMPT TO INTRODUCE THE EXPERIMENTAL METHOD 
 OF REASONING INTO MORAL SUBJECTS 
 
 DIALOGUES CONCERNING NATURAL RELIGION 
 BY DAYID HUME 
 
 EDITED, WITS PRELIMINART DISSERTATIONS AND NOTES, Bl 
 
 T. H. GKEEN" and T. H. GROSE 
 
 LATE FELLOW AND TUTOR OP BALLIOL FELLOW AND TUTOR OF QUEEN'S 
 COLLEQE, OXFORD COLLSQE, OXFORD 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 Vol. II. 
 
 NEW IMPBESSION" 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON 
 
 NEW YORK AND BOMBAY 
 
 1898
 
 BIBLIOORAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 First printed May 1874. Reprinted April 1878 ; 
 July 1882; November 1886; June 1890; July 1898.
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE SECOND VOLUME. 
 
 PAOH 
 
 Iktroduction xo the Moral Paet of the Treatise. . . 1 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 OF THE PASSIONS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY. 
 SECT. 
 
 I. Dmsion of tlie Subject 75 
 
 II. Of Pride and Humility ; their Obiecta and Causes . . 77 
 
 III. Whence these Objects and Causes are Deriv'd ... 79 
 
 IV. Of the Relations of Impressions and Ideas ... 81 
 V. Of the Influence of these Relations on Pride and Humility . 8'.^ 
 
 VI. Limitations of this System ...... 88 
 
 VII. Of Vice and Virtue 92 
 
 VIII. Of Beauty and Deformity 95 
 
 IX. Of External Advantages a,nd Disadvantages .... 99 
 
 X. Of Property and Riches . 105 
 
 XI. Of the Love of Fame 110 
 
 XII. Of the Pride and Humility of Animals . . . , 118 
 
 PART II. 
 OF LOVE AND HATEED. 
 
 SECT. 
 
 I, Of the Object and Causes of Love and Hatred . , . 121 
 
 II. Experiments to Confirm this System .... 124
 
 VI CONTENTS OF 
 
 SECT. PAflB 
 
 III. DilBculties Solv'd 137 
 
 IV. Of the Love of Relations 140 
 
 V. Of our Esteem for the Rich and Powerful .... 145 
 
 VI. Of Benevolence tind Anger 152 
 
 VII. Of Compassion 15.5 
 
 VIII. Of Malice and Envy 158 
 
 IX. Of the Mixture of Benevolence and Anger with Compassion 
 
 and Malice . 165 
 
 X. Of Respect and Contempt 173 
 
 XI. Of the Amorous Passion, or Love betwixt the Sexes . . 176 
 
 XIL Of the Love and Hatred of Animals .... 179 
 
 PART III. 
 OP THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS. 
 
 SECT. 
 
 I. Of Liberty and Necessity 181 
 
 II. The same Subject continu'd 188 
 
 III. Of the Influencing Motives of the Will 193 
 
 IV. Of the Causes of the Violent Passions .... 198 
 V. Of the Effects of Custom 201 
 
 VI. Of the Influence of the Imagination on the Passions . . 202 
 
 VII. Of Contiguity and Distance in Space and Time . . . 205 
 
 VIIL The same Subject continu'd 209 
 
 IX. Of the Direct Passions 214 
 
 X. Of Curiosity, or the Love of Truth ..... 223 
 
 BOOK III. 
 OF MORALS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL. 
 
 SECT. 
 
 1. Moral Distinctions not deriv'd from Reason . , . 233 
 
 II. Moral distinctions deriv'd from a moral sense ... 246
 
 THE SECOND VOLUME. 
 
 Vll 
 
 PART II. 
 
 OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE. 
 
 SFX'T. 
 
 I. Justice, whether a natural or artificial virtue ? . 
 II. Of the origin of justice and property 
 
 III. Of the Rules, which determine Property 
 
 IV. Of the transference of property by consent 
 V. Of the obligation of promises 
 
 VI. Some farther reflections concerning justice 
 VII. Of the origin of government 
 VIII. Of the source of allegiance 
 IX. Of the measures of allegiance 
 X. Of the objects of allegiance . 
 XI. Of the laws of nations 
 XII. Of chastity and modesty 
 
 and injustice 
 
 PAOE 
 
 252 
 258 
 273 
 283 
 284 
 29.} 
 300 
 304 
 313 
 317 
 328 
 330 
 
 PART III. 
 
 OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES. 
 
 SECT. 
 
 I. Of the origin of the natural virtues and vices . . . 334 
 
 II. Of greatness of mind . 349 
 
 III. Of goodness and benevolence 358 
 
 IV. Of natural abilities 361 
 
 V. Some farther reflections concerning the natural virtues . 368 
 
 VI. Conclusion of this book ....... 371 
 
 DIALOGUES CONCERNINa NATURAL RELIGION. 
 
 I. 
 
 IL 
 III. 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 VI. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PART 
 
 380 
 
 VII 
 
 389 
 
 VIII. 
 
 400 
 
 IX. 
 
 405 
 
 X. 
 
 411 
 
 XI. 
 
 415 
 
 XII. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 420 
 425 
 430 
 434 
 444 
 454
 
 SUMMAEY OF THE CONTENTS 
 
 GENERAL INTRODUCTION '10 VOL. II. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 Hume's doctrine of morals parallel to his docliine of nature . 1 
 Its relation to Locke ........ 1 
 
 Locke's account of freedom, will, and desire .... 2 
 
 Two questions : Does man always act from the strongest motive ? 
 and. What constitutes his motive ? The latter the important 
 question .......... 3 
 
 Distinction between desires that are, and those Ihat are not, de- 
 termined by the conception of seK ...... 4 
 
 Effect of this conception on the objects of human desire . 4 
 
 Objects so constituted Locke should consistently exclude : But 
 he finds room for them by treating every desire for an object, 
 of which the attainment gives pleasure, as a desire for pleasure 5 
 Confusion covered by calling ' happiness ' the general object of 
 desire ........... 6 
 
 ' Greatest sum of pleasure ' and ' Pleasure in general ' unmeaning 
 expressions ......... 7 
 
 In what sense of happiness is it true that it ' is really just as it 
 appears? '..........8 
 
 In what sense that it is every one's object ? . . . . 9 
 
 No real object of human desire can ever be just as it appears . 9 
 Can Locke consistently allow the distinction between true hap- 
 piness and false ?,....... 10 
 
 Or responsibility ?. . . . . . . . .11 
 
 Objections to the Utilitarian answer to these questions . . 11 
 
 According to Locke present pleasures may be compared with 
 
 future, and desire suspended till comparison has been made . 12 
 What is meant by ' present ' and ' future ' pleasure? . . 14 
 
 By the supposed comparison Locke ought only to have meant 
 the competition of pleasures equally present in imagination : 
 and this could give no ground for responsibihty ... 15 
 VOL. II a
 
 X SUABIAHY OF THE CONTENTS OF THE 
 
 FAQB 
 
 In order to do so, it must be understood as implying determina- 
 tion by conception of self ...... 16 
 
 Locke finds moral freedom in necessity of pursuing happiness . 17 
 If an action is moved by desire for an object, Locke asks no ques- 
 tions about origin of the object . . . . . 17 
 
 But what is to be said of actions, which we only do because we 
 
 ought ? . ......... 18 
 
 Their object is pleasure, but pleasure given not by nature but by 
 
 law . 19 
 
 Conformity to law not the moral good, but a means to it . . 20 
 Hume has to derive from ' impressions ' the objects which Locke 
 
 took for granted ........ 20 
 
 Questions which he found at issue, a. Is virtue interested ? 
 
 b. What is conscience ? ....... 21 
 
 Hobbes' answer to first question ...... 22 
 
 Counter-doctrine of Shaftesbury. Vice is selfishness . . 23 
 
 But no clear account of selfishness ..... 24 
 
 Confusion in his notions of self -good and public good . . 24 
 
 Is all living for pleasure, or only too much of it, selfish ? . 25 
 What have Butler and Hutcheson to say about it ? . . .25 
 
 Chiefly that affections terminate upon their objects . . 26 
 
 But this does not exclude the view that all desire is for pleasure . 26 
 
 Of moral goodness Butler's account circular . ... 27 
 
 Hutcheson's inconsistent with his doctrine that reason gives no 
 
 end 28 
 
 Source of the moral judgment ...... 28 
 
 Heceived notion of reason incompatible with true view . . 28 
 Shaftesbiiry's doctrine of rational afiection ; spoilt by doctrine of 
 
 ' moral sense ' ........ 29 
 
 Consequences of the latter ....... 30 
 
 Is an act done for * virtue's sake ' done for pleasure of moral 
 
 sense? .......... 31 
 
 Hume excludes every object of desire but pleasure ... 31 
 
 His account of ' direct passions '...... 32 
 
 All desire is for pleasure ........ 33 
 
 Yet he admits * passions ' which produce pleasure, but proceed 
 
 not from it ........ . 33 
 
 Desire for objects, as he understands it, excluded by his theory 
 
 of impressions and ideas ....... 34 
 
 Pride determined by reference to self ..... 35 
 
 This means that it takes its character from that which is not a 
 
 possible ' impression '........ 36 
 
 Hume's attempt to represent idea of self as derived from impres- 
 sion 37 
 
 Another device is to suggest a physiological account of pride . 39 
 
 Fallacy of this 39
 
 GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND VOLUME, xi 
 
 FAGK 
 
 It does not tell US what pride is to the mibject of it ... 40 
 Account of love involves the same difficulties ; and a further one 
 
 as to nature of sympathy ....... 41 
 
 Hume's account of sympathy ....... 42 
 
 It implies a self-consciousness not reducible to impressions . 43 
 
 Ambiguity in his account of benevolence ..... 44 
 
 It is a desire and therefore has pleasure for its object . . 44 
 
 What pleasure ?....,.... 45 
 
 Pleasure of sympathy \\ ith the pleasure of another . . 45 
 
 All 'passions' equally interested or disinterested ... 46 
 Confusion arises from use of ' passion ' alike for desire and 
 
 emotion ......... 47 
 
 Of this Hume avails himself in his account of active pity . . 47 
 
 Explanation of apparent conflict between reason and passion . 48 
 
 A * reasonable ' desire means one that excites little emotion . 49 
 
 Enumeration of possible motives ...... 50 
 
 If pleasure sole motive, what is the distinction of self-love ? . 50 
 Its opposition to disinterested desires, as commonly understood, 
 
 disappears ......... 51 
 
 It is desire for pleasure in general . . . . . .51 
 
 How Hume gives meaning to this otherwise unmeaning defini- 
 tion .......... 52 
 
 * Interest,' like other motives described, implies determination by 
 
 reason .......... 53 
 
 Thus Hume, having degraded morality for the sake of consistency, 
 
 after all is not consistent ....... 53 
 
 If all good is pleasure, what is moral good ? . . . .54 
 
 Ambiguity in Locke's view ...... 54 
 
 Development of it by Clarke, which breaks down for want of true 
 
 view of reason ......... 55 
 
 With Hume, moral good is pleasure excited in a particular way, 
 viz. ; in the spectator of the ' good ' act and by the view of its 
 
 tendency to produce pleasure ...... 56 
 
 Mcral sense is thus sympathy with pleasure qualified by consider- 
 ation of general tendencies ....... 58 
 
 In order to account for the facts it has to become sympathy with 
 
 unfelt feelings ........ 59 
 
 Can the distinction between the ' moral ' and ' natural ' be main- 
 
 lainedby Hume? ........ 59 
 
 What is ' artificial virtue ' ? . . . . . . . 60 
 
 No ground for such distinction in relation between motive and 
 
 act ........... 61 
 
 Motive to artificial virtues ....... 62 
 
 How artificial virtues become moral ..... 63 
 
 Interest and sympathy account for all obligations civil and moral 64 
 
 What is meant by an action which ought to be done . . 65
 
 Xli SXimiARY OF GENERAL INTRODUCTION, VOL. H. 
 
 PA OR 
 
 Sense of morality no motive . . . . . . .66 
 
 AVhen it seems so tlie motive is really pride .... 67 
 
 Distinction between virtuous and vicious motive does not exist 
 
 for person moved ........ 67 
 
 ' Consciousness of sin ' disappears ..... 69 
 
 Only respectability remains ....... 69 
 
 And even this not consistently accounted for • . . 70
 
 INTEODUCTION 
 
 1 . In his speculation on morals, no less than on knowledge, Hume's 
 Hume follows the lines laid down by Locke. With each <^<'ctnne of 
 
 ., . . Til 1-1 morals 
 
 there is a precise correspondence between the doctrine of parallel 
 nature and the doctrine of the good. Each gives an account ^^ ^'^ 
 of reason consistent at least in this that, as it allows reason nature. 
 no place in the constitution of real objects, so it allows it 
 none in the constitution of objects that determine desire and, 
 through it, the will. With each, consequently, the * moral 
 faculty,' whether regarded as the source of the judgments 
 ' ought and ought not,' or of acts to which these judgments 
 are appropriate, can only be a certain faculty of feeling, a 
 particular susceptibility of pleasure and pain. The originality 
 of Hume lies in his systematic effort to account for those 
 objects, apparently other than pleasure and pain, which de- 
 termine desire, and which Locke had taken for granted with- 
 out troubling himself about their adjustment to his theory, 
 as resulting from the modification of primary feelings by 
 ' associated ideas.' ' Natural relation,' the close and uniform 
 sequence of certain impressions and ideas upon each other, 
 is the solvent by which in the moral world, as in the world 
 of knowledge, he disposes of those ostensibly necessary ideas 
 that seem to regulate impressions without being copied from 
 them ; and in regard to the one application of it as much as 
 to the other, the question is whether the efficiency of the 
 solvent does not depend on its secretly including the very 
 ideas of which it seems to get rid. 
 
 2. The place held by the 'essay concerning Human Tin- Its relation 
 derstanding,' as a sort of philosopher's Bible in the last ^° ^ ^' 
 century, is strikingly illustrated by the effect of doctrines that 
 
 VOL. II. B
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Locke's 
 account of 
 freedom, 
 will, and 
 desiro. 
 
 only appear in it incidentally. It does not profess to be an 
 ethical treatise at all, yet the moral psychology contained in 
 the chapter * of Power* (II. 21), and the account of moral 
 good and evil contained in the chapter ' of other Relations ' 
 (11. 28), furnished the text for most of the ethical speculation 
 that prevailed in England, France, and Scotland for a century 
 later. If Locke's theory was essentially a reproduction of 
 Hobbes', it was yet in the form he gave it that it survived 
 while Hobbes was decried and forgotten. The chapter on 
 Power is in effect an account of determination by motives. 
 More, perhaps, than any other part of the essay it bears the 
 marks of having been written ' currente calamo.' In the 
 second edition a summary was annexed which differs some- 
 what in the use of terms, but not otherwise, from the original 
 draught. The main course of thought, however, is clear 
 throughout. Will and freedom are at first defined in all but 
 identical terms as each a * power to begin or forbear action 
 barely by a preference of the mind' (§§ 5, 8, 71). Nor is 
 this identification departed from, except that the term * will ' 
 is afterwards restricted to the * preference ' or * power of 
 preference,' while freedom is confined to the power of acting 
 upon preference ; in which sense it is pointed out that though 
 there cannot be freedom without will, there may be will 
 without freedom, as when, through the breaking of a bridge, 
 a man cannot help falling into the water, though he prefers 
 not to do so. ' Freedom ' and ' will ' being thus alike powers, 
 if not the same power, it is as improper to ask whether the 
 will is free as whether one power has another power. The 
 proper question is whether man is free (§§ 14, 21), and the 
 answer to this question, according to Locke, is that within 
 certain limits he is free to act, but that he is not free to will. 
 When in any case he has the option of acting or forbearing 
 to act, he cannot help preferring, i.e. willing, one or other 
 alternative. If it is further asked, What determines the will 
 or preference? the answer is that ' nothing sets us upon any 
 new action but some uneasiness ' (§ 29), viz., the ' most 
 urgent uneasiness we at any time feel ' (§ 40), which again 
 is always ' the uneasiness of desire fixed on some absent good, 
 either negative, as indolence to one in pain, or positive, as 
 enjoyment of pleasure.' In one sense, indeed, it may be said 
 that the will often runs counter to desire, but this merely 
 means tha.t we ' being in this world beset with sundry un-
 
 LOCKE'S DOCTRINE OF MOTIVES. 
 
 easinesses, distressed witli different desires,' the determination 
 of the will by the most pressing desire often implies the 
 counteraction of other desires which would, indeed, under 
 other cu'cumstances, be the most pressing, but at the par- 
 ticular time of the supposed action are not so. 
 
 3. So far Locke's doctrine amounts to no more than this, 
 that action is always determined by the strongest motive ; 
 and only those who strangely hold that human freedom is to 
 be vindicated by disputing that truism will care to question 
 it. To admit that the strongest desire always moves action 
 (there being, in fact, no test of its strength but its effect on 
 action) and that, since every desire causes uneasiness till it 
 is satisfied, the strongest desire is also the most pressing 
 uneasiness,' is compatible with the most opposite views as to 
 the ccmstitution of the objects which determine desire. To 
 unaerstand tha,t it is this constitution of the desired object, 
 not any possible intervention of unmotived willing between 
 the presentation ofa strongest motive and action, which forms 
 the central question of ethics, is the condition of all clear 
 thinking on the subject. It is a question, however, which 
 Locke ignores, and popular philosophy, to its great confusion, 
 has not only continued to do the same, but would probably 
 resent as pedantic any attempt at more accurate analysis. 
 "When we hear of the strongest * desire ' being the uniform 
 motive to action, we have to ask, in the first place, whether 
 the term is confined to impulses determined by a prior con- 
 sciousness, or is taken to include those impulses, commonly 
 called ' mere appetites,' which are not so determined, but 
 depend directly and solely on the ' constitution of our bodily 
 organs.' The appetite of hunger is obviously quite indepen- 
 dent of any remembrance of the pleasure of eating, yet 
 nothing is commoner than to identify with such simple 
 
 Two 
 
 questions : 
 Does man 
 always act 
 from the 
 strongest 
 motive ? 
 and, 
 
 What con- 
 stitutes his 
 motive ? 
 The latter 
 the 
 
 important 
 question. 
 
 ' Locke's language in regard to ' the 
 most pressing uneasiness' will not be 
 found uniformly consistent. His usual 
 doctrine is that the strength of a de.sire, 
 as evinced by the resulting action, and 
 the luieasiness "which it causes are in 
 exact proportion to each other. Accord- 
 ing to this view, desire for future happi- 
 ness can only become a prevalent 
 motive when the uneasiness which it 
 causes has come to outweigh every 
 other (Cf. Chap, xxi., Sees. 43 and 45). 
 On the other hand, he sometimes seems 
 
 to distinguish the desire for future 
 pleasure from present uneasiness, while 
 at the same time implying that it may 
 be a strongest motive (Cf sec. 65). 
 But if so, it follows that there may be 
 a strongest desire which is not the 
 most pressing uneasiness. (See below, 
 sec. 13.) Hume, distinguishing strong 
 from violent desires, and restricting 
 ' uneasiness ' to the latter, is able tx) hold 
 that it is not alone the present uneasi- 
 ness which determines action. (Book 
 II.. part 3, sec. 3, sub fin.) 
 
 B 2
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Distinction 
 between 
 desires 
 that are, 
 and those 
 that are 
 not, deter- 
 mined by 
 the 
 
 conception 
 of self. 
 
 Effect of 
 
 this 
 
 conception 
 
 on the 
 
 objects of 
 
 human 
 
 desire. 
 
 appetite the desire determined by consciousness of some sort, 
 as when we say of a drunkard, who never drinks merely 
 because he is thirsty, that he is governed by his appetite. 
 Upon this distinction, however, since it is recognised by current 
 psychology, it is less important to insist than on that between 
 the kinds of prior consciousness which may determine desire 
 proper. Does this prior consciousness consist simply in the 
 return of an image of past pleasure with consequent hope of 
 its renewal, or is it a conception — the thought of an object 
 under relations to self or of self in relation to certain objects 
 —in a word, self-consciousness as distinct from simple 
 feeling ? 
 
 4. Of desire determined in the former way we have expe- 
 rience, if at all, in those motives which actuate us, as we 
 say, ' unconsciously ' ; which means, without our attending 
 to them — feelings which we do not fix even momentarily by 
 reference to self or to a thing. As we cannot set ourselves 
 to recall such feelings without thinking them, without deter- 
 mining them by that reference to self which we suppose them 
 to exclude, they cannot be described ; but some of our actions 
 (such as the instinctive recurrence to a sweet smell), seem 
 only to be thus accounted for, and probably those actions of 
 animals which do not proceed from appetite proper are to be 
 accounted for in the same way. But whether such actions 
 are facts in human experience or no, those which make us what 
 we are as men are not so determined. The man whom we 
 call the slave of his appetite, the enlightened pleasure-hunter, 
 the man who lives for his family, the artist, the enthusiast 
 for humanity, are alike in this, that the desire which moves 
 their action is itself determined not by the recurring image 
 of a past pleasure, but by the conception of self. The self 
 may be conceived of simply as a subject to be pleased, or may 
 be a subject of interests, which, indeed, when gratified, pro- 
 duce pleasure but are not produced by it — interests in persons, 
 in beautiful things, in the order of nature and society — but 
 self is still not less the ' punctum stans ' whose presence to 
 each passing pleasure renders it a constituent of a happiness 
 which is to be permanently pursued, than it is the focus in 
 which the influences of that world which only self-conscious 
 reason could constitute — the world of science, of art, of human 
 society — must be regathered in order to become the personal 
 interests which move the actions of individuals. It is in this
 
 ILlPriNESS TIIE ONLY MOTIVE. 5^ 
 
 self-consciousness involved in our motives, in that conversion 
 into a conception by reference to self, whicli the image even 
 of the merest animal pleasure must undergo before it can 
 become an element in the formation of character, that the 
 possibility of freedom lies. Without it we should be as sinless 
 and as unprogressive, as free from remorse and aspiration, 
 as incapable of selfishness and self-denial as the animals. 
 Each pleasure would be taken as it came. We should have 
 * the greatest happiness of which our nature is capable,' 
 without possibility of asking ourselves whether we might not 
 have had more. It is only the conception of himself as a 
 permanent subject to be pleased that can set man upon the 
 invention of new pleasures, and then, making each pleasure 
 a disappointment when it comes, produce the ' vicious ' tem- 
 per ; only this that can suggest the reflection how much more 
 pleasure he might have had than he ha-s had, and thus pro- 
 duce what the moralists know as ' cool selfishness ' ; only 
 this, on the other hand, which, as * enlightened self-love,' 
 perpetually balances the attraction of imagined pleasure by 
 the calculation whether it will be good for one as a whole. 
 Nor less is it the conception of self, with a * matter ' more 
 adequate to its ' form,' taking its content not from imagined 
 pleasure, but from the work of reason in the world of nature 
 and humanity, which determines that personal devotion to a 
 work or a cause, to a state, a church, or mankind, which we 
 call self-sacrifice. 
 
 5. If, now, we ask ourselves whether Locke recognised this Oiyeets so 
 
 jf ,• n in . • 11 J J. • i.' conHtitutecl 
 
 lunction ot reason, as seli-consciousness, m the determination Locke 
 of the will, the answer must be yes and no. His cardinal should con- 
 doctrine, as we have sufficiently seen, forbade him to admit exclude': 
 that reason or thought could originate an object. The only 
 possible objects with him are either simple ideas or resoluble 
 into these, and the simple idea, as that which we receive in 
 pure passivity, is virtually feeling. Now no combination of 
 feelings (supposing it possible ') can yield the conception of 
 self as a permanent subject even of pleasure, much less as a 
 subject of social claims. It cannot, therefore, yield the objects, 
 ranging from sensual happiness to the moral law, humanity, 
 and God, of which this conception is the correlative condition. 
 Thus, strictly taken, lioeke's doctrine excludes every motive 
 to action, but appetite proper and such desire as is deter- 
 
 •_Cf. Introduction to Vol. i., §§ 215 and 247.
 
 6 INTRODUCTION 
 
 But he mined by the imagination of animal pleasure or pain, and in 
 finds room ^q^^q so renders vice as well as virtue unaccountable — the 
 
 tor them ~ ^ 
 
 by treating excessive pursuit of pleasure as well as that dissatisfaction 
 '^T^fy ^ with it which affords the possibility of ordinary reform. On 
 
 ciGSirs lor j. »/ •/ 
 
 an object, the other hand, the same happy intellectual unscrupulousness, 
 of -which nvhich we have traced in his theory of knowledge, attends 
 ment gives him also here. Just as he is ready on occasion to treat any 
 pieasure,as couceivcd object that determines sen,se as if it were itself a 
 pleasure, sensation, so he is ready to treat any object that determines 
 desire, without reference to the work of thought in its con- 
 struction, as if it were itself the feeling of pleasure, or of 
 uneasiness removed, which arises upon satisfaction of the 
 desire. In this way, without professedly admitting any 
 motive but remembered pleasure — a motive which, if it were 
 our only one, would leave 'man's life as cheap as beasts' ' — 
 he can take for granted any objects of recognised interest as 
 accounting for the movement of human life, and as constitu- 
 ents of an utmost possible j)leasure which it is his own fault 
 if every one does not pursue. 
 Confusion 6. The term ' happiness ' is the familiar cover for confu- 
 covered by ^^^^ between the animal imagination of pleasure and the 
 •liappiness' Conception of personal well-being. It is so when — having 
 the general raised the question, What moves desire? — Locke answers, 
 desire. * happiness, and that alone.' What, then, is happiness ? 
 
 * Good and evil are nothing but pleasure and pain,' and 
 
 * happiness in its full extent is the utmost pleasure we are 
 capable of.' ' This is ' the proper object of desire in general,' 
 but Locke is careful to explain that the happiness which 
 
 * moves every particular man's desire ' is not the full extent 
 of it, but * so much of it as is considered and taken to make 
 a necessary part of his happiness.' It is that ' wherewith he 
 in his present thoughts can satisfy himself.' Happiness in 
 this sense ' every one constantly pursues,' and without possi- 
 bility of error; for* as to present pleasure the mind never 
 mistakes that which is really good or evil.' Every one 
 
 * knows what best pleases him, and that he actually prefers.' 
 That which is the greater pleasure or the greater pain is 
 really just as it appears (Ibid. §§ 43, 58, 63). Now in these 
 statements, if we look closely, we shall find that four different 
 meanings of happiness are mixed up, which we will take 
 leave to distinguish by letters — (a) happiness as an abstract 
 
 ' Ibid., sec. 4L', and cap, 28, sec. 5.
 
 WHAT IS MEANT BY HAPPINESS? f 
 
 conception, the sum of possible pleasure ; (6) happiness as 
 equivalent to the pleasure which at any time survives most 
 strongly in imagination ; (c) happiness as the object of the 
 self-conscious pleasure-seeker ; {d) happiness as equivalent 
 to any object at any time most strongly desired, not really a 
 pleasure, but by Locke identified with happiness m sense (6) 
 through the fallacy of supposing that the pleasure which 
 arises on satisfaction of any desire, great in proportion to the 
 strength of the desire, is itself the object which excites 
 desire. 
 
 7. Happiness ' in its full extent,' as ' the utmost pleasure we 'Greatest 
 are capable of,' is an unreal abstraction if ever there was ^l™ °^ , 
 one It is curious that those who are most forward to deny and 
 the reality of universals, in that sense in which they are the ! Pleasiu-e ^ 
 condition of all reality, viz., as relations, should yet, having u^nmeani'ng 
 pronounced these to be mere names, be found ascribing expres- 
 reality to a universal, which cannot without contradiction be ^^''°*' 
 supposed more than a name. Does this * happiness in its 
 full extent' mean the 'aggregate of possible enjoyments,' 
 of which modem utilitarians tell us ? Such a phrase simply 
 represents the vain attempt to get a definite by addition of 
 indefinites. It has no more meaning than ' the greatest 
 possible quantity of time ' would have. Pleasant feelings 
 are not quantities that can be added. Each is over before 
 the next begins, and the man who has been pleased a milHon 
 times is not really better off — has no more of the supposed 
 chief good in possession — than the man who has only been 
 pleased a thousand times. When we speak of pleasures, then, as 
 formingapossiblewhole,wecannot mean pleasures as feelings, 
 and what else do we mean ? Are we, then, by the 'happiness * 
 in question to understand pleasure in general, as might be 
 inferred from Locke's speaking of it as the * object of desire 
 in general ' ? But it is in its mere particularity that each 
 pleasure has its being. It is a simple idea, and therefore, 
 as Locke and Hume have themselves taught us, momentary, 
 indefinable, in ' perpetual flux,' changing every moment 
 upon us. Pleasure in general, therefore, is not pleasure, and 
 it is nothing else. It is not a conceived reality, as a relation, 
 or a thing determined by relations, is, since pleasure as feel- 
 ing, in distinction from its conditions which are not feelings, 
 for the same reason that it cannot be defined, cannot be 
 conceived. It is a mere name which utilitarian philosophy
 
 « 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 In -what 
 eense of 
 happiness 
 is it true 
 that it 
 • is really 
 juet as it 
 appears'? 
 
 has mistaken for a thing; but for which — since no one, what- 
 ever his theory of the desirable, can actually desire either 
 the abstraction of pleasure in general or the aggregate of 
 possible pleasures— a practical substitute is apt to bo found 
 in any lust of the flesh that may for the time be the 
 strongest. 
 
 8. Having begun by making this fiction ' the proper 
 object of desire in general,' Locke saves the appearance of 
 consistency by representing the particular pleasure or re- 
 moval of uneasiness, which he in fact believed to be the 
 object of every desire, as if it were a certain part of the 
 * full extent of happiness ' which the individual, having this 
 full extent before him, picked out as being what 'in his 
 present thoughts would satisfy him.' Nor does he ever give 
 Tip the notion of a ' happiness in general,' in distinction 
 from the happiness of each man's actual choice, as a possible 
 moiive, which a man who finds himself wretched in conse- 
 quence of his actions may be told that he ought to have 
 adopted. His real notion, however, of the happiness which 
 is motive to action is a confused result of the three other 
 notions of happiness, distinguished above as (&), (c) and 
 (d). As that about which no one can be mistaken, ' happi- 
 ness ' can only be so in sense (6), as the 'pleasure which 
 survives most strongly in imagination.* Of this it can be said 
 truly, and of this only, that ' it really is just as it appears,' 
 and that ' a man never chooses amiss ' since he must ' know 
 what best pleases him.' But with this, almost in the same 
 breath, Locke confuses ' happiness ' in senses (c) and (^). 
 So soon as it is said of an object that it is 'taken by the 
 individual to make a necessary part of his happiness,' it is 
 implied that it is determined by his conception of self. It 
 is something which, as the result of the action of this con- 
 ception on his past experience, he has come to present to 
 himself as a constituent of his personal good. Unless 
 he were conscious of himself as a permanent subject, he 
 could have no conception of happiness as a whole from rela- 
 tion to which each present object takes its character as a 
 part. Nor of the objects determined by this relation is it 
 true, as Locke says, that they are always pleasures, or that 
 they * are really just as they appear.' Our readiness to 
 a<:cept his statements to this efitect, is at bottom due to a 
 confusion between the pleasure, or removal of uneasiness,
 
 IS THERE A TRUE ILiPPIXESS AND A FALSE ? 9 
 
 incidental to the satisfaction of a desire and the object whicli In -what 
 excites the desire. If having explained desire, as Locke ft'is^every 
 does, by reference to the good, we then allow ourselves to one's 
 explain the good by reference to desire, it will indeed be '^^J^'^'^'' 
 true that no man can be mistaken as to his present good, 
 but only in the sense of the identical proposition that every 
 man most desires what he does most desire ; and true also, 
 that every attained good is pleasure, but only in the sense 
 that what satisfies desire does satisfy it. The man of whom 
 it could be truly said, in any other sense than that of the 
 above identical proposition, that his only objects of desire — 
 the only objects which he ' takes to make a necessary part 
 of his happiness ' — were pleasures, would be a. man, as we 
 say, of no interests. He would be a man who either lived 
 simply for pleasures incidental to the satisfaction of animal 
 appetite, or one who, having been interested in certain 
 objects in which reason alone enables us to be interested — 
 e.g., persons, pursuits, or works of art — and having found con- 
 sequent pleasure, afterwards vainly tries to get the pleasure 
 without the interests. To the former type of character, 
 of course, the approximations are numerous enough, though 
 it may be doubted whether such an ideal of sensuality is 
 often fully realised. The latter in its completeness, which 
 would mean a perfect misery that could only issue in suicide, 
 would seem to be an impossibility, though it is constantly 
 being approached in proportion to the unworthiness and 
 fleetingness of the interests by which men allow themselves 
 to be governed, and which, after stimulating an indefinite 
 hunger for good, leave it without an object to satisfy it ; in 
 proportion, too, to the modern habit of hugging and poring 
 over the pleasures which our higher interests cause us till 
 these interests are vitiated, and we find ourselves in restless 
 and hopeless pursuit of the pleasure when the interest which 
 might alone produce it is gone. 
 
 9. Just as it is untrue, then, of the object of desire, as No real 
 * taken to be part of one's happiness ' or determined by the "^J^*^* of 
 conception of self, that it is always a pleasure, so it is un- desire can 
 true that it is always really just as it appears, except in the f"^^^ ^^. 
 trifling sense that what is most strongly desired is most appears, 
 strongly desired. Eather it is never really what it appears. 
 It is least of all so to the professed pleasure-seeker. Ob- 
 viously, to the man who seeks the pleasure incidental to
 
 10 INTRODUCTION 
 
 interests wliicli lie has lost, there is a contradiction in hi3 
 quest which for ever prevents what seems to him desirable 
 from satisfying his desire. And even the man who lives 
 for merely animal pleasure, just because he seeks it as part 
 of a happiness, never finds it to be that which he sought. 
 There is no mistake about the pleasure, but he seeks it as 
 that which shall satisfy him, and satisfy him, since he is not 
 an animal, it cannot. Nor are our higher objects of desire 
 ever what they seem. That is too old a topic with poets and 
 moralizers to need enforcing. Each in its turn, we know, 
 promises happiness when it shall have been attained, but 
 when it is attained the happiness has not come. The craving 
 for an object adequate to oneself, which is the source of 
 the desire, is still not quenched ; and because it is not, nor 
 can be, even ' the joy of success ' has its own bitterness. 
 Can 10. The case, then, stands thus. Locke, having too much 
 
 Locke con- < common sense ' to reduce all objects of desire to the plea- 
 aiiow the sures incidental to satisfactions of appetite, takes for granted 
 distinction ^^-^j number of objects which only reason can constitute (or, 
 tmehiippi- in otlier words, which can only exist for a self-conscious 
 ness ami subject) without any question as to their origin. It is 
 enough for him that they are not conscious inventions of 
 the individual, and that they are related to feeling — though 
 related as determining it. This being so, they are to him 
 no more the work of thought than are the satisfactions of 
 appetite. The conception of them is of a kind with the 
 simple remembrance or imagination of pleasures caused by 
 such satisfactions. The question how, if only pleasure is 
 the object of desire, they came to be desired before there 
 had been experience of the pleasures incidental to their attain- 
 ment, is virtually shelved by treating these latter pleasures 
 as if they were themselves the objects originally desired. So 
 far consistency at least is saved. No object but feeling, 
 present or remembered, is ostensibly admitted within human 
 experience. But meanwhile, alongside of this view, comes 
 the account of the strongest motive as determined by the 
 conception of self— as something which a man 'takes to be 
 a necessary part of his happiness,' and which he is ' answer- 
 able to himself ' for so taking. The inconsistency of such 
 language with the view that every desired object must needs 
 be a pleasure, would have been less noticeable if Locke him- 
 self had not frankly admitted, as the corollary of this view.
 
 'DE GUSTIBUS NON EST DISrUT.NJsDUM.' n 
 
 that the desired good * is really just as it appears.' The Or rospon- 
 necessity of this admission has always been the rock on ^^^'"'7^ 
 which consistent Hedonism has broken. Locke himself has 
 scarcely made it when he becomes aware of its dangerous 
 consequences, and great part of the chapter on Power is 
 taken up by awkward attempts to reconcile it with the dis- 
 tinction between true happiness and false, and with the 
 existence of moral responsibility. If greatest pleasure is 
 the only possible object, and the production of such pleasure 
 the only possible criterion of action, and if ' as to present 
 pleasure and pain the mind never mistakes that which is 
 really good or evil,' with what propriety can any one be 
 told that he might or that he ought to have chosen other- 
 wise than he has done ? ' He has missed the true good,' we 
 say, ' which he might and should have found ' ; but ' good,' 
 according to Locke, is only pleasure, and pleasure, as Locke 
 in any other connexion would be eager to tell us, must mean 
 either some actual present pleasure or a series of pleasures 
 of which each in turn is present. If every one without 
 possibility of mistake has on each occasion chosen the 
 greatest present pleasure, how can the result for him at any 
 time be other than the true good, i. e., the series of greatest 
 pleasures, each in its turn present, that have been hitherto 
 possible for him ? 
 
 11. A modern utilitarian, if faithful to the principle which Objections 
 excludes any test of pleasure but pleasure itself, will prob- utiiiurian 
 ably answer that every one does attain the maximum of answer 
 pleasure possible for him, his character and circumstances quegtlonii. 
 being what they are ; but that with a change in these his 
 choice would be different. He would still choose on each 
 occasion the greatest pleasure of which he was then capable, 
 but this pleasure would be one ' truer ' — in the sense of 
 being more intense, more durable, and compatible with a 
 greater quantity of other pleasures — than is that which he 
 actually chooses. But admitting that this answer justifies 
 us in speaking of any sort of pleasure as ' truer ' than that 
 at any time chosen by any one — which is a very large admis- 
 sion, for of the intensity of any pleasure we have no test but 
 its being actually preferred, and of durability and compa- 
 tibility with other pleasures the tests are so vague that a 
 healthy and unrepentant voluptuary would always have the 
 best of it in an attempt to strike the balance between the
 
 12 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Accarding 
 fo Locke 
 
 pruseiit 
 
 pleasures 
 
 may be 
 
 compared 
 
 with 
 
 future, 
 
 pleasures lie has actually chosen and any truer sofrt — it still 
 only throws us back on a further question. With a better 
 character, it is said, such as better education and improved 
 circumstances might have produced, the actually greatest 
 happiness of the individual — i.e., the series of pleasures 
 which, because he has chosen them, we know to have been 
 the greatest possible for him — might have been greater or 
 ' truer.' But the man's character is the result of his pre- 
 vious preferences ; and if every one has always chosen the 
 greatest pleasure of which he was at the time capable, and 
 if no other motive is possible, how could any other than his 
 actual character have been produced ? How could that con- 
 ception of a happiness truer than the actual, of something 
 that should be most pleasant, and therefore preferred, 
 though it is not — a conception which all education implies — 
 have been a possible motive among mankind ? To say that 
 the individual is, to begin with, destitute of such a concep- 
 tion, but acquires it through education from others, does not 
 remove the difficulty. How do the educators come by it ? 
 Common sense assumes them to have found out that more 
 happiness might have been got by another than the merely 
 natural course of living, and to wish to give others the 
 benefit of their experience. But such experience implies 
 that each has a conception of himself as other than the 
 subject of a succession of pleasures, of which each has been 
 the greatest possible at the time of its occurrence ; and the 
 wish to give another the benefit of the experience implies 
 that this conception, which is no possible image of a feeling, 
 can originate action. The assumption of common sense, 
 then, contradicts the two cardinal principles of the Hedon- 
 istic philosophy ; yet, however disguised in the terminology 
 of development and evolution, it, or some equivalent supposi- 
 tion, is involved in every theory of the progress of mankind. 
 12. Such difficulties do not suggest themselves to Locke, 
 because he is always ready to fall back on the language of 
 common sense without asking whether it is reconcilable 
 with his theory. Having asserted, without qualification, 
 that the will in every case is determined by the strongest 
 desire, that the strongest desire is desire for the greatest 
 pleasure, and that ' pleasure is just so great, and no greater, 
 than it is felt,' he finds a place for moral freedom and re- 
 sponsibility in the ' power a man has to suspend his desires
 
 LOCKE'S ACCOUNT OF RESPONSIBILITY. 13 
 
 and stop them from determining his will to any action till he and desire 
 has examined whether it be really of a nature in itself and JJJP^^']^^'^ 
 consequences to make him happy or no.'^ But how does it parison 
 happen that there is any need for such suspense, if as to has beea 
 pleasure and pain 'a man never chooses amiss,' and pleasure 
 is the same with happiness or the good? To this Locke 
 answers that it is only present pleasure which is just as it 
 appears, and that in ' comparing present pleasure or pain 
 with future we often make wrong judgments of them ; ' 
 again, that not only present pleasure and pain, but ' things 
 that draw after them pleasure and pain, are considered as 
 good and evil,' and that of these consequences under the in- 
 fluence of present pleasure or pain we may judge amiss.* 
 By these wrong judgments, it will be observed, Locke does 
 not mean mistakes in discovering the proper means to a 
 desired end (Aristotle's ayvoia ^ xad' sica<na), which it is 
 agreed are not a ground for blame or punishment, but wrong 
 desires — desires for certain pleasures as being the greater, 
 which are not really the greater. Regarding such desires as 
 involving comparisons of one good with another, he counts 
 them judgments, and (the comparison being incorrectly 
 made) wrong judgments. A certain present pleasure, and a 
 certain future one, are compared, and though the future 
 would really be the greater, the present is preferred ; or a 
 present pleasure, 'drawing after it' a certain amount of pain, 
 is compared with a less amount of present pain, drawing 
 after it a greater pleasure, and the present pleasure preferred. 
 In such cases the man ' may justly incur punishment ' for the 
 wrong preference, because having ' the power to suspend his 
 desire ' for the present pleasure, he has not done so, but ' by 
 too hasty choice of his own making has imposed on himself 
 wrong measures of good and evil.' ' When he has once 
 chosen it,' indeed, 'and thereby it is become part of his 
 happiness, it raises desire, and that proportionately gives 
 him uneasiness, which determines his will.' But the original 
 wrong choice, having the ' power of suspending his desires,' 
 he might have prevented. In not doing so he ' vitiated his 
 own palate,' and must be ' answerable to himself ' for the 
 consequences.^ 
 
 13. Responsibility for evil, then (with its conditions, 
 blame, punishment, and remorse) supposes that a man has 
 
 « II. 21, Sec. 51 and 56. « Hjjj,^ ggp, gi^ 63, 67. ' Ibid., Sec. 56.
 
 14 INTRODUCTION 
 
 wiiat is gone wrong in the comparison of present witli future plea^ 
 •OT^esenJ ^^^^ ^^ pain, having had the chance of going right. Upon 
 and this we must remark that as moving desire — and it is the 
 
 pleasi^re ? <i6termination of desire that is here in question — no plea- 
 sure can be present in the sense of actual enjoyment, or (in 
 Hume's language) as ' impression,' but only in memory or 
 imagination, as ' idea.' Otherwise desire would not be 
 desire. It would not be that uneasiness which, according 
 to Locke, implies the absence of good, and alone moves action. 
 On the other hand, to imagination evert pleasure must be 
 present that is to act as motive at all. In whatever sense, 
 then, pleasure, as pleasure, i.e. as undetermined by concep- 
 tions, can properly be said to move desire, every pleasure is 
 equally present and equally future.^ For man, if he only- 
 felt and retained his feelings in memory, or recalled them ir 
 imagination, the only difference among the imagined plea- 
 sures which solicit his desires, other than difference of 
 intensity, would lie in the imagined pains with which each 
 may have become associated. One pleasure might be 
 imagined in association with a greater amount of the pain 
 of waiting than another. In that sense, and only in that, 
 could one be distinguished from the other as a future plea- 
 sure from a present one. According as the greater imagined 
 intensity of the future pleasure did or did not outweigh the 
 imagined pain of waiting for it, the scale of desire would 
 turn one way or the other. Or with one pleasure, imagined 
 as more intense than another, might be associated an ex- 
 pectation of a greater amount of pain to be ' drawn after it.' 
 Here, again, the question would be whether the greater 
 imagined intensity of pleasure avouM have the more effect in 
 exciting desire, or the greater amount of imagined sequent 
 pain in quenching it — a question only to be settled by the 
 action which results. In whatever sense it is true of the 
 * present pleasure or pain,' that it is really just as it appears, 
 it is equally true of the future. Whenever the determina- 
 tion of desire is in question, the statement that present 
 pleasure is just as it appears must mean that the pleasure 
 present in imagination is so, and in this sense all motive 
 pleasui'es are equally so present. Undoubtedly the pleasure 
 
 •Itis noticeable that when Locke takes were an absent good, in contradiction 
 
 to distinguishing the pleasures that to his previous view that every object 
 
 move desire into present and future, ho of desire is an absent good. (Cf. sec. 
 
 upoaks as if the future pleasure aloue (io with sec. 57 of cap. 21,)
 
 WIIAT IS IMPLIED IN SUSPEISDING DESIRE? 16 
 
 associated with the pain of prolonged expectancy might turn By the 
 out greater, and that associated with sequent pain less, than comparison 
 was imagined ; but so might a pleasure not thus associated. Locke 
 Of every pleasure alike it is as true, that while it is imagined °Q^^*^g°°^^ 
 it is just as it is imagined, as that while felt it is just as it is meant 
 felt : and if man only felt and imaofined, there would be no the com- 
 more reason why he should hold himself accountable for his pleasures 
 imaginations than for his feelings. Whatever pleasure was equally 
 most attractive in imagination would determine desire, and, ,„ imagina- 
 through it, action, which would be the only measure of the tion; 
 amount of the attraction. It would not indeed follow 
 because an action was determined by the pleasure most 
 attractive in imagination, that the ensuing pleasure in actual 
 enjoyment would be greater than might have been attained 
 by a different action — though it would be very hard to show 
 the contrary — but it would follow that the man attained the 
 greatest pleasure of which his nature was capable. There 
 would be no reason why he should blame himself, or be 
 blamed by others, for the result. 
 
 14. Thus on Locke's supposition, that desire is only moved and this 
 by pleasure — which must mean imagined pleasure, since no"f*rouud 
 pleasure, determined by conceptions, is excluded by the for respon- 
 supposition that pleasure alone is the ultimate motive, and ^' ' ^^^' 
 pleasure in actual enjoyment is no longer desired — the 
 * suspense of desire,' that he speaks of, can only mean an 
 interval, during which a competition of imagined pleasures 
 (one associated with more, another with less, of sequent or 
 antecedent pain) is still going on, and none has become 
 finally the strongest motive. Of such suspense it is un- 
 meaning to say that a man has ' the power of it,' or that, 
 when it terminates in an action which does not produce 
 so much pleasure as another might have done, it is because 
 the man * has vitiated his palate,' and that therefore he must 
 be ' answerable to himself for the consequences. This lan- 
 guage reaUy implies that pleasures, instead of being ultimate 
 ends, are determined to be ends through reference to an 
 object beyond them which the man himself constitutes ; that 
 it is only through his conception of self that every pleasure — 
 not indeed best pleases him, or is most attractive in imagina- 
 tion — but becomes his personal good. It may be that he 
 identifies his personal good with the pleasure most attractive 
 in imagination; but a pleasure so identified is quite a different
 
 16 INTRODUCTION 
 
 In order to motive from a pleasure simply as imagined. It is no longer 
 must be i^iere pleasure that the man seeks, but self-satisfaction 
 understood through the pleasure. The same consciousness of self, 
 in ^ det^' '^liich sets him on the act, continues through the act and its 
 mination consequeuces, carrying with it the knowledge (commonly 
 by concep- called the * voice of conscience ') that it is to himself, as the 
 self. ultimate motive, that the act and its consequences, whether 
 
 in the shape of natural pains or civil penalties, are due — a 
 knowledge which breeds remorse, and, through it, the possi- 
 bility of a better mind. Thus, when Locke finds the ground 
 of responsibility in a man's power of suspending his desire 
 till he has considered whether the act, to which it inclines 
 him, is of a kind to make him happy or no, the value of the 
 explanation lies in the distinction which it may be taken to 
 imply, but which Locke could not consistently admit, between 
 the imagination of pleasure and the conception of self as a 
 permanent subject of happiness, by reference to which an 
 imagined pleasure becomes a strongest motive. It is not 
 really as involving a comparison between imagined plea- 
 sures, but as involving the consideration whether the greatest 
 imagined pleasure will be the best for one in the long run, 
 that the suspense of desire establishes the responsibility of 
 man. Even if we admitted with Locke that nothing entered 
 into the consideration but an estimate of ' future pleasures ' 
 — and Locke, it will be observed, by supposing the estimate 
 to include * pleasures of a sort we are unacquainted with,'* 
 which is as much of a contradiction as to suppose a man in- 
 fluenced by unfelt feelings, renders this restriction unmeaning 
 — still to be determined by the consideration whether some- 
 thing is good for me on the whole is to be determined, not 
 by the imagination of pleasure, but by the conception of 
 self, though it be of self only as a subject to be pleased. 
 
 15. The mischief is that, though his language implies this 
 distinction, he does not himself understand it. ' The care 
 of ourselves,' he tells us, ' that we mistake not imaginary 
 for real happiness, is the necessary foundation of our liberty. 
 The stronger ties we have to an unalterable pursuit of happi- 
 ness in general, which is our greatest good, and which, as 
 such, our desires always follow, the more are we free from 
 
 ' Cap. 21, sec. 65. He has specially to every one's wish and desire; could 
 
 in view the pleasures of ' another life,' we suppose their relishes as different 
 
 wliich 'being intended for a stale of there as they are here, yet the manna in 
 
 happiness, must certainly be agreeable heaven will suit every one's palate.'
 
 FOUNDATION OF OUR LIBERTY. 17 
 
 any necessary determination of our will to any particular Locke 
 action, till we have examined whether it has a tendency to, fj,°^^™'''"^' 
 or is inconsistent with, our real happiness.' • But he does necessity 
 not see that the rationale of the freedom, thus paradoxically, °^p^^- 
 
 . ■*■ . . *' suing li.'tp- 
 
 though truly, placed in the strength of a tie, lies in that piness. 
 determination by the conception of self to which the * un- 
 alterable pursuit of happiness ' is really equivalent. To him 
 it is not as one mode among others in which that self- 
 determination appears, but simply in itself, that the con- 
 sideration of what is for our real happiness is the ' foundation 
 of our liberty,' and the consideration itself is no more than 
 a comparison between imagined pleasures and pains. Hence 
 to a reader who refuses to read into Locke an interpretation 
 which he does not himself supply, the range of moral liberty 
 must seem as narrow as its nature is ambiguous. As to its 
 range, the greater part of our actions, and among them 
 those which we are apt to think our best, are not and could 
 not be preceded by any consideration whether they are for 
 our real happiness or no. In truth, they result from a 
 character which the conception of self has rendered possible, 
 or express an interest in objects of which this conception is 
 the condition, and for that reason they represent a will self- 
 determined and free ; but they do not rest on the foundation 
 which Locke calls ' the necessary foundation of our liberty.' 
 As to the nature of this liberty, the reader, who takes Locke 
 at his word, would find himself left to choose between the 
 view of it as the condition of a mind ' suspended * between 
 rival presentations of the pleasant, and the equally untenable 
 view of it as that ' liberty of indifference,' which Locke 
 himself is quite ready to deride — as consisting in a choice 
 prior to desire, which determines what the desire shall be.^ 
 
 16. This ambiguous deliverance about moral freedom, it 
 must be observed, is the necessary result on a mind, having 
 too strong a practical hold on life to tamper with human 
 responsibility, of a doctrine which denies the originativeness 
 of thought, and in consequence cannot consistently allow If an 
 
 action IS 
 
 any motive to desire, but the image of a past pleasure or ^^^^ed l 
 pain. The full logical effect of the doctrine, however, does desire for 
 not appear in Locke, because, with his way of taking any ^" object, 
 
 ' Cap. 21, sec. 51. become part of his happiness, it raises 
 
 * Cf. the passage in sec. 66 : ' When desire,' &c. (Cf. also sec. 43 sub fin.) 
 he has once chosen it, and thereby it is 
 
 VOL. II. C
 
 18 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Locke asks (lesire of wliicli tlie satisfaction produces pleasure to have 
 no ques- pleasure for its object, he never comes in sight of the ques- 
 origin of tion how the manifold objects of actual human interest are 
 the object, possible for a being -who only feels and retains, or combines, 
 his feelings. An action moved by love of country, love of 
 fame, love of a friend, love of the beautiful, would cause him 
 no more difficulty than one moved by desire for the renewal 
 of some sensual enjoyment, or for that maintenance of 
 health which is the condition of such enjoyment in the 
 future. If pressed about them, we may suppose that — avail- 
 ing himself of the language probably current in the philoso- 
 phic society in which he lived, though it first became 
 generally current in England through the writings of his 
 quasi-pupil, Shaftesbury — he would have said that he found 
 in his breast affections for public good, as well as for self- 
 good, the satisfaction of which gave pleasure, and to which 
 his doctrine, that pleasure is the ' object of desire in general,' 
 was accordingly applicable. The question — of what feelings 
 or combinations of feelings are the objects which excite 
 these several desires copies ? — it does not occur to him to 
 But what ask. It is only when a class of actions presents itself for 
 o/acLiou"'^ which a motive in the way of desire or aversion is not 
 which we readily assignable that any difficulty arises, and then it is a 
 only do difficulty which the assignment of such a motive, without 
 
 because we -^ , °, . .,. „ i r- t 
 
 ought? any question asked as to its possibility for a merely feeling 
 and imagining subject, is thought sufficiently to dispose of. 
 Such a class of actions is that of which we say that we 
 ' ought ' to do them, even when we are not compelled and 
 had rather not. We ought, it is generally admitted, to keep 
 our promises, even when it is inconvenient to us to do so and 
 no punishment could overtake us if we did not. We ought 
 to be just even in ways that the law does not prescribe, and 
 when we are beyond its ken ; and that, too, in dealing with 
 men towards whom we have no inclination to be generous. 
 We ought even — so at least Locke * on the authority of 
 Revelation ' would have said — to forgive injuries which we 
 cannot forget, and if not ' to love our enemies ' in the literal 
 sense, which may be an impossibility, yet to act as if we did. 
 To what motive are such actions to be assigned ? 
 
 17. 'To desire for pleasure or aversion from pain,' Locke 
 would answer, *but a pleasure and pain other than the 
 natural consequences of acts and attached to them by some
 
 DISTINCTION OF MORAL GOOD. 1?» 
 
 law.* This is the result of his enquiry into 'Moral Eela- Their 
 tions' (Book ii., chap. 28). Good and evil, he tells us, being pleasure, 
 ' nothing" but pleasure and pain, moral good or evil is only but piea- 
 the conformity or disagreement of our actions to some law, n^^f"^^" 
 whereby good or evil, i.e., pleasure or pain, is drawn on us nature but 
 by the will and power of the law-maker.' All law according ^ ^" 
 to its * true nature ' is a rule set to the actions of others by an 
 intelligent being, having ' power to reward the compliance 
 with, and punish deviation from, his rule by some good and 
 evil that is not the natural product and consequence of the 
 action itself; for that, being a natural convenience or incon- 
 venience, would operate of itself without a law.' Of such law 
 there are three sorts. 1. Divine Law, ' promulgated to men 
 by the light of nature or voice of revelation, by comparing 
 their actions to which they judge whether, as duties or sins, 
 they are like to procure them happiness or misery from the 
 hands of the Almighty.' 2. Civil Law, ' the rule set by the 
 Commonwealth to the actions of those who belong to 
 it,' reference to which decides ' whether they be criminal or 
 no.' 3. 'The law of opinion or reputation,' according to 
 agreement or disagreement with which actions are reckoned 
 * virtues or vices.' This law may or may not coincide with 
 the divine law. So far as it does, virtues and vices are 
 really, what they are always supposed to be, actions ' in their 
 own nature ' severally right or wrong. It is not as really 
 right or wrong, however, but only as esteemed so, that an 
 act is virtuous or vicious, and thus ' the common measure of 
 virtue and vice is the approbation or dislike, praise or blame, 
 which by a tacit consent establishes itself in the several 
 societies, tribes, and clubs of men in the world, wliereb}^ 
 several actions come to find credit or disgrace among them, 
 according to the judgment, maxims, or fashions of the place.' 
 Each sort of law has its own ' enforcement in the way of 
 good and evil.' That of the civil law is obvious. That of 
 the Divine Law lies in the pleasures and pains of ' another 
 world,' which (we have to suppose) render actions ' in their 
 own nature good and evil.' That of the third sort of law 
 lies in those consequences of social reputation and dislike 
 which are stronsrer motives to most men than are the re- 
 wards and punishments either of God or the magistrate 
 (chap. 28, §§5-12). 
 
 18. * Moral goodness or evil,' Locke concludes, * is the 
 
 c2
 
 20 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Hume has 
 to derive 
 from 'im- 
 pressions' 
 tlie objects 
 wliich 
 Locke 
 took for 
 granted. 
 
 conformity or non-conformity of any action ' to one or other 
 of the above rules (§ 14). But such conformity or non-con- 
 formity is not a feeling, pleasant or painful, at all. If, then, 
 the account of the good as consisting in pleasure, of which 
 the morally good is a particular form, is to be adhered to, 
 we must suppose that, when moral goodness is said to be 
 conformity to law, it is so called merely with reference to the 
 specific means of attaining that pleasure in which moral 
 good consists. Not the conception of conformity to law, but 
 the imagination of a certain pleasure, will determine the 
 desire that moves the moral act, as every other desire. 
 The distinction between the moral act and an act judiciously 
 done for the sake, let us say, of some pleasure of the palate, 
 will lie only in the channel through which comes the pleasure 
 that each is calculated to obtain. If the motive of an act 
 done for the sake of the pleasure of eating differs from the 
 motive of an act done for the sake of sexual pleasure on ac- 
 count of the difference of the channels through which the 
 pleasures are severally obtained, in that sense only can the 
 motive of either of these acts, upon Locke's principles, be 
 taken to differ from the motive of an act morally done. The 
 explanation, then, of the acts not readily assignable to 
 desire or aversion, of which we say that we only do them 
 because we ' ought,' has been found. They are so far of a kind 
 with all actions done to obtain or avoid what Locke calls 
 ' future ' pleasures or pains that the diflBculty of assigning 
 a motive for them only arises from the fact that their 
 immediate result is not an end but a means. They differ 
 from these, however, inasmuch as the pleasure they draw 
 after them is not their ' natural consequence,' any more than 
 the pain attaching to a contrary act would be, but is only 
 possible through the action of God, the magistrate, or 
 society in some of its forms. 
 
 19. After the above examination we can easily anticipate 
 the points on which a candid and clear-headed man, who 
 accepted the principles of Locke's doctrine, would see that 
 it needed explanation and development. If all action is 
 determined by impulse to remove the most pressing uneasi- 
 ness, as consisting in desire for the greatest pleasure of which 
 the agent is at the time capable ; if this, again, means 
 desire for the renewal of some ' impression ' previously ex- 
 perienced, and all impressions are either those of sense or
 
 HUME'S ETHICAL TTJOBLEM. <!1 
 
 derived from them, how are we to account for those actual 
 objects of human interest and pursuit which seem far re- 
 moved from an J combination of animal pleasures or of the 
 means thereto, and specially for that class of actions deter- 
 mined, as Locke says, by expectation of pain or pleasure 
 other than the 'natural consequence' of the act, to which 
 the term ' moral ' is properly applied ? Hume, as we have 
 seen,^ in accepting Locke's principles, clothes them in a 
 more precise terminology, marking the distinction between 
 the feeling as originally felt and the same as returning in 
 memory or imagination as that between 'impression and 
 idea,' and excluding original ideas of reflection. ' An im- 
 pression first strikes upon the senses, and makes us perceive 
 heat or cold, thirst or hunger, pleasure or pain, of some kind 
 or other. Of this impression there is a copy taken by the 
 mind, which remains after the impression ceases ; and this 
 we call an idea. This idea of pleasure or pain, when it re- 
 turns upon the soul, produces the new impressions of desire 
 and aversion, hope and fear, which may properly be called 
 impressions of reflection, because derived from it' {a). 
 These, again, are copied by the memory and imagination, 
 and become ideas ; which perhaps in their turn give rise to 
 other impressions ' (b) . Thus the impressions of reflection, 
 marked (a), will be determined by ideas copied from impres- 
 sions of sense. If desires, they will be desires for the re- 
 newal either of a pleasure incidental to the satisfaction of 
 appetite, or of a pleasant sight or sound, a sweet taste or 
 smell. These desires and their satisfactions will again be 
 copied in ideas, but how can the impressions (h) to which 
 these ideas give rise be other than desires for the renewal of 
 the original animal pleasures? How do they come to be 
 desires as unlike these as are the motives which actuate not 
 merely the saint or the philanthropist, but the ordinary good 
 neighbour or honest citizen or head of a family ? 
 
 20. During the interval between the publication of Locke's Qjiestion? 
 essay and the ' Treatise on Human Nature ' there had been J^^^^J .^^ 
 much writing on ethical questions in English. The effect of issue. 
 this on Hume is plain enough. He writes with reference to 
 current controversy, and in the moral part of the treatise 
 probably had the views of Clarke, Shaftesbury, Butler, and 
 Hutcheson more consciously before him than Locke's. This 
 does not interfere, however, with the propriety of affiliatin;^ 
 
 ' General Introd., vol. i., par. 195.
 
 22 
 
 INTHODUCTION 
 
 Hobbes' 
 answer to 
 first ques- 
 tion. 
 
 a. Is virtue him in respect of his views on morals, no less than on know- 
 
 |j°^Wh't*^' ledge, directly to Locke, whose principles and method were 
 
 is con- in the main accepted by ali the moralists of that age. His 
 
 science ? characteristic lies in his more consistent application of these, 
 
 and the effect of current controversy upon him was chiefly 
 
 to show him the line which this application must take. It 
 
 was a controversy which turned almost wholly on two points ; 
 
 {a) the distinction between ' interested and disinterested,* 
 
 selfish and unselfish affections ; {h) the origin and nature of 
 
 that 'law,' relation to which, according to Locke, constitutes 
 
 our a-ction ' virtuous or vicious.' In the absence of any notion 
 
 of thought but as a faculty which puts together simple ideas 
 
 into complex ones, of reason but as a faculty which calculates 
 
 means and perceives the agreement of ideas mediately, it 
 
 could have but one end. 
 
 21. By the generation in which Hume was bred the issue 
 as to the possible disinterestedness of action was supposed to 
 lie between the view of Hobbes and that of Shaftesbury. 
 Hobbes' moral doctrine had not been essentially different 
 from Locke's, but he had been oflPensively explicit on ques- 
 tions which Locke left open to more genial views than his 
 doctrine logically justified. Each started from the position 
 that the ultimate motive to every action can only be the 
 imagination of one's own pleasure or pain, and neither pro- 
 perly left room for the determination of desire by a conceived 
 object as distinct from remembered pleasure. But while 
 Locke, as we have seen, illogically took for granted desires 
 so determined, and thus made it possible for a disciple to 
 admit any benevolent desires as motives on the strength of 
 the ];)leasure which they produce when satisfied, Hobbes had 
 been more severe in his method, and had explained every 
 desire, of which the direct motive could not be taken to be 
 the renewal of some animal pleasure, as desire either for the 
 power in oneself to command such pleasure at will or for the 
 pleasure incidental to the contemplation of the signs of such 
 power. Hence his peculiar treatment of compassion and the 
 other ' social affections,' which it is easier to show to be un- 
 true to the facts of the case than to be other than the 
 proper consequence of principles which Locke had rendered 
 orthodox.* The counter-doctrine of Shaftesbury holds water 
 just so far as it involves the rejection of the doctrine that 
 
 ' See ' Leviathan,' part 1, chap. 6,
 
 IIOBBES AND SHAFTESBURY. 23 
 
 pfeasure is the sole ultimate motive. It becomes confused 
 j ust because its author had no definite theory of reason, as 
 constitutive of objects, that could justify this rejection. 
 
 22. He begins with a doctrine that directly contradicts Counter- 
 Locke's identification of the good with pleasure, and of the gj^^^f^es- 
 morally good with pleasure occurring in a particular way. bury. 
 'In a sensible creature that which is not done through any ]'^^}^ 
 
 ^ J selfisnnoijs. 
 
 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.' ' 
 This, it will be seen, as against Locke, implies that the good 
 of a man's action lies not in any pleasure sequent upon it to 
 him, but in the nature of the affection from which it pro- 
 ceeds ; and that the goodness of this affection depends on 
 its being determined by an object wholly different from 
 imagined pleasure — the conceived good of a system to which 
 the man has relation, i.e., of human societ}', which in 
 Shaftesbury's language is the ' public ' as distinct from the 
 ' private ' system. It is not enough that an action should 
 result in good to this system ; it must proceed from affection 
 for it. ' Whatever is done which happens to be advantageous 
 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 j^articular act 
 ever so well ; if at the bottom it be that selfish affection 
 alone which moves him, he is in himself still vicious.'' Here, 
 then, we seem to have a clear theory of moral evil as con- 
 sisting in selfish, of moral good as consisting in unselfish 
 affections. But what exactly constitutes a selfish affection, 
 according to Shaftesbury ? The answer that first suggests 
 itself, is that as the unselfish affection is an affection for 
 public good, so a selfish one is an affection for ' self-good,' 
 the good of the ' private system.' Shaftesbury, however, 
 does not give this answer. ' Affection for private good ' 
 with him is not, as such, selfish ; it is so only when ' exces- 
 sive ' and ' inconsistent with the interest of the species or 
 public." This qualification seems at once to efface the 
 clear line of distinction previously drawn. It puts ' self- 
 affection ' on a level with public affection which, according 
 
 ' ' Inquiiy concerning Virtue,' Book i., ^ Ibid., Book i., part 2, sec. 2. 
 par* 2, sec. 1. ^ Ibid., Book ii., part 1, sec. 3.
 
 24 INTRODUCTION 
 
 But no to Shaftesbury, may equally err on the side of excess. It im- 
 -Lcount of P^^^^ ^^^^ ^^ affection for self-good, if only it be advantageous 
 selfishness, to the species, may be good; which is just what had been 
 previously denied. And not only so ; although, when the 
 self-affections are under view, they are only allowed a 
 qualified goodness in virtue of their indirect contribution to 
 the good of the species, yet conversely, the superiority of the 
 affections, which have this latter good for their object, is 
 urged specially on the ground of the greater amount of 
 ha^^piness or ' self-good ' which they produce. 
 C.j'jfiision 23. The truth is that the notions which Shaftesbury 
 notirius of attached to the terms ' affection for self-good ' and ' affection 
 self -good _ for public good ' were not such as allowed of a consistent 
 good, '^ opposition between them. They can only be so opposed if, 
 on the one hand, self-good is identified with pleasure ; and on 
 the other, affection for public good is carefully distinguished 
 from desire for that sort of pleasure of which the gratifica- 
 tion of others is a condition. But with Shaftesbury, affec- 
 tions for self-good do not represent merely those desires for 
 pleasure determined by self-consciousness — for pleasure 
 presented as one's personal good — which can alone be 
 properly reckoned sources of moral evil. They include equally 
 mere natural appetites — hunger, the sexual impulse, &c. — 
 which are morally neutral, and they do not clearly exclude 
 any desire for an object which a man has so ' made his own ' 
 as to find his happiness — ' self- enjoyment ' or ' self-good,' 
 according to Shaftesbury's language — in attaining it, though 
 it be as remote from imagined pleasure as possible.' On 
 the other hand, ' affections for public good,' as he describes 
 them, are not restricted to such desires for the good of 
 others as are irresj)ective of pleasure to self. They include 
 not only such natural instincts as ' parental kindness and 
 concern for the nurture and propagation of the young,' 
 which, morally, at any rate, are not to be distinguished from 
 the appetites reckoned as affections for self-good, but also de- 
 sires for sympathetic pleasure — the pleasure to oneself which 
 arises on consciousness that another is pleased. Shaftesbury's 
 special antipathy, indeed, is the doctrine that benevolent 
 affections are interested in the sense of having for their 
 object a pleasure to oneself, apart from and beyond the 
 pleasure of the person whom they move us to please ; but 
 ' Book ii., part 2, sec. 2.
 
 WHAT IS SELFISHNESS? 25 
 
 unless lie regards them as desires for the pleasure which is all 
 the subject of them experiences in the pleasure of another, ^'"°& ^°^ 
 
 , . . , . ,1 . , / pleasure, 
 
 there is no purpose m enlarging, as he does with much or only too 
 unction, on the special pleasantness of the pleasures which ^^?^\ "/ ^^' 
 they produce. With such vagueness in his notions of what 
 he meant bj affections for ' self-good ' and for ' public good,' 
 it is not strange that he should have failed to give any 
 tenable account of the selfishness in which he conceived 
 moral evil to consist. He could not apply such a term of 
 reproach to the ' self-affections ' in general, without con- 
 demning as selfish the man who ' finds his own happiness in 
 doing good,' and who is in truth indistinguishable from one 
 to whom * affection for public good ' has become, as we say, 
 the law of his being. Nor could he identify selfishness, as 
 he should have done, with all living for pleasure without a 
 more complete rupture than he was capable of with the 
 received doctrine of his time and without bringing affection 
 for public good, in the form in which it was most generally 
 conceived, and which was, at any rate, one of the forms 
 under which he presented it to himself — as desire, namely, 
 for sympathetic pleasure — into the same condemnation. His 
 way out of the difiiculty is, as we have seen, in violation of 
 his own principle to find the characteristic of selfishness not 
 in the motive of any affection but in its result ; not in the 
 fact that a man's desire has his own good for its object, 
 which is true of one to whom his neighbour's good is as his 
 own, nor in the fact that it has pleasure for its object, 
 which Shaftesbury, as the child of his age, could scarcely 
 help thinking was the case with every desire, but in the 
 fact that it is stronger than is ' consistent with the interest 
 of the species or public' 
 
 24. Neither Butler nor Hutcheson* can claim to have wiiathave 
 carried the ethical controversy much beyond the point at ^^^^^^' ";"^ 
 which Shaftesbury left it. Each took for granted that the to say 
 object of the ' self- affection ' was necessarily one's own about it? 
 happiness, and neither made any distinction between living 
 for happiness and living for pleasure. They could not then 
 identify selfishness with the living for pleasure without con- 
 
 ' The works of Hutchesou, puHished duct of the Passions and Affections' 
 
 before Hume's treatise was written, (1728). In what follows I wrote with 
 
 and which strongly affected it, were direct reference to his posthumous 
 
 the ' Enquiry into the Original of our work, not published till after Hume's 
 
 Ideas of Beauty and Virtue' (1725), treatise, but which only reproduces 
 
 and the ' Essay on the Nature and Con- more systematically his earlier views.
 
 26 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Chiefly, demning the self-affection, and with it the best man's 
 
 tion \^^°" P^^s^i* of his own highest good in the service of others, 
 
 minate altogether as evil. Nor in the absence of anj better theory 
 
 upon their Qf ^jjg obiect of the self-affection could the social affections, 
 
 o bi 6cts 
 
 which, according to Butler, are subject in the developed man 
 to the direction of self-love, escape the suggestion that they 
 are one mode of the general desire for pleasure. Butler and 
 Hutcheson, indeed, are quite clear that they are 'disin- 
 terested ' in the sense of ' terminating upon their objects.' ' 
 This means, what is sufficiently obvious Avhen once pointed 
 out, (a) that a benevolent desire is not a desire for that 
 pai-ticular pleasure, or rather ' removal of uneasiness,' which 
 shall ensue when it is satisfied, and {h) that it cannot origi- 
 nally arise from the general desire for happiness, since this 
 creates no pleasures but merely directs us to the pursuit of 
 objects found pleasant independently of it, and thus, if it 
 directs us to benevolent acts, presupposes a pleasure pre- 
 viously found in them. This, however, as Butler points out, 
 is equally true of all particular desires whatever — of those 
 styled self-regarding, no less than of the social — and if it is 
 not incompatible with the former being desires for pleasure, 
 no more is it with the latter being so. Much confusion on 
 the matter, it may be truly said, arises from the loose way 
 in which the words ' affection ' and ' passion ' are used by 
 But this Bntler and his contemporaries, not excluding Hume himself, 
 does uot alike for appetite, desire, and emotion. In every case a 
 the view pleasure other than satisfaction of desire must hare been 
 thnt all experienced before desire can be excited by the imagination 
 
 desire IS . . . ... 
 
 for plea- ^f it. A pleasure incidental to the satisfaction of appetite 
 sur«. must have been experienced before imagination of it could 
 
 excite the desire of the glutton. In like manner, social 
 affection, as desire, cannot be first excited by the pleasure 
 which shall arise when it is satisfied; it must previously 
 exist as the condition of that pleasure being experienced ; 
 but it does not follow that it is other than a desire for 
 an imagined pleasure, for that sympathetic pleasure in the 
 pleasure of another in which the socia.1 affection as emotion 
 consists. Now though Butler and Hutcheson sufiiciently 
 showed that it is no other pleasure than this which is the 
 original object of benevolent desires, they did not attempt 
 to show that it is not this ; and failing such an attempt, the 
 
 ' See in Preface to Butlei-'s Sermons, pursuit' &:c. ; also the early part of 
 the part relating to Sermon XI., ' Be- Sermon XI., ' Every man hath a gene- 
 eides, the only idea of an interested ral desire,' &c.
 
 WHAT IS DISINTERESTED AFFECTION? 27 
 
 received doctrine that the object of all desire, social and 
 self-regarding alike, is pleasure of one sort or another, 
 would naturally be taken to stand. This admitted, there 
 can be nothing in the fact that a certain pleasure depends 
 on the pleasure of another, and that a certain other does not, 
 to entitle an action moved by desire for the former sort of 
 pleasure to be called unselfish in the way of praise, and one 
 moved by desire for the latter sort selfish in the way of 
 reproach. The motive — desire for his own pleasure — is the 
 same to the doer in both cases. The distinction between the 
 acts can only lie in that which Shaftesbury had said could 
 not constitute moral good or ill — in the consequences by 
 which society judges of them, but which do not form the 
 motive of the agent. In other words, it will be a distinction 
 fixed by that law of opinion or reputation, in which Locke 
 had found the common measure of virtue and vice, though 
 he had not entered on the question of the considerations by 
 which that law is formed. 
 
 25. Such a conclusion would lie ready to hand for such a Of moral 
 reader of Butler and Hutcheson as we may suppose Hume |°'^iej.^g^ 
 to have been, but it is needless to say that it is not that at account 
 which they themselves arrive. Butler, indeed, distinctly '^i^*^'^^"^''- 
 refuses to identify moral good and evil respectively with 
 disinterested and interested action,' but neither does he 
 admit that desire for pleasure or aversion from pain is the 
 uniform motive of action in such a way as to compel the 
 conclusion that moral good and ill represent a distinction, 
 not of motives, but of consequences of action contemplated 
 by the onlooker. An act is morally good, according to him, 
 when it is approved by the ' reflex faculty of approbation,' 
 bad when it is disapproved, but what it is that this ' faculty ' 
 approves he never distinctly tells us. The good is what 
 ' conscience ' approves, and conscience is what approves the 
 good — that is the circle out of which he never escapes. If 
 we insist on extracting from him any more satisfactory con- 
 clusion as to the object of moral approbation, it must be 
 that it is the object which ' self-love ' jDursues, i.e., the 
 greatest happiness of the individual, a conclusion which in 
 
 ' See preface to Sermons (about four the second sermon, must be understood 
 
 pages from the end in most editions) : — to mean an action ' suitable to our whole 
 
 ' The goodness or badness of actions does nature,' as containing a principle of 
 
 not arise hence,' &c. The conclusion ' reflex approbation.' In other words, 
 
 he there arrives at is that a good action the good action is so because approved 
 
 is one which 'becomes such creatures as bj conscience. 
 we arc ' ; and tliis, read in the light of
 
 28 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Hutche- 
 
 son's in- 
 consistent 
 •with his 
 doctrine 
 that reason 
 gives no 
 «nd. 
 
 Source of 
 
 the moral 
 judgment. 
 
 Received 
 notion of 
 
 some places he certainlj adopts.' Hutcheson, on the other 
 hand, gives a plain definition of the object which this faculty 
 approves. It consists in ' affections tending to the happiness 
 of others and the moral perfection of the mind possessing 
 them.' If in this definition by ' tending to ' may be under- 
 stood * of which the motive is ' — an interpretation which 
 the general tenor of Hutcheson's view would justify — it 
 implies in effect that the morally good lies in desires o1 
 which the object is not pleasure. That desire for moral 
 perfection, if there is such a thing, is not desire for pleasure 
 is obvious enough; nor could desire for the happiness of 
 others be taken to be so except through confusion between 
 determination by the conception of another's good, to which 
 his apparent pleasure is rightly or wrongly taken as a 
 guide, and by the imagination of a pleasure to be experienced 
 by oneself in sympathy with the pleasure of another. Nor 
 is it doubtful that Hutchsson himself, though he might 
 have hesitated to identify moral evil, as selfishness, with the 
 living for pleasure, yet understood by the morally good the 
 living for objects wholly different from pleasure. The 
 question is whether the recognition of such motives is 
 logically compatible with his doctrine that reason gives no 
 ends, but is only a * subservient power ' of calculating means. 
 If feeling, undetermined by thought or reason, can alone 
 supply motives, and of feeling, thus undetermined, nothing 
 can be said but that it is pleasant or painful, what motive 
 can there be but imagination of one's own pleasure or pain 
 — one^s own, for if imagination is merely the return of 
 feeling in fainter form, no one can imagine any feeling, any 
 more than he can originally feel it, except as his own ? 
 
 26. The work of reason in constituting the moral judgment 
 (' I ought '), as well as the moral motive (' I must, because T 
 ought'), could not find due recognition in an age which 
 took its notion of reason from Locke. The only theory then 
 known which found the source of moral distinctions in 
 reason was Clarke's, and Clarke's notion of reason was 
 essentially the same as that which appears in Locke's 
 account of demonstrative knowledge.^ It was in truth 
 
 * See a passage towards the end of 
 Sennon III., 'Reasonable self-love and 
 conscience are the chief,' &c. &c. ; also 
 a passage towards the end of Sermon 
 XI., ' Let it be allowed though virtue/ 
 &c. &c. 
 
 ^ See Clarke's Boyle LectureB, Vol. 
 
 n., proposition 1. The germ of Clarke's 
 doctrine of morals is to be found in 
 Locke's occasional assimilation of 
 moral to mathematical truth and cer- 
 tainty. (Cf Essay, Book iv, ch. 4, 8ec. 7, 
 and ch. 1 2, sec. 8.
 
 SHAFTESIiURY'S 'RATIONAL APFECTION.' 29 
 
 derived from the procedure of matliematics, and only applic- reason in- 
 able to the comparison of quantities. Clarke talks loftily ^™iftrue.^ 
 about the Eternal Reason of things, but by this he means Tiew. 
 nothing definite except the laws of proportion, and when he 
 finds the virtue of an act to consist in conformity to this 
 Eternal Eeason, the inevitable rejoinder is the question — 
 Between what quantities is this virtue a proportion ? ' In 
 Shaftesbury first appears a doctrine of moral sense. Over 
 and above the social and self-regarding affections proper to 
 a ' sensible ' creature, the characteristic of man is a ' rational 
 affection ' for goodness as consisting in the proper adjust- 
 ment of the two orders of ' sensible ' affection. This rational 
 affection is not only a possible motive to action — it is the 
 only motive that can make that character good of which 
 human action is the expression ; for with Shaftesbury, though 
 a balance of the social and self-affections constitutes the 
 goodness of those affections, jet the man is only good as 
 actuated by affection for this goodness, and ' should the 
 sensible affections stand ever so much amiss, yet if they 
 prevail not because of those other rational affections spoken 
 of, the person is esteemed virtuous.' * Such a notion, it is 
 clear, if it had met with a psychology answering it, had only 
 to be worked out in order to become Kant's doctrine of the 
 rational will as determined by reverence for law ; but 
 Shaftesbury had no such psychology, nor, with his aristo- 
 cratic indifference to completeness of system, does he seem 
 ever to have felt the want of it. He never asked himself 
 what precisely was the theory of reason implied in the 
 admission of an affection ' rational ' in the sense, not that 
 reason calculates the means to its satisfaction, but that it is 
 determined by an object only possible for a rational as 
 distinct from a ' sensible ' creature ; and just because he did 
 not do so, he slipped into adaptations to the current view of 
 the good as pleasure and of desire as determined by the 
 pleasure incidental to its own satisfaction. Thus, to a 
 disciple, who wished to extract from Shaftesbury a more 
 definite system than Shaftesbury had himself formed, the shaftes- 
 ' rational affection ' would become desire for a specific feeling fury's doc- 
 of pleasure supposed to arise on the view of good actions as rational 
 exhibiting a proper balance between social and self- regarding affection ; 
 
 ' Cf. Hume, Vol. ii., p. 238. 
 
 * 'Inq. concern'ng Virtue,' Book i., pt. 2, sec. 4. Cf. Sec. 3 sub init.
 
 30 INTRODUCTION 
 
 spoilt by affections. Tbis pleasure is the 'moral sense,' ' witli wliicli 
 
 'moml"" Shaftesbury's name has become specially associated, while 
 
 sense.' the doctrine of rational affection, with which he certainly 
 
 himself connected it, but which it essentially vitiates, has 
 
 been forgotten. 
 
 27. That doctrine is of value as maintaining that those 
 actions only are morally good of which the rational affection 
 is the motive, in the sense that they spring from a character 
 which this affection has fashioned. But if the rational affec- 
 tion is desire for the pleasure of moral sense, we find ourselves 
 in the contradiction of supposing that the only motive which 
 can produce good acts is one that cannot operate till after 
 the good acts have been done. It is desire for a pleasure 
 which yet can only have been experienced as a consequence 
 of the previous existence of the desire. Shaftesbury himself, 
 indeed, treats the moral sense of pleasure in the contempla- 
 tion of good actions as a pleasure in the view of the right 
 adjustment between the social and self-affections. If, how- 
 ever, on the strength of this, we suppose that certain actions 
 are first done, not from the rational affection, but yet good, 
 and that then remembrance of the pleasure found in the view 
 of their goodness, exciting desire, becomes motive to another 
 set of acts which are thus done from rational affection, we 
 contradict his statement that only the rational affection forms 
 the goodness of man, and are none the nearer to an account 
 of what does form it. To say that it is the ' right adjustment ' 
 of the two orders of affection tells us nothing. Except as sug- 
 gesting an analogy from the world of art, really inapplicable, 
 but by which Shaftesbury was much influenced, this expres- 
 sion means no more than that goodness is a good state cf 
 the affections. From such a circle the outlet most consistent 
 Conse- with the spirit of that philosophy, which had led Shaftesbury 
 ^e'latter' l^i^iiself to bring down the rational affection to the level of a 
 desire for pleasure, would Ke in the notion that a state of 
 the affections is good in proportion as it is productive of 
 pleasure ; which again would suggest the question whether 
 the specific pleasure of moral sense itself, the sujjposed object 
 of rational affection, is more than pleasure in that indefinite 
 
 • In using the term ' moral sense,' sense of the word, as opposed to reason, 
 
 Shaftesbury himself, no doubt, meant the faculty of demonstration, rather 
 
 to convey the notion that the moral than that it was a susceptibility of 
 
 faculty was one of ' intuition,' in Locke's pleasure and pain.
 
 MORAL SENSE. 31 
 
 anticipation of pleasure wliich tlie view of affections so 
 ordered tends to raise in us. 
 
 28. Here, again, neither Butler nor Hutclieson, wliile tliej is an act 
 avoid the mostobvious inconsistency of Shaftesbury's doctrine, f^?^ ^^f 
 do much for its positive development. With each the ' moral sake ' done 
 faculty,' though it is said to approve and disapprove, is still ^"^ P^^^*^" 
 
 a ' sense ' or ' sentiment,' a specific susceptibility of pleasure moral 
 in the contemplation of goodness ; and each again recognises sense t 
 a ' reflex affection ' for — a desire to have — the goodness of 
 which the view conveys this pleasure. But they neither have 
 the merit of stating so explicitly as Shaftesbury does that this 
 rational affection alone constitutes the goodness of man, as 
 man ; nor, on the other hand, do they lapse, as he does, into 
 the representation of it as a desire for the pleasure which the 
 view of goodness causes. Butler, indeed, having no account 
 to give of the goodness which is approved or morally pleasing, 
 but the fact that it is so pleasing, could logically have no- 
 thing to say against the view that this reflex affection is merely 
 a desire for this particular sort of pleasure ; but by representing 
 it as equivalent in its highest form to the love of God, to the 
 longing of the soul after Him as the perfectly good, he in 
 effect gives it a wholly different character. Hutcheson, by 
 his definition of the object of moral approbation,' which is 
 also a definition of the object of the reflex affection, is fairly 
 entitled to exclude, as he does, along with the notion that 
 the goodness which we morally approve is the quality of ex- 
 citing the pleasure of such approval, the notion that ' affec- 
 tion for goodness ' means desire for this or any other pleasure. 
 But, in spite of his express rejection of this view, the question 
 will still return, how either a faculty of consciousness of 
 which we only know that it is 'a kind of taste or relish,' or 
 a desire from the determination of which reason is expressly 
 excluded, can have any other object than pleasure or pain. 
 
 29. In contrast with these well-meant efforts to derive Hume 
 that distinction between the selfish and unselfish, between every 
 the pleasant and the morally good, which the Christian con- object of 
 science requires, from principles that do not admit of it, pieasm-e. 
 Hume's system has the merit of relative consistency. He 
 
 sees that the two sides of Locke's doctrine — one that thought 
 originates nothing, but takes its objects as given in feeling, 
 the other that the good which is object of desire is pleasant 
 
 • See above, sec. 25.
 
 32 INFEODUCTION 
 
 feeling — are inseparable. Hence he decisively rejects every 
 notion of rational or unselfish affections, which would imply 
 that they are other than desires for pleasure ; of virtue, 
 which would imply that it antecedently determines, rather 
 than is constituted by, the specific pleasure of moral sense ; 
 and of this pleasure itself, which would imply that anything 
 but the view of tendencies to produce pleasure can excite it. 
 But here his consistency stops. The principle which forbade 
 him to admit any object of desire but pleasure is practically 
 forgotten in his account of the sources of pleasure, and its 
 being so forgotten is the condition of the desire for pleasure 
 being made plausibly to serve as a foundation for morals. 
 It is the assumption of pleasures determined by objects only 
 possible for reason, made in the treatise on the Passions, 
 that prepares the way for the rejection of reason, as supply- 
 ing either moral motive or moral standard, in the treatise 
 on Morals. 
 His 30. ' The passions ' is Hume's generic term for ' impres- 
 
 accouiit of gJQi-ig Qf reflection ' — appetites, desires, and emotions alike. 
 passions.' He divides them into two main orders, ' direct and indirect,' 
 both ' founded on pain and pleasure.' The direct passions 
 are enumerated as ' desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope 
 and fear, along with volition ' or will. These ' arise from 
 good and evil ' (which are the same as pleasure and pain) 
 ' most naturally and with least preparation.' ' Desire arises 
 from good, aversion from evil, considered simply.' They 
 become will or volition, ' when the good may be attained or 
 evil avoided by any action of the mind or body ' — will being 
 simply ' the internal impression we feel and are conscious of, 
 when we knowingly give rise to any new motion of our body 
 or new perception of our mind.' ' When good is certain or pro- 
 bable it produces joy' (which is described also as a pleasure pro- 
 duced by pleasure or by the imagination of pleasure) ; ' when it 
 is imcertain, it gives rise to hope.' To these the corresponding 
 opposites are grief and fear. We must suppose them to be 
 distinguished from desire and aversion as being what he 
 elsewhere calls ' pure emotions ' ; such as do not, like desires, 
 * immediately excite us to action.' Given such an immediate 
 impression of pleasure or pain as excites a ' distinct passion ' 
 of one or other of these kinds, and supposing it to ' arise 
 from an object related to ourselves or others,' it excites 
 mediately, through this relation, the new impressions of pride
 
 HUME ON TIIE OBJECT OF DESIRE. 
 
 33 
 
 or humility, love or hatred — pi-ide when the object is related 
 to oneself, love when it is related to another person. These 
 are indirect passions. They do not tend to displace the imme- 
 diate impression which is the condition of their excitement, 
 but being themselves agreeable give it additional force. 
 * Thus a suit of fine clothes produces pleasure from their 
 beauty ; and this pleasure produces the direct passions, or 
 the impressions of volition and desire. Again, when these 
 clothes are considered as belonging to oneself, the double 
 relation conveys to us the sentiment of pride, which is an 
 indirect passion ; and the j)leasure which attends that 
 passion returns back to the direct affections, and gives new 
 force to our desire or volition, joy or hope." 
 
 31. Alongside of the unqualified statement that 'the pas- 
 sions, both dire^.t and indirect, are founded on pain and 
 pleasure,' and the consequent theory of them, we find the 
 curiously cool admission that ' beside pain and pleasure, the 
 direct passions frequently arise from a natural impulse or in- 
 stinct, which is perfectly unaccountable. Of this kind is the 
 desire of punishment to our enemies, and of happiness to our 
 friends ; hunger and lust, and a few other bodily appetites. 
 These passions, properly speaking, produce good and evil, 
 and proceed not from them like the other affections.''* In 
 this casual way appears the recognition of that difference of 
 the desire for imagined pleasure from appetite proper on the 
 one side, and on the other from desire determined by reason, 
 which it is the point of Hume's system to ignore. The ques- 
 tion is, how many of the pleasures in which he finds the 
 springs of human conduct are other than products of a desire 
 which is not itself moved by pleasure, or emotions excited 
 by objects which reason constitutes. 
 
 All desire 
 is for 
 pleasure. 
 
 » Vol. 11., pp. 214, 215. Cf. pp. 76, 
 90, 153 and 203. 
 
 '■^ P. 215. The passage in the 'Dis- 
 sertation on the Passions' (Vol. iv., 
 ' Dissertation on the Passions,' sub 
 init.), which corresponds to the one here 
 quoted, throws light on the relation in 
 which Hume's later redaction of his 
 theory stands to the earlier, as occasion- 
 ally disguising, but never removing, its 
 inconsistencies. 'Some objects, by 
 being naturally conformable or contrary 
 to passion, excite an agreeable or pain- 
 ful sensation, and are thence called 
 good or eml. The punishment of an 
 
 VOL. II. D 
 
 Yet he ad- 
 mits ' pas- 
 sions ' 
 which pro- 
 duce 
 pleasure, 
 but pro- 
 ceed not 
 from it. 
 
 adversary, by gratifying revenge, is 
 good : the sickness of a companion, by 
 affecting friendship, is evil.' Here he 
 avoids the inconsistency of admitting in 
 so many words a ' desire ' which is not 
 for a pleasure. But the inconsistency 
 really remains. What is the passion, 
 the ' conformability ' to which of an 
 object in the supposed cases constitutes 
 pleasure ? Since it is neither an appe- 
 tite (such as hunger), nor an emotion 
 (such as pride), it remains that it is a 
 desire, and a desire which, though the 
 ' gratification ' of it is a pleasure, cannot 
 be a desire for that or any other pleasure.
 
 34 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Desire for 
 objects, as 
 be under- 
 stands it, 
 excluded 
 by his 
 theory of 
 impres- 
 sions aad 
 ideas. 
 
 32. In what sense, we have first to ask, do Hume's princi- 
 ples justify him in speaking of desire for an object at all. 
 ' The appearance of an object to the senses ' is the same 
 thing as ' an impression becoming present to the mind," and 
 if this is true of impressions of sense it cannot be less true 
 of impressions of reflection. If sense ' offers not its object 
 as anything distinct from itself,' neither can desire. Its 
 object, according to Hume, is an idea of a past impression ; 
 but this, if we take him at his word, can merely mean that 
 a feeling which, when at its liveliest, was pleasant, has 
 passed into a fainter stage, which, in contrast with the 
 livelier, is pain — the pain of want, which is also a wish for 
 the renewal of the original pleasure. In fact, however, when 
 Hume or anyone else (whether he admit the possibility of 
 desiring an object not previously found pleasant, or no), 
 speaks of desire for an object, he means something different 
 from this. He means either desire for an object that causes 
 pleasure, which is impossible except so far as the original 
 pleasui-e has been — consciously to the subject feeling it — 
 pleasure caused by an object, i.e., a feeling determined by 
 the conception of a thing under relations to self; or else 
 desire for pleasure as an object, i.e., not merely desire for 
 the revival of some feeling which, having been pleasant as 
 ' impression,' survives without being pleasant as ' idea,' but 
 desire determined by the consciousness of self as a perma- 
 nent subject that has been pleased, and is to be pleased again. 
 It is here, then, as in the case of the attempted derivation 
 of space, or of identity and substance, from impressions of 
 sense. In order to give rise to such an impression of reflec- 
 tion as desire for an object is, either the original imjDression 
 of sense, or the idea of this, must be other than Hume could 
 allow it to be. Either the original impression must be other 
 than a satisfaction of appetite, other than a sight, smell, 
 sound, &c., or the idea must be other than a copy of the im- 
 pression. One or other must be determined by conceptions 
 not derived from feeling, the correlative conceptions of self 
 and thing. Thus, in order to be able to interpret his 
 primary class of impressions of reflection^ as desires for 
 objects, or for pleasures as good, Hume has already made 
 the assumption that is needed for the transition to that 
 
 See General Introduction, paragraph 208. 
 
 ' See above, lec. 19.
 
 INDUIECT PASSIONS. 35 
 
 secondary class of impressions tlirougli whicli he has to 
 account for morality. He has assumed that thought deter- 
 mines feeling, and not merely reproduces it. Even if the 
 materials out of which it constructs the determining object 
 be merely remembered pleasures, the object is no more to be 
 identified with these materials than the living body with its 
 chemical constituents. 
 
 o3. In the account of the * indirect passions ' the term pride de- 
 object is no longer applied, as in the account of the direct termined 
 ones, to the pleasure or pain which excites desire or aver- ence to 
 sion. It is expressly transferred to the self or other person, self. 
 to whom the ' exciting causes ' of pride and love must be 
 severally related. ' Pride and humility, though directly 
 contrary, have yet the same object,' viz., self; but since they 
 are contrary, ' 'tis impossible this object can be their cause, 
 
 or sufficient alone to excite them "VVe must therefore 
 
 make a distinction betwixt that idea which excites them, and 
 
 that to which they direct their view when excited 
 
 The first idea that is presented to the mind is that of the 
 cause or productive principle. This excites the passion con- 
 nected with it ; and that passion, when excited, turns our 
 view to another idea, which is that of self. .... The first 
 idea represents the cause, the second the object of the 
 passion." Again a further distinction must be made ' in the 
 causes of the passion betwixt that quality which operates, 
 and the subject on which it is placed. A man, for instance, 
 is vain of a beautiful house which belongs to him, or which 
 he has himself built or contrived. Here the object of the 
 passion is himself, and the cause is the beautiful house ; 
 which cause again is subdivided into two parts, viz., the 
 quality which operates upon the passion, and the subject in 
 which the quality inheres. The quality is tJie beauty, and 
 the subject is the house, considered as his property or con- 
 fcrivance."* It is next found that the operative qualities 
 which produce pride, however various, agree in this, that 
 they produce pleasure — a ' separate pleasure,' independent 
 of the resulting pride. In all cases, again, ' the subjects to 
 which these qualities adhere are either parts of ourselves or 
 something nearl}"- related to us.' The conclusion is that 
 * the cause, which excites the passion, is related to the 
 
 ' Vol. 11., pp. 77 and 78. ^ Ibid., p. 79. 
 
 u 2
 
 56 INTRODUCTION 
 
 object which nature nas attributed to the passion ; the 
 sensation, which the cause separately produces, is related to 
 the sensation of the passion : from this double relation of 
 ideas and impressions the passion is derived.'' The ideas, 
 it will be observed, are severally those of the exciting 
 
 * subject ' (in the illustrative case quoted, the beautiful 
 house) and of the ' object ' self; the impressions are severally 
 the pleasure immediately caused by the ' subject ' (in tho 
 case given, the pleasure of feeling beauty) and the pleasure 
 of pride. The relation between the ideas may be any of the 
 
 * natural ones ' that regulate association.* In the supposed 
 case it is that of cause and effect, since a man's property 
 
 * produces effects on him and he on it.' The relation between 
 the impressions must be that of resemblance — this, as we are 
 told by the way (somewhat strangely, if impressions are 
 only stronger ideas), being the only possible relation between 
 impressions — the resemblance of one pleasure to another. 
 
 ITiis 34. Pride, then, is a special sort of pleasure excited by 
 
 "t^^k^'^^'t* another special sort of pleasure, and the distinction of the 
 
 character two sorts of pleasure from each other depends on the 
 
 from that character which each derives from an idea — one from the 
 
 \^riicli IS 
 
 not a i«iea of self, the other from the idea of some ' quality in a 
 
 possible subject,' which may be the beauty of a picture, or th^ 
 ■ion.' '^ achievement of an ancestor, or any other quality as unlike 
 these as these are unlike each other, so long as the idea of it 
 is capable of association with the idea of self. Apart from 
 such determination by ideas, the pleasure of pride itself and 
 the pleasure which excites it, on the separateness of which 
 from each other Hume insists, could only be separate in 
 time and degree of liveliness — a separation which might 
 equally obtain between successive feelings of pride. Of 
 neither could anything be said but that it was pleasant — 
 more or less pleasant than the other, before or after it, as 
 the case might be. Is the idea, then, that gives each im- 
 pression its character, itself an impression grown fainter? 
 It should be so, of course, if Hume's theory of consciousness 
 is to hold good, either in its general form, or in its applica- 
 tion to morals, according to which all actions, those moved 
 by pride among the rest, have pleasure for their ultimate 
 motive ; and no doubt he would have said that it was so. 
 
 ' Vol. II., pp. 84, 85, * Book i., part 1, eecB. 4 and 5>
 
 PKIDE AND IDEA OF SELF. 37 
 
 The idea of the beauty of a picture, for instance, is the 
 original impression which it * makes on the senses ' as more 
 faintly retained by the mind. But is the original impression 
 merely an impression — an impression undetermined by con- 
 ceptions, and of which, therefore, as it is to the subject of 
 it, nothing can be said, but simply that it is pleasant ? This, 
 too, in the particular instance of beauty, Hume seems to 
 hold ; ' but if it is so, the idea of beauty, as determined by 
 reference to the impression, is determined by reference to 
 the indeterminate, and we know no more of the separate 
 pleasure that excites the pleasure of pride, when we are told 
 that its source is an impression of beauty, than we did before. 
 Apart from any other reference, we only know that pride is 
 a pleasure excited by a pleasure which is itself excited by a 
 jjleasure grown fainter. Of ejffect, proximate cause, and 
 ultimate cause, only one and the same thing can be said, 
 viz., that each feels pleasant. Meanwhile in regard to that 
 other relation from which the pleasure of pride, on its part, 
 is supposed to take its character, the same question arises. 
 This pleasure ' has self for its object.' Is self, then, an im- 
 pression stronger or fainter P Can one feeling be said 
 without nonsense to have another feeling for its object ? If 
 it can, what specification is gained for a pleasure or pain by 
 reference to an object of which, as a mere feeling, nothing 
 more can be said than that it is a pleasure or pain ? If, on 
 the other hand, the idea of self, relation to which makes the 
 feeling of pride what it is, and through it determines action, 
 is not a copy of any impression of sense or reflection — not a 
 copy of any sight or sound, any passion or emotion^ — how 
 can it be true that the ultimate determination of action in 
 all cases arises from pleasure or pain ? 
 
 35. From the pressure of such questions as these Hume Hume's 
 offers us two main subterfuges. One is furnished by his attempt to 
 account of the self, as ' that succession of related ideas and idea of 
 
 impressions of which we have an intimate memory and con- ®?^ ^^ ^^' 
 , , . 1 • T J • • -. riYed from 
 
 sciousness *• — an account which, to an incurious reader, impres- 
 
 conveys the notion that ' self,' if not exactly an impression, ^^^^' 
 
 is something in the nature of an impression, while yet it 
 
 seems to give the required determination to the impression 
 
 which has this for its * object.' It is evident, however, that 
 
 ' Vol. II., p. 96 ; IV., 'Dissertation on == lutr. to Vol. i.. paragraph 208, 
 
 the Passions,' 11. 7. * Vol. 11., p. 77, &c.
 
 38 INTIIODUCTION 
 
 its plausibility depends entirely on the qualification of the 
 ' succession, &c.,' as that of which we have an * intimate con- 
 sciousness.' The succession of impressions, simply as such, 
 and in the absence of relation to a single subject, is nothing 
 intelligible at all. Hume, indeed, elsewhere represents it as 
 constituting time, which, as we have previously shown,' by 
 itself it could not properly be said to do ; but if it could, 
 the characterisation of pleasure as having time for its object 
 would not be much to the purpose. The successive impres- 
 sions and ideas are further said to be ' related,' i.e., 
 naturally related, according to Hume's sense of the term; 
 but this we have found means no more than that when two 
 feelings have been often felt to be either like each other or 
 * contiguous,' the recurrence of one is apt to be followed by 
 the recurrence in fainter form of the other. This charac- 
 teristic of the succession brings it no nearer to the intelli- 
 gible unity which it must have, in order to be an object of 
 which the idea makes the pleasure of pride what it is. The 
 notion of its having such unity is really conveyed by the 
 statement that we have an ' intimate consciousness ' of it. 
 It is through these words, so to speak, that we read into the 
 definition of self that conception of it which we carry with 
 us, but of which it states the reverse. Now, however 
 difficult it may be to say what this intimate consciousness is, 
 it is clear that it cannot be one of the feelings, stronger or 
 fainter — impressions or ideas — which the first part of the 
 definition tells us form a succession, for this would imply 
 that one of them was at the same time all the rest. Nor 
 yet can it be a compound of them all, for the fact that they 
 are a succession is incompatible with their forming a com- 
 pound. Here, then, is a consciousness, which is not an 
 impression, and which we can only take to be derived from 
 impressions by supposing these to be what they first become 
 in relation to this consciousness. In saying that we have 
 such a consciousness of the succession of impressions, we 
 say in efiect that we are other than the succession. How, 
 then, without contradiction, can our self be said to he the 
 succession of impressions, &c. — a succession which in the very 
 next word has to be qualified in a way that implies we are 
 other than it ? This question, once put, will save us from 
 
 > Intr. to Vol. I., Bee. 261.
 
 HUME'S ACCOUNT OF THE SELF. 39 
 
 surprise at finding that in one place, among frequent repeti- 
 tions of the account of self already given, the ' succession 
 &c.' is dropped, and for it substituted ' the individual person 
 of whose actions and sentiments each of us is intimately 
 conscious.' ' 
 
 36. The other way of gaining an apparent determination Another 
 for the impression, pride, without making it depend on rela- suggest a 
 tion to that which is not an impression at all, corresponds physiolo- 
 to that appeal to the ' anatomist ' by the suggestion of fo^^t^of 
 which, it will be remembered, Hume avoids the troublesome pride. 
 question, how the simple impressions of sense, undetermined 
 by relation, can have that definite character which they must 
 have if they are to serve as the elements of knowledge. The 
 question in that case being really one that concerns the 
 simple impression, as it is for the consciousness of the 
 subject of it, Hume's answer is in effect a reference to 
 what it is for the physiologist. So in regard to pride ; the 
 question being what character it can have, for the conscious 
 subject of it, to distinguish it from any other pleasant feel- 
 ing, except such as is derived from a conception which is 
 not an impression, Hume is ready on occasion to suggest 
 that it has the distinctive character which for the physio- 
 logist it would derive from the nerves organic to it, if such 
 nerves could be traced. ' We must suppose that nature has 
 given to the organs of the human mind a certain disposition 
 fitted to produce a peculiar impression or emotion, which we 
 call PEIDE : to this emotion she has assigned a certain idea, 
 viz., that of SELF, which it never fails to produce. This 
 contrivance of nature is easily conceived. We have many 
 instances of such a situation of affairs. The nerves of the 
 nose and palate are so disposed, as in certain circumstances 
 to convey such peculiar sensations to the mind ; the sensations 
 of lust and hunger always produce in us the idea of those 
 peculiar objects, which are suitable to each appetite. These 
 two circumstances are united in pride. The organs are so 
 disposed as to produce the passion ; and the passion, after 
 its production, naturally produces a certain idea.'^ 
 
 37. Here, it will be noticed, the doctrine, that the pleasant Fallacy of 
 emotion of pride derives its specific character from relation * ^^' 
 to the idea of self, is dropped. The emotion we call pride is 
 
 > Vol. II., p. 84. » Vol. II., p. 86.
 
 40 INTllODUCTION 
 
 It does not supposed to be first produced, and then, in virtue of its 
 •Ihat^^rid ^P^^ific character as pride, to produce the idea of self.* If 
 is to the the idea of self, then, does not give the pleasure its specific 
 Bubject of character, what does ? ' That disposition fitted to produce 
 it,' Hume answers, which belongs to the * organs of the 
 human mind.' Now either this is the old story of explaining 
 the soporific qualities of opium by its vis soporificay or it means 
 that the distinction of the pleasure of pride from other 
 pleasures, like the distinction of a smell from a taste, is 
 due to a particular kind of nervous irritation that conditions 
 it, and may presumably be ascertained by the physiologist. 
 Whether such a physical condition of pride can be dis- 
 covered or no, it is not to the purpose to dispute. The point 
 to observe is that, if discovered, it would not afford an 
 answer to the question to which an answer is being sought 
 ■ — to the question, namely, what the emotion of pride is to 
 the conscious subject of it. If it were found to be condi- 
 tioned by as specific a nervous irritation as the sensations of 
 smell and taste to which Hume assimilates it, it would yet 
 be no more the consciousness of such irritation than is the 
 smell of a rose to the person smelling it. In the one case 
 as in the other, the feeling, as it is to the subject of it, can 
 only be determined by relation to other feelings or other 
 modes of consciousness. It is by such a relation that, ac- 
 cording to Hume's general account of it, pride is determined, 
 but the relation is to the consciousness of an object which, 
 not being any form of feeling, has no proper place in his 
 psychology. Hence in the passage before us he tries to sub- 
 stitute for it a physical determination of the emotion, which 
 for the subject of it is no determination at all ; and, having 
 gained an apparent specification for it in this way, to repre- 
 sent as its product that idea of a distinctive object which 
 he had previously treated as necessary to constitute it. Pride 
 produces the idea of self, just as ' the sensations of hunger 
 and lust always produce in us the idea of those peculiar 
 objects, which are suitable to each appetite.' Now it is a 
 large assumption in regard to animals other than men, that, 
 because hunger and lust move them to eat and generate, 
 they so move them through the intervention of any ideas of 
 objects whatever — an assumption which in the absence of 
 
 ' Cf. Vol. IV.. ' Dissertation on the Passions,' ii. 2.
 
 LOVE BIPLIES SYAIPATHY. 41 
 
 language on the part of the animals it is impossible to verify 
 — and one still more questionable, that the ideas of objects 
 which these appetites (if it be so) produce in the animals, 
 except as determined b}' self-consciousness, are ideas in the 
 same sense as the idea of self. Btit at any rate, if such 
 feelings produce ideas of peculiar objects, it must be in 
 virtue of the distinctive character which, as feelings, they 
 have for the subjects of them. The withdrawal, however, 
 of determination by the idea of self from the emotion of 
 pride, leaves it with no distinctive character whatever, and 
 therefore with nothing by which we may explain its produc- 
 tion of that idea as analogous to the production by hunger, 
 if we admit such to take place, of the ' idea of the peculiar 
 object suited to it.' 
 
 38. If, in Hume's account of pride, for pleasure, wherever Account of 
 it occurs, is substituted pain, it becomes his account of T^ ^°", 
 humility. A criticism of one account is equally a criticism same diffi- 
 of the other ; and with him every passion that ' has self for <^^"^^ '» 
 its object,' according as it is pleasant or painful, is included 
 under one or other of these designations. In like manner, 
 every passion that has ' some other thinking being ' for its 
 object, according as it is pleasant or painful, is either love 
 or hatred. To these the key is to be found in the same 
 * double relation of impressions and ideas ' by which pride 
 and humility are explained. If beautiful pictures, for 
 instance, belong not to oneself but to another person, they 
 tend to excite not pride but esteem, which is a form of love. 
 The idea of them is ' naturally related ' to the idea of the 
 person to whom they belong, and they cause a separate 
 pleasure which naturally excites the resembling impression 
 of which this other person is the object. Write ' other 
 person,' in short, where before was written ' self,' and the 
 account of pride and humility becomes the account of love 
 and hatred. Of this pleasure determined by the idea of 
 another person, or of which such a person ' is the object,' 
 Hume gives no rationale, and, failing this, it must be taken 
 to imply the same power of determining feeling on the part 
 of a conception not derived from feelino-, which we have 
 found to be implied in the pleasure of which self is the 
 object. All his pains and ingenuity in the second part of 
 the book *on the Passions,' are spent on illustrating the 
 ' double relation of impressions and ideas ' — on characteris-
 
 42 
 
 INTKULUCTION 
 
 and a 
 further one 
 as to 
 nature of 
 Bympathy. 
 
 Hume's ac- 
 count of 
 sympathy. 
 
 iiig the separate pleasures which excite the pleasure of love, 
 and showing how the idea of the object of the exciting 
 pleasure is related to the idea of the beloved person. The 
 objection to this part of his theory, which most readily sug- 
 gests itself to a reader, arises from the essential discrepancy 
 which in many cases seems to lie between the exciting and 
 the excited pleasure. The drinking of fine wine, and the 
 feeling of love, are doubtless ' resembling impressions,' so 
 far as each is pleasant, and from the idea of the wine the 
 transition is natural to that of tlie person who gives it ; but 
 is there really anything, it will be asked, in my enjoyment 
 of a rich man's wine, that tends to make me love him, even 
 in the wide sense of ' love ' which Hume admits ? This 
 objection, it will be found, is so far anticipated by Hume, 
 that in most cases he treats the exciting pleasure as taking 
 its character from sympathy. Thus it is not chiefly the 
 pleasure of ear, sight, and palate, caused by the rich man's 
 music, and gardens, and wine, that excites our love for him, 
 but the pleasure we experience through sympathy with his 
 pleasure in them.^ The explanation of love being thus 
 thrown back on sympathy (which had previously served to 
 explain that form of pride which is called ' Jove of fame '), we 
 have to ask whether sympathy is any less dependent than we 
 have found pride to be on an originative, as distinct from a 
 merely reproductive, reason. 
 
 39. ' When any aflFection is infused by sympathy, it is at 
 first known only by its effects, and by those external signs 
 in the countenance and conversation which convey an idea 
 of it.' By inference from effect to cause, ' we are convinced 
 of the reality of the passion,' conceiving it *to belong to 
 another person, as we conceive any other matter of fact.' 
 This idea of another's affection ' is presently converted into 
 an impression, and acquires such a degree of force and viva- 
 city as to become the very passion itself, and produce an 
 equal emotion as any original affection.' The conversion is 
 not difficult to account for when we reflect that ' all ideas 
 are borrowed from impressions, and that these two kinds of 
 perceptions differ only in the degrees of force and vivacity 
 with which tliey strike upon the soul. ... As this difference 
 may be removed in some measure by a relation between the 
 
 Vol. II., p. 147
 
 HUI^IE'S THEORY OF SYMPAIHY. 43 
 
 impressions and ideas ' — in tlie case before us, the relation 
 between the impression of one's own person and the idea 
 of another's, by which the vivacity of the former may be 
 conveyed to the latter—' 'tis no wonder an idea of a senti- 
 ment or passion may by this means be so enlivened as to 
 become the very sentiment or passion." 
 
 40. Upon this it must be remarked that the inference Itimpiien 
 from the external signs of an affection, according to Hume's Bciousness 
 doctrine of inference, can only mean that certain impressions not re- 
 of the other person's words and g-estures call up the ideas ^"<;'^l® 
 
 -'■ _ * _ i , to impre* 
 
 of their 'usual attendants'; which, again, must mean either sions. 
 
 that they convey the belief in certain exciting circumstances 
 experienced by the other man, and the expectation of certain 
 acts to follow upon his words and gestures ; or else that they 
 suggest to the spectator the memory of certain like mani- 
 festations on his own part and through these of the emotion 
 which in his own case was their antecedent. Either way, 
 the spectator's idea of the other person's affection is in no 
 sense a copy of it, or that affection in a fainter form. If it 
 is an idea of an impression of reflection at all, it is of such 
 an impression as experienced by the spectator himself, and 
 determined, as Hume admits, by his consciousness of himself; 
 nor could any conveyance of vivacity to the idea make it 
 other than that impression. How it should become to the 
 spectator consciously at once another's impression and his 
 own, remains unexplained. Hume only seems to explain it 
 by means of the equivocation lurking in the phrase, ' idea 
 of another's affection.' The reader, not reflecting that, ac- 
 cording to the copying theory, so far as the idea is a copy 
 of anything in the other, it can only be a copy of certain 
 ' external signs, &c.,' and so far as it is a copy of an affection, 
 only of an affection experienced by the man who has the idea, 
 thinks of it as being to the spectator the other's affection 
 minus a certain amount of vivacity — the restoration of which 
 will render it an impression at once his own and the other's. 
 It can in truth only be so in virtue (a) of an interpretation 
 of words and gestures, as related to a person, which no sug- 
 gestion by impressions of their usual attendants can account 
 for, and in virtue (6) of there being such a conceived 
 identity, or unity in difference, between the spectator's own 
 
 » Vol. 11., pp. 111-114.
 
 44 - INTRODUCTION 
 
 person and the person of the other that the same impression, 
 in being determined by his consciousness of himself, is de- 
 termined also by his consciousness of the other as an ' alter 
 ego.' Thus sympathy, according to Hume's account of it, 
 so soon as that account is rationalized, is found to involve 
 the determination of pleasure and pain, not merely by self- 
 consciousness, but by a self-consciousness which is also 
 self-identification with another. If self-consciousness cannot 
 in any of its functions be reduced to an impression or suc- 
 cession of impressions, least of all can it in this. On the 
 other hand, if it is only through its constitutive action, its 
 reflection of itself upon successive impressions of sense, that 
 these become the permanent objects which we know, we ca,n 
 understand how by a like action on certain impressions of 
 reflection, certain emotions and desires, it constitutes those 
 objects of interest which we love as ourselves. 
 Ambiguity 41. Pride, love, and sympathy, then, are the motives which 
 count of' Hume must have granted him, if his moral theory is to 
 benevo- march. Sympathy is not only necessary to his explanation 
 lence. q£ ^j^^^ most important form of pride which is the motive to 
 
 a man in maintaining a character with his neighboiu's when 
 * nothing is to be gained by it ' — nothing, that is, beyond 
 the immediate pleasure it gives — and of all forms of ' love,' 
 except those of which the exciting cause lies in the pleasures 
 of beauty and sexual appetite : he finds in it also the ground 
 of benevolence. Where he first treats of benevolence, 
 indeed, this does not appear. Unlike pride and humility, we 
 are told, which ' are pure emotions of the soul, unattended 
 with any desire, and not immediately exciting us to action, 
 love and hatred are not completed within themselves. . . Love 
 is always followed by a desire of the happiness of the person 
 beloved, and an aversion to his misery ; as hatred produces 
 a desire of the misery, and an aversion to the happiness, of 
 the person hated.' ^ This actual sequence of ' benevolence ' 
 and ' anger ' severally upon love and hatred is due, it 
 appears, to ' an original constitution of the mind ' which 
 It is a cannot be further accounted for. That benevolence is no 
 therefore" essential part of love is clear from the fact that the latter 
 has passion 'may express itself in a hundred ways, and may 
 
 for itr° subsist a considerable time, without our reflecting on the 
 
 object. 
 
 ' Vol. 11., p. 163.
 
 RELATION OF LOVE TO BENEVOLENCE. 45 
 
 liapj)mess of its object.' Doubtless, when we do reflect on What 
 it, we desire the happiness ; but, ' if nature had so pleased, P 
 love might have been unattended with any such desire.'* So 
 far, the view given tallies with what we have already 
 quoted from the summary account of the direct and indirect 
 passions, where the ' desire of punishment to our enemies 
 and happiness to our friends ' is expressly left outside the 
 general theory of the passions as a ' natural impulse wholly 
 unaccountable,' a ' direct passion ' which yet does not 'pro- 
 ceed from pleasure.' With his instinct for consistency, how- 
 ever, Hume could scarcely help seeking to assimilate this 
 alien element to his definition of desire as universally for 
 pleasure ; and accordingly^ while the above view of benevo- 
 lence is never in so many words given up, an essentially 
 diffei-ent one appears a little further on, which by help of 
 the doctrime of sympathy at once makes the connection of 
 benevolence with love more accounxable, and brings it under 
 the general definition of desire. ' Benevolence,' we are there 
 told, ' is an original pleasure arising from the pleasure of 
 the person beloved, and a pain proceeding from his pain, 
 from which correspondence of impressions there arises a 
 subsequent desire of his pleasure and aversion to his pain.' ' 
 
 42. Now, strictly construed, this passage seems to efface Pleasure of 
 the one clear distinction of benevolence that had been ^jt'^^the^ 
 previously insisted on — that it is a desire, namely, as pleasure of 
 opposed to a pure emotion. If benevolence is an ' original ^°°^ ^^' 
 pleasure arising from the pleasure of the person beloved,' it 
 is identical with love, so far as sympathy is an exciting 
 cause of love, instead of being distinguished from it as 
 desire from emotion. We must suppose, however, that the 
 sentence was carelessly put together, and that Hume did not 
 really mean to identify benevolence with the pleasure spoken 
 of in the former part of it (for which his proper term is 
 simply sympathy), but with the desire for that pleasure, 
 spoken of in the latter part. In that case we find that 
 benevolence forms no exception to the general definition of 
 
 ' Vol. n., p. 154 two kinds, the general and the particu- 
 
 "^ Vol. II., p. 170. Compare Vol. rv., lar. The first is, where we hare no 
 
 ' Inquiry concerning the Principles of friendship, or connection, or esteem for 
 
 Morals,' Appendix ii., note 3, where the person, but feel only a general sym- 
 
 ' general benevolence,' also called ' hu- pathy with him, or a compassion for 
 
 manity,' is identified with sympathy.' his pains, and a congratulation with 
 
 ' Benevolence is naturally divided into his pleasures,' &c. &c.
 
 46 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 All ' pas- 
 sions' 
 equally 
 i II terested 
 or dis- 
 iuterested. 
 
 desire. It is desire for one's own pleasure, but for a pleasure 
 received through the communication by sympathy of the 
 pleasure of another. In like manner, the sequence of bene- 
 volence upon love, instead of being an unaccountable ' dis- 
 position of nature,' would seem explicable, as merely the 
 ordinary sequence upon a pleasant emotion of a desire for 
 its renewal. Though it be not strictly the pleasant emotion 
 of love, but that of sympathy, for which benevolence is the 
 desire, yet if sympathy is necessary to the excitement of 
 love, it will equally follow that benevolence attends on love. 
 Pleasure sympathised with, we may suppose, first excites 
 the secondary emotion of love, and afterwards, when reflected 
 on, that desire for its continuance or renewal, which is 
 benevolence. That love ' should express itself in a hundred 
 w^ays, and subsist a considerable time ' without any conscious- 
 ness of benevolence, will merely be the natural relation of 
 emotion to desire. When a pleasure is in full enjoyment, it 
 cannot be so reflected on as to excite desire ; and thus, if 
 benevolence is desire for that pleasure in the pleasure of 
 another, which is an exciting cause of love, the latter 
 emotion must naturally subsist and express itself for some 
 time before it reaches the stage in which reflection on its 
 cause, and with it benevolent desire, ensues. 
 
 43. This rationale, however, of the relation between love 
 and benevolence is not explicitly given by Hume himself- 
 He nowhere expressly withdraws the exception, made in 
 favour of benevolence, to the rule that all desire is for 
 pleasure — an exception which, once admitted, undermines 
 his whole system — or tells us in so many words that bene- 
 volence is desire for pleasure to oneself in the pleasure of 
 another. In an important note to the Essays,' indeed, he 
 distinctly puts benevolence on the same footing with such 
 desires as avarice or ambition. ' A man is no more 
 interested when he seeks his own glory, than when the 
 happiness of his friend is the object of his wishes ; nor is he 
 any more disinterested when he sacrifices his own ease and 
 quiet to puldic good, than when he labours for the gratifica- 
 tion of avarice or ambition.' . . . ' Though the satisfaction of 
 these latter passions gives us enjoyment, yet the prospect of 
 this enjoyment is not the cause of the passion, but, on the 
 
 • ' Inquiry concerning Human Un- 
 derstnniling,' note to see. 1. lu the 
 
 editions after the second, this note was 
 omitted.
 
 RELATION OF LOVE TO PITY. 47 
 
 contrary, the passion is antecedent to the enjoyment, and Confusion 
 without the former the latter could not possibly exist.' In 'l^^l^ ^°°* 
 other words, if ' passion ' means desire — and, as applied to ' passiou * 
 emotion, the designation ' interested ' or ' disinterested ' has ^ggjp/^nd 
 no meaning — every passion is equally disinterested in the emotion 
 sense of presupposing an ' enjoyment,' a pleasant emotion, 
 antecedent to that which consists in its satisfaction ; but at 
 the same time equally interested in the sense of being a 
 desire for such enjoyment. Whether from a wish to find 
 a.cceptance, however, or because forms of man's good-will to 
 man forced themselves on his notice which forbade the con- 
 sistent development of his theory, Hume is always much 
 more explicit about the disinterestedness of benevolence in 
 the former sense than about its interestedness in the latter.* 
 Accordingly he does not avail himself of such an explana- 
 tion of its relation to love as that above indicated, which by 
 avowedly reducing benevolence to a, desire for pleasure, 
 while it simplified his system, might have revolted the 
 ' common sense ' even of the eighteenth century. He prefers 
 — as his manner is, when he comes upon a question which 
 he cannot face — to fall back on a ' disposition of nature ' as 
 the ground of the ' conjunction ' of benevolence with love. Of this 
 There is a form of benevolence, however, which would seem "^"^^u . 
 
 ' ' avails him- 
 
 as little explicable by such natural conjunction as by self in hib 
 
 reduction to a desire for sympathetic pleasure. How is it a^^^cpunt of 
 
 fl.(*tlV6 DltV 
 
 that active good-will is shown towards those whom, accord- 
 ing to Hume's theory of love, it should be impossible to 
 love — towards those with whom intercourse is impossible, or 
 from whom, if intercourse is possible, we can derive no such 
 pleasure as is supposed necessary to excite that pleasant 
 emotion, but rather such pain, in sympathy with their pain, 
 as according to the theory should excite hatred ? To this 
 question Hume in effect finds an answer in the simple device 
 of using the same terms, 'pity' and 'compassion,' alike for 
 the painful emotion produced b}^ the spectacle of another's 
 
 ' Attention should be called to a orif^inal frame of our temper we may 
 passage at the end of the account of feel a desire for another's happiness or 
 •self-love' in the Essays, where he seems good, which, by means of that affection, 
 to revert to the view of benevolence as becomes our own good, and is after- 
 a desire not originally produced by wards pursued from the combined mo- 
 pleasnre, but productive of it, and thus tives of benevolence and self-enjoyment.' 
 passing into a secondary stage in which The passage might have been written 
 it is combined with desire for pleasure. by Butler. (Vol. i v., ' Inquiry concern- 
 He suggests tentatively that 'from the ing Principles of Morals,' Appendix n.)
 
 48 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Expkna- 
 
 tion of 
 
 apparent 
 
 conflict 
 
 between 
 
 reason and 
 
 passion. 
 
 paiij and for ' desire for the happiness of another and 
 aversion to his misery.' ' According to the latter account 
 of it, pitj is ah-eady ' the same desire ' as benevolence, 
 though ' proceeding from a different principle,' and thus 
 has a resemblance to the love with which benevolence is 
 conjoined — a ' resemblance not of feeling or sentiment but 
 of tendency or direction.''^ Hence, whereas 'pity' in the 
 former sense would make us hate those whose pain gives us 
 pain, by understanding it in the latter sense we can explain 
 how it leads us to love them, on the principle that one 
 resembling passion excites another. 
 
 44. We are now in a position to review the possible 
 motives of human action according to Hume. Reason, con- 
 stituting no objects, affords no motives. ' It is only the 
 slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other 
 office than to serve and obey them.' ^ To any logical thinker 
 who accepted Locke's doctrine of reason, as having no 
 other function but to ' lay in order intermediate ideas,' this 
 followed of necessity. It is the clearness with which Hume 
 points out that, as it cannot move, so neither can it restrain, 
 action, that in this regard chiefly distinguishes him from 
 Locke. The check to any passion, he poijits out, can only 
 proceed from some counter-motive, and such a motive 
 reason, ' having no original influence,' cannot give. Strictly 
 speaking, then, a passion can only be called unreasonable, 
 as accompanied by some false judgment, which on its paH 
 must consist in ' disagreement of ideas, considered as copies, 
 with those objects which they represent ; ' and ' even then it 
 is not the j^assion, properly speaking, which is unreasonable, 
 but the judgment.' It is nothing against reason — not, as 
 Locke had inadvertently said, a wrong judgment — ' to prefer 
 my own acknowledged lesser good to my greater.' The only 
 unreasonableness would lie in supposing that 'my own 
 acknowledged lesser good,' being preferred, could be attained 
 by means that would not really lead to it. Hence ' we speak 
 not strictly when we talk of the combat of reason and 
 passion.' They can in truth never oppose each other. The 
 supposition that they do so arises from a confusion between 
 
 for the happiness of another,' 
 
 ' EooK II., part 2, sees. 7 and 9. 
 Within a few lines of each other will 
 be found the statements (a) that ' pity 
 is a.n uneasiness arising from the misery 
 of others,' and [b) that ' pity is 
 
 desire 
 &c. 
 
 * ' Dissertation on the Passions' (in the 
 Essays), sec. 3, sub-sec. 5. 
 
 ^ Vol. 11., p. 195.
 
 REASON GIVES NO MOTIVE. 
 
 49 
 
 * calm passions ' and reason — a confusion founded on the 
 fact tliat the former * produce little emotion in the mind, 
 while the operation of reason produces none at all.' * Calm 
 passions, undoubtedly, do often conflict with the violent ones 
 and even prevail over them, and thus, as the violent passion 
 causes most uneasiness, it is untrue to say with Locke * that 
 it is the most pressing uneasiness which always determines 
 action. The calmness of a passion is not to be confounded 
 with weakness, nor its violence with strength. A desire may 
 be calm either because its object is remote, or because it is 
 customary. In the former case, it is true, the desire is likely 
 to be relatively weak ; but in the latter case, the calmer the 
 desire, the greater is likely to be its strength, since the 
 repetition of a desire has the twofold effect, on the one 
 hand of diminishing the ' sensible emotion ' that accom- 
 panies it, on the other hand of ' bestowing a facility in the 
 performance of the action ' corresponding to the desire, 
 which in turn creates a new inclination or tendency that 
 combines with the original desire.' 
 
 45. The distinction, then, between * reasonable' and 'un- ^ «reaso 
 reasonable' desires — and it is only desires that can be abie'de 
 referred to when will, or the determination to action, is in ^^^ ^t 
 question — in the only sense in which Hume can admit it, is excites 
 a distinction not of objects but of our situation in regard to ^'*^'^^ 
 them. The object of desire in every case — whether near or 
 remote, whether either by its novelty or by its contrariety 
 to other passions it excites more or less * sensible emotion' — 
 is still * good,' i.e. pleasure. The greater the pleasure in 
 prospect, the stronger the desire."* The only proper ques- 
 tion, then, according to Hume, as to the pleasure which in 
 any particular case is an object of desire will be whether it 
 
 » Vol. II., pp. 195, 196. 
 
 ' Above, sec. 3. 
 
 » Vol. II. pp. 198-200. 
 
 It will be found that here Hume 
 might have stated his case much more 
 succinctly by avoiding the equivocal 
 use of ' passion ' at once for ' desire ' and 
 ' emotion.' When a ' passion ' is desig- 
 nated as ' calm ' or ' violent,' ' passion ' 
 means emotion. When the terms 
 'strong' and 'weak' are applied to it, 
 it means ' desire.' Since of the strength 
 of any desire there is in truth no test 
 but the resulting action, and habit 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 facilitates action, if we will persist in 
 asking the idle question about the 
 relative strength of desires, we must 
 suppose that the most habitual is the 
 strongest. 
 
 * Cf p. 198. 'The same good, 
 when near, will cause a violent pas- 
 sion, which, when remote, produces 
 only a calm one.' The expression, here, 
 is obviously inaccurate. It cannot be 
 the same good in Hume's sense, i.e. 
 equally pleasant in prospect, when re- 
 mote as when near. 
 
 E
 
 m 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Enumera- 
 tion of 
 possible 
 motives. 
 
 If pleasure 
 
 Bole mo- 
 tive, what 
 is the dis- 
 tinction of 
 self-love ? 
 
 is (a) an immediate impression of sense, or (h) a pleasure of 
 pride, or (c) one of sympathy. Under the first head, appa- 
 rently, he would include pleasures incidental to the satisfac- 
 tion of appetite, and pleasures corresponding to the several 
 senses — not only the smells and tastes we call ' sweet,' but 
 the sights and sounds we call ' beautiful.'^ Pleasures of this 
 sort, we must suppose, are the ultimate ' exciting causes '* of 
 all those secondary ones, which are distinguished from their 
 * exciting causes ' as determined by the ideas either of self 
 or of another thinking person — the pleasures, namely, of 
 pride and sympathy. Sympathetic pleasure, again, will be 
 of two kinds, according as the pleasure in the pleasure of 
 another doe? or does not excite the further pleasure of love 
 for the other person. If the object desired is none of these 
 pleasures, nor the means to them, it only remains for the 
 follower of Hume to suppose that it is ' pleasure in general ' — 
 the object of ' self love.' 
 
 46. Anyone reading the ' Treatise on Human Nature ' 
 alongside of Shaftesbury or Butler would be surprised to find 
 that while sympathy and benevolence fill a very large place 
 in it, self-love 'eo nomine ' has a comparatively small one. At 
 first, perhaos, he would please himself with thinking that he 
 had come upon a more ' genial ' system of morals. The 
 true account of the matter, however, he will find to be that, 
 whereas with Shaftesbury and his followers the notion of 
 self-love was really determined by opposition to those desires 
 for other objects than pleasure, in the existence of which 
 they really believed, however much the current psychology 
 may have embarrassed their belief, on the other hand with 
 Hume's explicit reduction of all desire to desire for pleasure 
 self-love loses the significance which this opposition gave it, 
 and can have no meaning except as desire for * pleasure in 
 general ' in distinction from this or that particular pleasure. 
 
 ' No other account of pleasure in 
 beauty can be extracted from Hume 
 than this — that it is either a ' primary- 
 impression of sense,' so far co-ordinate 
 with any pleasant taste or smell that 
 but for an accident of language the 
 term ' beautiful ' might be equally ap- 
 plicable to these, or else a pleasure in 
 that indefinite anticipation of pleasiire 
 which is called the contemplation of 
 utility. 
 
 * Ultimate because according to 
 Hume the immediate exciting cause of a 
 pleasure of pride may be one of love, 
 and vice versa. In that case, however, 
 a more remote 'exciting cause' of 
 the exciting pleasure must be found in 
 some impressions of sense, if the doc- 
 trine that these are the sole ' oinginal 
 impressions' is to be m.aintained.
 
 MEANING OF 'SELF-LOVE' IN HIBIE. 51 
 
 Passages from tlie Essays may be adduced, it is true, wiiere Its opposi- 
 self-love is spoken of under the same opposition under tiontodis- 
 
 *- . interested 
 
 which Shaftesbury and Hutcheson conceived of it, but in desires, as 
 these, it will be found, advantage is taken of the ambiguity commonly 
 between ' emotion ' and ' desire,' covered by the term stood, dis- 
 
 * passion.' That there are sympathetic emotions — pleasures a^ppears. 
 occasioned by the pleasure of others — is, no doubt, as 
 cardinal a point in Hume's system as that all desire is for 
 pleasure to self; but between such emotions and self-love 
 there is no co-ordination. No emotion, as he points out, 
 determines action directly, but only by exciting desire ; 
 which with him can only mean that the image of the 
 pleasant emotion excites desire for its renewal. In other 
 words, no emotion amounts to volition or will. Self-love, on 
 
 the other hand, if it means anything, means desire and a 
 possibly strongest desire, or will. It can thus be no more 
 determined by opposition to generous or sympathetic emotii)ns 
 than can these by opposition to hunger and thirst. Hume, 
 however, when he insists on the existence of generous 
 ' passions ' as showing that self-love is not our uniform 
 motive, though he cannot consistently mean more than that 
 desire for ' pleasure in general,' or desire for the satisfaction it is desire 
 of desire, is not the uniform motive — which might equally ^^^ 
 be shown (as he admits) by pointing to such self-regarding general. 
 
 * passions ' as love of fame, or such appetites as hunger — is 
 yet apt, through the reader's interpretation of ' generous 
 passions ' as desires for something other than pleasure, to 
 gain credit for recognising a possibility of living for others, 
 in distinction from living for pleasure, which was in truth . 
 as completely excluded by his theory as by that of Hobbes. 
 If he himself meant to convey any other distinction between 
 self-love and the generous passions than one which would 
 hold no less between it and every emotion whatever, it was 
 through a fresh intrusion upon him of that notion of benevo- 
 lence, as a * desire not founded on pleasure,' which was iu 
 too direct contradiction to the first principles of his theory 
 to be acquiesced in.* 
 
 ' Cf. II. p. 197i where, speaking or the general appetite to good and 
 
 of ' calm desires,' he Bays they ' are aversion to evil, considered merely as 
 
 of two kinds; either certain instincts such.' This seems to imply a twofold 
 
 originally implanted in our natures, distinction of the 'general appetite to 
 
 such as benevolence and resentment, the good ' (a) from desires for particular 
 
 love of life, and kindness to children ; pleasures, which are commonly not 
 
 e2
 
 62 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 HowHume 
 
 gives 
 
 meaning to 
 this other- 
 wise un- 
 meaning 
 definition. 
 
 47. Such desire, then, being excluded, what other motive 
 than * interest ' remains, by contrast with wiiich the latter 
 may be defined ? It has been explained above (§ 7) that 
 since pleasure as such, or as a feeling, does not admit of 
 generality, 'pleasure in general' is an impossible object. 
 When the motive of an action is said to be ' pleasure in 
 general,' what is really meant is that the action is determined 
 by the conception of pleasure, or, more properly, of self as a 
 subject to be pleased. Such determination, again, is dis- 
 tinguished by opposition to two other kinds — (a) to that sort 
 of determination which is not by conception, but either by 
 animal want, or by the animal imagination of pleasure, and 
 (6) to determination by the conception of other objects than 
 pleasure. By an author, however, who expressly excluded the 
 latter sort of determination, and who did not recognise any 
 distinction between the thinking and the animal subject, the 
 motive in question could not thus be defined. Hence the 
 difficulty of extracting from Hume himself any clear and 
 consistent account of that which he variously describes as 
 the ' general appetite for good, considered merely as such,' 
 as ' interest,' and as ' self-love.' To say that he understood 
 by it a desire for pleasure which is yet not a desire for any 
 pleasure in particular, may seem a strange interpretation to 
 put on one who regarded himself as a great liberator from 
 abstractions, but there is no other which his statements, 
 taken together, would justify. This desire for nothing, 
 however, he converts into a desire for something by identify- 
 
 calm, and (b) from certain desires, 
 which resemble the 'general appetite' 
 in being calm but are not for pleasure 
 at all. See above, sec. 31. In that 
 section of the Essays where ' self-love ' 
 is expressly treated of, there is a still 
 clearer appearance of the doctrine, tliat 
 there are desires (in that instance called 
 'mental passions') which have not 
 pleasure for their object any more than 
 have such ' bodily wants ' as hunger and 
 thirst. From these seK-love, as desire 
 for pleasure, is distinguished, though, 
 when the pleasure incidental to their 
 satisfaction is discovered and reflected 
 on, it is supposed to combine with them. 
 (Vol. IV. Appendix on Self-love, near 
 the end. See above, see. 43 and note.) 
 This amounts, in fact, to a complete 
 withdrawal from Hume's original 
 po.'^itiou and the adoption of one whicn 
 
 is most clearly stated in Hutcheson'a 
 posthumous treatise — the position, 
 namely, that we begin with a multitude 
 of ' particular ' or ' violent ' desires, 
 severally 'terminating upon objects' 
 which are not pleasures at all, and that, 
 as reason developes, these gradually 
 blend witli, or are superseded by, the 
 ' calm ' desire for pleasure ; so that 
 moral growth means the access of 
 conscious pleasure-seeking. This in 
 effect seems to be Butler's view, and 
 Huteheson reckons it 'a lovely represent- 
 ation if human nature,' though he him- 
 self holds that benevolence may exist, 
 not mertly as one of the ' particular 
 desires ' controlled by self-love, but as 
 itself a ' calm ' and controlling principle, 
 co-ordinate with self-love. (System of 
 Moral Philosophy,' Vol. i. p. 61, &c.)
 
 RESULT OF HIS THEORY OF MOTIVES. 53 
 
 ing a on occasion, (1) with, any desire for a pleasure of 'Interest, 
 which the attainment is regarded as sufficiently remote to ^J^otj^gg*' 
 allow of calmness in the desire, and (2) with desire for the described, 
 mears of having all pleasures iudifierently at command. It ™^5^^^f^ 
 is in one or other of these senses — either as desire for some tion by 
 particular pleasure distinguished only by its calmness, or as ^eiison. 
 desire for power — that he always understands ' interest ' or 
 
 * self-love,' except where he gains a more precise meaning for 
 it by the admission of desires, not for pleasure at all, to 
 which it may be opposed. Now taken in tbe former sense, 
 its difference from the desires for the several pleasures of 
 
 * sense,' ' pride,' and ' sympathy,' of which Hume's account 
 has already been examined, cannot lie in the object, but — 
 as he himself says of the distinction, which he regarded as 
 an equivalent one, between ' reasonable and unreasonable ' 
 desires — in our situation with regard to it. If then the 
 object of each of these desires, as we have shown to be 
 implied in Hume's account of them, is one which only 
 reason, as self-consciousness, can constitute, it cannot be 
 less so when the desire is calm enough to be called self-love. 
 Still more plainly is the desire in question determined by 
 reason — by the conception of self as a permanent suscepti- 
 bility of pleasure — if it is understood to be desire for 
 power. 
 
 48. Having now before us a complete view of the possible Thns 
 motives to human action which Hume admits, we find that leaving de- 
 while he has carried to its furthest limit, and with the least graded 
 verbal inconsistency possible, the effort to make thought fop^^i^e'^ 
 deny its own originativeness in action, he has yet not sue- sake of 
 ceeded. He has made abstraction of everything in the ^g^cy^aftet 
 objects of human interest but their relation to our nervous all is not 
 irritability— he has left nothing of the beautiful in nature or consistent. 
 art but that which it has in common with a sweetmeat, 
 iiothing of that which is lovely and of good report to the 
 saint or statesman but what they share with the dandy or 
 diner-out — yet he cannot present even this poor residuum of 
 an object, by which all action is to be explained, except 
 under the character it derives from the thinking soul, which 
 looks before and after, and determines everything by relation 
 to itself. Thus if, as he says, the distinction between 
 reasonable and unreasonable desires does not lie in the 
 object, this will not be because reason has never anything to
 
 64 INTRODUCTION 
 
 do with the constitution of the object, but because it has 
 always so much to do with it as renders selfishness — the self- 
 conscious pursuit of pleasure — possible. Sensuality then 
 will have been vindicated, the distinction between the 
 * higher ' and ' lower ' modes of Kfe will have been erased, 
 and after all the theoretic consistency — for the sake of which, 
 and not, of course, to gratify any sinister interest, Hume 
 made his philosophic venture — will not have been attained. 
 Man will still not be ultimately passive, nor human action 
 natural. Eeason may be the ' slave of the passions,' but it 
 will be a self-imposed subjection. 
 If all good 49^ -^g have still, however, to explain how Hume himself 
 
 IB pleasure, - ... 
 
 what is completes the assimilation of the moral to the natural ; 
 
 ^"^^\ how, on the supposition that the ' good' can only mean the 
 ' pleasant,' he accounts for the apparent distinction between 
 moral and other good, for the intrusion of the ' ought and 
 ought not ' of ethical propositions upon the ' is and is not ' 
 of truth concerning nature.' Here again he is faithful to 
 his role as the expander and espurgator of Locke. With 
 Locke, it will be remembered, the distinction of moral good 
 lay in the channel through which the pleasure, that consti- 
 tutes it, is derived. It was pleasure accruing through the 
 intervention of law, as opposed to the operation of nature : 
 and from the pleasure thus accruing the term ' morally 
 good ' was transferred to the act which, as ' conformable to 
 some law,' occasions it.^ This view Hume retains, merely 
 remedying Locke's omissions and inconsistencies. Locke, as 
 
 Ambi^ty -vnre saw, not only neglected to derive the existence of the 
 
 ^^e^^ laws, whose intervention he counted necessary to constitute 
 
 the morally good, from the operation of that desire for 
 pleasure which he pronounced the only motive of man ; in 
 speaking of moral goodness as consisting in conformity to 
 law, he might, if taken at his word, be held to admit some- 
 thing quite different from pleasure alike as the standard 
 and the motive of morality. Hume then had, in the first 
 place, to account for the laws in question, and so account 
 for them as to remove that absolute opposition between 
 them and the operation of nature which Locke had taken 
 for granted ; secondly, to exhibit that conformity to law, in 
 which the moral goodness of an act was held to consist, as 
 
 ' Vol. II. p. 245. * Abore. aecs. 16-lS.
 
 HIS MODIFICATION OP LOCKE'S 'LAWS.' 55 
 
 itself a mode of pleasure — pleasure, namely, to tlie contem- 
 plator of the act ; and thirdly, to show that not the moral 
 g'oodness of the act, even thus understood, but pleasure to 
 himself was the motive to the doer of it.* 
 
 50. It was a necessary incident of this process that 
 Locke's notion of a Law of God, conformity to which 
 rendered actions ' in their own nature right and wrong,* 
 should disappear. The existence of such a law cannot be 
 explained as a result of any desire for pleasure, nor con- 
 formity to it as a mode of pleasure. Locke, indeed, tries to Develop- 
 bring the goodness, consisting in such conformity, under his ™y Qi^rke 
 general definition by treating it as equivalent to the pro- 
 duction of pleasure in another world. This, however, is to 
 seek refuge from the contradictory in the unmeaning. The 
 question— Is it the pleasure it produces, or its conformity to 
 law, that constitutes the goodness of an act? — remains 
 unanswered, while the further one is suggested — What 
 meaning has pleasure except as the pleasure we experi- 
 ence ? " Between pleasure, then, and a ' conformity ' irre- 
 ducible to pleasure, as the moral standard, the reader of 
 Locke had to chose. Clarke, supported by Locke's occa- 
 sional assimilation of moral to mathematical truth, had 
 elaborated the notion of conformity. To him an action was 
 •^ in its own nature right ' when it conformed to the ' reason 
 of things ' — i.e. to certain ' eternal proportions,' by which 
 God, ' qui omnia numero, ordine, mensura posuit,' obliges which 
 Himself to govern the world, and of which reason in us is j^^j^ f^^. 
 * the appearance.' ^ Thus reason, as an eternal * agreement want of 
 or disagreement of ideas,' was the standard to which action ^^J-^^ '^^^^^ 
 
 ° ' • f> 1 01 reason. 
 
 ought to conform, and, as our consciousness of such agree- 
 ment, at once the judge of and motive to conformity. To 
 this Hume's reply is in effect the challenge to instance any 
 act, of which the morality consists either in any of those 
 four relations, ' depending on the nature of the ideas 
 related,' which he regarded as alone admitting of demon- 
 stration, or in any other of those relations (contiguity, 
 identity, and cause and effect) which, as ' matters of fact,' 
 can be ' discovered by the understanding.'* Such a challenge 
 
 ' Of the three problems here specified, ' Above, sec. 14. 
 
 Hume's treatment of the second is dis- ' Boyle Lectures, Vol. n. prop. 1. 
 
 cussed in the following sees. 50-54 ; of sees. 1-4. 
 
 the first in sees. 65-58; of the third in * Book hi. part 1, sec. 1. (Cf. Book 
 
 •sees. 60 to the end. i. part 3, sec. 1, and Introduction to
 
 66 
 
 K^TRODUCTION 
 
 With 
 Hume, 
 moral good 
 is pleasure 
 excited in 
 a par- 
 ticular 
 way, 
 
 admits of no reply, and no other function but the perception 
 of such relations being allowed to reason or understanding 
 in the school of Locke, it follows that it is not this faculty 
 which either constitutes, or gives the consciousness of, the 
 morally good. Eeason excluded, feeling remains. No action, 
 then, can be called ' right in its own nature,' if that is taken 
 to imply (as * conformity to divine law ' must be), relation 
 to something else than our feeling. It could only be so 
 called with propriety in the sense of exciting some pleasure 
 immediately, as distinct from an act which may be a con- 
 dition of the attainment of pleasure, but does not directly 
 convey it. 
 
 51. So far, however, there is nothing to distinguish the 
 moral act either from any * inanimate object,' which may 
 equally excite immediate pleasure, or from actions which 
 have no character, as virtuous or vicious, at all. Some 
 further limitation, then, must be found for the immediate 
 pleasure which constitutes the goodness called * moral,' and 
 of which praise is the expression. This Hume finds in the 
 exciting object which must be (a.) ' considered in general 
 and without reference to our particular interest,' and (5) an 
 object so ' related ' (in the sense above ' explained) to oneself 
 or to another as that the pleasure which it excites shall 
 cause the further pleasure either of pride or love.^ The 
 precise effect of such limitation he does not explain in 
 detail. A man's pictures, gardens, and clothes, we have 
 been told, tend to excite pride in himself and love in others. 
 If then we can ' consider them in general and without 
 reference to our particular interest,' and in such ' mere 
 survey ' find pleasure, this pleasure, according to Hume's 
 showing, will constitute them morally good.^ He usually takes 
 for granted, however, a further limitation of the pleasure in 
 
 Vol.1, sees. 283 and ff.) It will be observed 
 that throughout the polemic against 
 Clarke and his congeners Hume writes as 
 if there were a difference between objects 
 of reason and feeling, which he could 
 not consistently admit. He begins by 
 putting the question thus (page 234), 
 ' whether 'tis by means of our ideas or 
 impressions we distinguish betwixt vice 
 and virtue : ' but if, as he tells us, ' the 
 idea is merely the weaker impression, 
 and the impression the stronger idea,' 
 such a question has no meaning. In like 
 manner he concludes by saying (page 
 
 245) that ' vice and virtue may be com- 
 pared to sounds, colours, heat and cold, 
 which are not qualities in objects, but 
 perceptions in the mind.' But, since 
 the whole drift of Book i. is to show 
 that all 'objective relations' are such 
 ' perceptions ' or their succession, this 
 still leaves us without any distinction 
 between science and morality that shall 
 be tenable according to his own doctrine. 
 
 ' Sec. 33. 
 
 « Vol. II. pp. 247 and 248. 
 
 ' Hume treats them as such in Book 
 III. part 3, sec. 6.
 
 HIS ACCOUNT OF 'MORAL SENSE.' 67 
 
 qaestioTi, as excited only by 'actions, sentiments, and viz.: in the 
 
 characters,' and thus finds virtue to consist in the ' satisfac- ^^'^^^^l "'' 
 
 tion produced to the spectator of an act or character by the 'gootl' act. 
 
 mere view of it.' * Virtues and vices then mean, as Locke ^"^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 well said, the usual likes and dislikes of society. If we tendency 
 
 choose with him to call that virtue of an act, which really *" produce 
 
 n -f pleasure, 
 consists in the pleasure experienced by the spectator of it, 
 
 ' conformity to the law of their opinion,' we may do so, 
 provided we do not suppose that there is some other law, 
 which this imperfectly reflects, and that the virtue is some- 
 thing other than the pleasure, but to be inferred from it. 
 * We do not infer a character to be virtuous, because it 
 pleases ; but in feeling that it pleases after such a particular 
 manner, we in effect feel that it is virtuous.' ^ 
 
 62. Some further explanation, however, of the * particular 
 manner ' of this pleasure was clearly needed in order at 
 once to adjust it to the doctrine previously given of the 
 passions (of which this, as a pleasant emotion, must be one), 
 and to account for our speaking of the actions which excite 
 it— at least of some of them — as actions which we ought to 
 do. If we revert to the account of the passions, we can 
 have no difficulty in fixing on that of which this peculiar 
 pleasure, excited by the ' mere survey ' of an action without 
 reference to the spectator's ' particular interest,' must be a 
 mode. It must be a kind of sympathy — pleasure felt by the 
 spectator in the pleasure of another, as distinct from what 
 might be felt in the prospect of pleasure to himself.^ On 
 the other hand, there seem to be certain discrepancies 
 between pleasure and moral sentiment. We sympathise 
 where we neither approve nor disapprove ; and, conversely, 
 we express approbation where it would seem there was no 
 pleasure to sympathise with, e.g., in regard to an act of 
 simple justice, or where the person experiencing it was one 
 with whom we could have no fellow-feeling — an enemy, a 
 stranger, a character in history — or where the experience, 
 being one not of pleasure but of pain (say, that of a martyr 
 at the stake), should excite the reverse of approbation in the 
 spectator, if approbation means pleasure sympathised with. 
 Our sympathies, moreover, are highly variable, but ouv 
 moral sentiments on the whole constant. How must ' sym- 
 
 ' Vol. II. p. 251. Cf. p. 225. 2 Vol. n. p. 247. ' Vol. ii. pp. 335-337.
 
 68 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Moral 
 
 sense is 
 thus sym- 
 pathy with 
 pleasure 
 qualified 
 by con- 
 gideration 
 of general 
 "endencies. 
 
 pathy ' be qualified, in order that, when we identify moral 
 sentiment with it, these objections may be avoided ? 
 
 53. Hume's answer, in brief, is that the sympathy, which 
 constitutes moral sentiment, is sympathy qualified by the 
 consideration of ' general tendencies.' Thus we sympathise 
 with the pleasure arising from any casual action, but the 
 sympathy does not become moral approbation unless the act 
 is regarded as a sign of some quality or character, generally 
 and permanently agreeable or useful {sc. productive of 
 pleasure directly or indirectly) to the agent or others. An 
 act of justice may not be productive of any immediate 
 pleasure with which we can sympathise ; nay, taken singly, 
 it may cause pain both in itself and in its results, as when 
 a judge ' takes from the poor to give to the rich, or bestows 
 on the dissolute the labour of the industrious ; ' but we 
 sympathise with the general satisfaction resulting to society 
 from ' the whole scheme of law and justice,' to which the 
 act in question belongs, and approve it accordingly. The 
 constancy which leads to a dungeon is a painful commodity 
 to its possessor, but sympathy with his pain need not 
 incapacitate a spectator for that other sympathy with the 
 general pleasure caused by such a character to others, which 
 constitutes it virtuous. Again, though remote situation or 
 the state of one's temper may at any time modify or 
 suppress sympathy with the pleasure caused by the good 
 qualities of any particular person, we ma-y still apply to him 
 terms expressive of our liking. ' External beauty is deter- 
 mined merely by pleasure ; and 'tis evident a beautiful 
 countenance cannot give so much pleasure, when seen at a 
 distance of tn^enty paces, as when it is brought nearer to us. 
 We say not, however, that it appears to us less beautiful ; 
 because we know wiiat effect it will have in such a position, 
 and by that reflection we correct its momentary appear- 
 ance.' As with the beautiful, so with the morally good. 
 ' In order to correct the continual contradictions ' in our 
 judgment of it, that would arise from changes in personal 
 temper or situation, ' we fix on some steady and general 
 points of view, and always in our thoughts place ourselves 
 in them, whatever may be our present situation.' Such a 
 point of view is furnished by the consideration of 'the 
 interest or pleasure of the person himself whose character is 
 examined, and of the persons who have a connection with
 
 'ARTIFICIAL VIPtTUE.' 59 
 
 him,' as distinct from the spectator's own. The imagination 
 in time learns to ' adhere to these general views, and distin- 
 guishes the feelings they produce from those which arise 
 from our particular and momentary situation.' Thus a certain 
 constancy is introduced into sentiments of blame and praise, 
 and the variations, to which they continue subject, do not 
 appear in language, which ' experience teaches us to 
 correct, even where our sentiments are more stubborn and 
 unalterable.' ' 
 
 54. It thus appears that though the virtue of an act means In order to 
 the pleasure which it causes to a spectator, and though this ^-^^ ^^^^^^^ j^ 
 again arises from sympathy with imagined pleasure of the has to 
 doer or others, yet the former may be a pleasure which no g^i^^hy 
 particular spectator at any given time does actually feel — withunfelt 
 he need only know that under other conditions on his part feelings. 
 he would feel it — and the latter pleasure may be one either 
 
 not felt at all by any existing person, or only felt as the 
 opposite of the uneasiness with which society witnesses a 
 departure from its general rules. Of the essential distinc- 
 tion between a feeling of pleasure or pain and a knowledge 
 of the conditions under which a pleasure or pain is generally 
 felt, Hume shows no suspicion ; nor, while he admits that 
 without substitution of the knowledge for the feeling there 
 could be no general standard of praise or blame, does he ask 
 himself what the quest for such a standard implies. As little 
 does he trouble himself to explain how there can be such 
 sympathy with an unfelt feeling — with a pleasure which no 
 one actually feels but which is possible for posterity — as will 
 explain our approval of the virtue which defies the world, 
 and which is only assumed, for the credit of a theory, to 
 bring pleasure to its possessor, because it certainly brings 
 pleasure to no one else. For the * artificial ' virtue, how- 
 ever, of acts done in conformity with the ' general scheme of 
 justice,' or other social conventions, he accounts at length in 
 part II. of his Second Book — that entitled * Of Justice and 
 Injustice.' 
 
 55. To a generation which has sufficiently freed itself Can the 
 from aU 'mystical' views of law — which is aware that J^f^een^^ 
 'natural right,' if it means a right that existed in a 'state the 'moral' 
 of nature,' is a contradiction in terms ; that, since contracts ^^^ 
 
 > BtOK m. vol. ii. part 3, sec. 1. Specially pp. 330, 342, 346, 349.
 
 CO 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 could not be made, or property exist apart from social con- 
 vention, any question about a primitive obligation to respect 
 them is unmeaning — the negative side of this part of the 
 treatise can have little interest. That all rights and obliga- 
 tions are in some sense ' artificial,' we are as much agreed as 
 that without experience there can be no knowledge. The 
 question is, how the artifice, which constitutes them, is to be 
 understood, and what are its conditions. If we ask what 
 Hume understood by it, we can get no other answer than 
 that the artificial is the opposite of the natural. If we go 
 on to ask for the meaning of the natural, we only learn that 
 we must distinguish the senses in which it is opposed to the 
 miraculous and to the unusual from that in which it is 
 opposed to the artificial,' but not what the latter sense is. 
 The truth is that, if the first book of Hume's treatise has 
 fulfilled its purpose, the only conception of the natural, 
 which can give meaning to the doctrine that the obligation 
 to observe contracts and respect property is artificial, must 
 disappear. There are, we shall find, two different negations 
 which in different contexts this doctrine conveys. Some- 
 times it means that such an obligation did not exist for man 
 in a * state of nature,' i.e., as man was to begin with. But 
 in that sense the law of cause and effect, without which 
 there would be no nature at all, is, according to Hume, not 
 natural, for it — not merely our recognition of it, but the 
 law itself — is a habit of imagination, gradually formed. 
 Sometimes it conveys an oj^positiou to Clai-ke's doctrine of 
 obligation as constituted by certain ' eternal relations and 
 proportions,' which also form the order of nature, and are 
 other than, though regulative of, the succession of our feel- 
 ings. Nature, however, having been reduced by Hume to 
 the succession of our feelings, the ' artifice,' by which he 
 supposes obligations to be formed, cannot be determined by 
 opposition to it, unless the operation of motives, which ex- 
 plains the artifice, is something else than a succession of 
 feelings. But that it is nothing else is just what it is one 
 great object of the moral part of his treatise to show. 
 
 56. He is nowhere more happy than in exposing the 
 fallacies by which ' liberty of indifferency ' — the liberty sup- 
 posed to consist in a possibility of unmotived action — was 
 
 ' Book ii. part 1, sec. 2.
 
 FREEDOM AND NECESSITY. 61 
 
 defended.' Every act, lie shows, is determined by a strongest Norof such 
 motive, and the relation between motive and act is no other jn^'rei'ation 
 than that between any cause and effect in nature. In one and act. 
 case, as in the other, ' necessity ' lies not in an ' esse ' but in 
 a ' percipi.' It is the * determination of the thought of any 
 intelligent being, who considers ' an act or event, ' to infer its 
 existence from some preceding objects ; '* and such deter- 
 mination is a habit formed by, and having a strength pro- 
 portionate to, the frequency with which certain phenomena 
 • — actions or events — have followed certain others. The 
 weakness in this part of Hume's doctrine lies, not in the 
 assumption of an equal uniformity in the sequence of act 
 upon motive with that which obtains in nature, but in his 
 inability consistently to justify the assumption of an absolute 
 uniformity in either case. When there is an apparent 
 irregularity in the consequences of a given motive — when 
 according to one * experiment ' action (a) follows upon it, 
 according to another action (6), and so on — although ' these 
 contrary experiments are entirely equal, we remove not the 
 notion of causes and necessity ; but, supposing that the 
 usual contrariety proceeds from the operation of contrary 
 and concealed causes, we conclude that the chance or in- 
 difference lies only in . our judgment on account of our 
 imperfect knowledge, not in the things themselves, which are 
 in every case equally necessary, though to appearance not 
 equally constant or uniform.'^ But we have already seen 
 that, if necessary connection were in truth only a habit 
 arising from the frequency with which certain phenomena 
 follow certain others, the cases of exception to a usual 
 sequence, or in which the balance of chances did not incline 
 one way more than another, could only so far weaken the 
 habit. The explanation of them by the ' operation of con- 
 cealed causes ' implies, as he here says, an opposition of real 
 necessity to apparent inconstancy, which, if necessity were 
 such a habit as he says it is, would be impossible.* This 
 difficulty, however, applying equally to moral and natural 
 sequences, can constitute no difference between them. It 
 cannot therefore be in the relation between motive and act 
 that the followers of Hume can find any ground for a dis- 
 
 • Book ii. part 3, sees. 1 and 2. ■• See Introduction to Vol. i. sees. 
 
 2 Vol. II. p, 189. 323 and 336. 
 
 » Ibid., p. 185.
 
 62 INTRODUCTION 
 
 tinction between the process by whicli the conventions of 
 society are formed, and that succession of feelings which he 
 calls nature. May he then find it in the character of the 
 motive itself by which the ' invention ' of justice is to be 
 accounted for ? Is this other than a feeling determined by a 
 previous, and determining a sequent, one? Not, we must 
 answer, as Hume himself understood his own account of it, 
 which is as follows : — 
 Motive to 57. He will examine, he says, ' two questions, viz., con- 
 artificial ceming: the manner in which the rules of iustice are 
 
 Virtue^ . 
 
 established by the artifice of men ; and concerning the 
 reasons which determine us' to attribute to the observance or 
 neglect of these rules a moral beauty and deformity.'^ Of 
 the motives which he recognises (§ 45) it is clear that only 
 two — ' benevolence ' and ' interest ' — can be thought of in 
 this connection, and a little reflection suffices to show that 
 benevolence cannot account for the artifice in question. 
 Benevolence with Hume means either sympathy with plea- 
 sure — and this (though Hume could forget it on occasion ^) 
 must be a particular pleasure of some particular person — or 
 desii'e for the pleasure of such sympathy. Even if a benevo- 
 lence may be admitted, which is not a desire for pleasure at 
 all but an impulse to please, still this can only be an impulse 
 to please some particular person, and the only effect of 
 thought upon it, which Hume recognises, is not to widen 
 its object but to render it ' interested." ' There is no such 
 passion in human minds as the love of mankind, merely as 
 such, independent of personal qualities, of services, or of 
 relation to ourself.' * The motive, then, to the institution 
 of rules of justice cannot be found in general benevolence.* 
 As little can it be found in private benevolence, for the 
 person to whom I am obliged to be just may be an object of 
 merited hatred. It is true that, ' though it be rare to meet 
 with one who loves any single person better than himself, 
 yet 'tis as rare to meet wit<h one in whom aU the kind affec- 
 tions, taken together, do not overbalance all the selfish ' ; but 
 they are affections to his kinsfolk and acquaintance, and the 
 generosity which they prompt will constantly conflict with 
 justice.^ ' Interest,' then, must be the motive we are in quest 
 
 ' EooK III. part 2, sec. 2. ^ For the sense in which Hume did 
 
 * Cf. sec. 54. admit a 'general benevolence,' see sec. 
 
 * Cf. sees. 42, 43, and 46. 41, note. 
 
 * Vol. II. p. 255. * Vol. 11. pp. 256 and 260.
 
 INTERESTED AND MORAL OBLIGATION. 63 
 
 of. Of the ' three species of goods which we are possessed 
 of — the satisfaction of our minds, the advantages of our 
 body, and the enjoyment of such possessions as we have 
 acquired by our industry and good fortune ' — the last only 
 * may be transferred without suffering any loss or alteration ; 
 while at the same time there is not sufficient quantity of 
 them to supply every one's desires and necessities.' Hence 
 a special instability in their possession. Reflection on the 
 general loss caused by such instability leads to a ' tacit con- 
 vention, entered into by all the members of a society, to 
 abstain from each other's possessions ; ' and thereupon * im- 
 mediately arise the ideas of justice and injustice ; as also 
 those of property, right, and obligation.' It is not to be 
 supposed, however, that tlie ' convention ' is of the nature of 
 a promise, for all promises presuppose it. * It is only a 
 general sense of common interest ; which sense all the mem- 
 bers of the society express to one another, and which induces 
 them to regulate their conduct by certain rules ; ' and this 
 ' general sense of common interest,' it need scarcely be said, 
 is every man's sense of his own interest, as in fact coincid- 
 ing with that of his neighbours. In short, ' 'tis only from 
 the selfishness and confined generosity of man, along with 
 the scanty provision nature has made for his wants, that 
 justice derives its origin.'' 
 
 58. Thus the origin of rules of justice is explained, but How 
 the oblijyation to observe them so fiir appears only as ai-tificial 
 
 . virtues 
 
 ' interested,' not as ' moral.' In order that it may become become 
 * moral,' a pleasure must be generally experienced in the moral, 
 spectacle of their observance, and a pain in that of their 
 breach, apart from reference to any gain or loss likely to 
 arise to the spectator himself from that observance or breach. 
 In accounting for this experience Hume answers the second 
 of the questions, proposed above. ' To the imposition and 
 observance of these rules, both in general and in every 
 particular instance, men are at first induced only by a regard 
 to interest; and this motive, on the first formation of 
 society, is sufficiently strong and forcible. But when society 
 has become numerous, and has increased to a tribe or nation, 
 this interest is more remote ; nor do men so readily perceive 
 that disorder and confusion follow upon each breach of these 
 
 > Vol. 11. pp. 261, 263, 268.
 
 64 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Interest 
 aud 
 
 Bympathy 
 account for 
 all obliga- 
 tions, civil 
 and moral. 
 
 rules, as in a more narrow and contracted society. But 
 though, in our own actions, we may frequently lose sight of 
 that interest which we have in maintaining order, and may 
 follow a lesser and more present interest, we never fail to 
 observe the prejudice we receive, either mediately or im- 
 mediately, from the injustice of others Nay, when 
 
 the injustice is so distant from us, as no way to affect our 
 interest, it still displeases us, because we consider it as pre- 
 judicial to human society, and pernicious to every one that 
 approaches the person guilty of it. We partake of their 
 uneasiness by sympathy ; and as everything which gives un- 
 easiness in human actions, upon the general survey, is called 
 vice, and whatever produces satisfaction, in the same manner, 
 denominated virtue, this is the reason why the sense of 
 moral good and evil follows upon justice and injustice. And 
 though this sense, in the present case, be derived only from 
 contemplating the actions of others, yet we fail not to 
 extend it even to our own actions. The general rule reaches 
 beyond those instances from which it arose, while at the 
 same time we naturally sym'pathise with others in the senti- 
 ments they entertain of ns.'^ 
 
 59. To this account of the process by which rules of 
 justice have not only come into being, but come to bind 
 our ' conscience ' as they do, the modern critic will be 
 prompt to object that it is still affected by the ' unhistorical ' 
 delusions of the systems against which it was directed. In 
 expression, at any rate, it bears the marks of descent from 
 Hobbes, and, if read without due allowance, might convey 
 the notion that society first existed without any sort of 
 justice, and that afterwards its members, finding universal 
 war inconvenient, said to themselves, ' Go to ; let us abstain 
 from each other's goods.' It would be hard, however, to 
 expect from Hume the full-blown terminology of develop- 
 ment. He would probably have been the first to admit 
 that rules of justice, as well as our feelings towards them, 
 were not made but grew ; and in his view of the ' j)assions,' 
 whose operation this growth exhibits, he does not seriously 
 differ from the ordinary exponents of the * natural history ' 
 of ethics. These passions, we have seen, are ' Interest ' and 
 * Sympathy,' which with Hume only differ from the pleasures 
 
 ' Vol. n. p. 271.
 
 MEANING OF 'OUGHT' AND 'OUGHT NOT.' 65 
 
 and desires we call ' animal ' as any one of these differs 
 from another — the pleasure of eating, for instance, from that 
 of drinking, or desire for the former pleasure from desire for 
 the latter. Nor do their effects in the regulation of society, 
 and in the growth of ' artificial ' virtues and vices, differ 
 according to his account of them from sentiments which, 
 because they ' occur to us whether we will or no,' he reckons 
 purely natural, save in respect of the further extent to 
 which the modifying influence of imagination — itself reacted 
 on by language — must have been carried in order to their 
 existence ; and since this in his view is a merely ' natural ' 
 influence, there can only be a relative difference between the 
 
 * artificiality ' of its more complex, and the * naturalness ' of 
 its simpler, products. Locke's opposition, then, of ' moral ' 
 to other good, on the ground that other than natural instru- 
 mentality is implied in its attainment, will not hold even in 
 regard to that good which, it is admitted, would not be 
 what it is, i.e., not a pleasure, but for the intervention of 
 civil law. 
 
 60. The doctrine, which we have now traversed, of What is 
 
 * interested ' and ' moral ' obligation, implicitly answers the ^f!,"^;^^ 
 question as to the origin and significance of the ethical which 
 copula ' ought.' It originally expresses, we must suppose, f"^^^J^ 
 obligation by positive law, or rather by that authoritative 
 custom in which (as Hume would probably have been ready 
 
 to admit) the ' general sense of common interest ' first 
 embodies itself. In this primitive meaning it already 
 implies an opposition between the ' interest which each man 
 has in maintaining order ' and his ' lesser and more present 
 interests.' Its meaning will be modified in proportion as 
 the direct interest in maintaining order is reinforced or 
 superseded by sympathy with the general uneasiness which 
 any departure from the rules of justice causes. And as this 
 uneasiness is not confined to cases where the law is directly 
 or in the letter violated, the judgment, that an act ougJd to 
 be done, not only need not imply a belief that the person, 
 so judging, will himself gain anything by its being done or 
 lose anything by its omission ; it need not imply that any 
 positive law requires it. Whether it is applicable to every 
 act ' causing pleasure on the mere survey ' — whether the 
 range of * imperfect obligation ' is as wide as that of moral 
 sentiment — Hume does not make clear. That every action 
 
 VOL. II. ¥
 
 66 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Sense of 
 monility 
 no motive, 
 
 representing a quality * fitted to give immediate pleasure to 
 its possessor ' should be virtuous — as according to Hume's 
 account of the exciting cause of moral sentiment it must be-- 
 seems strange enough, but it would be stranger that we 
 should judge of it as an act which ought to be done. It is 
 less difficult, for instance, to suppose that it is virtuous to 
 be witty, than that one ought to be so. Perhaps it would 
 be open to a disciple of Hume to hold that as, according to 
 his master's showing, an opposition between permanent and 
 j)resent interest is implied in the judgment of obligation as 
 at first formed, so it is when the pleasure to be produced by 
 an act, which gratifies moral sense, is remote rather than 
 near, and a pleasure to others rather than to the doer, that 
 the term ' ought ' is appropriate to it. 
 
 61. But though Hume leaves some doubt on this point, 
 he leaves none in regard to the sense in which alone any one 
 can be said to do an action because he ought. This must 
 mean that he does it to avoid either a legal penalty or that 
 pain of shame which would arise upon the communication 
 through sympathy of such uneasiness as a contrary act 
 would excite in others upon the survey. So far from its 
 being true that an act, in order to be thoroughly virtuous, 
 must be done for virtue's sake, ' no action can be virtuous 
 or morally good unless there is some motive to produce it, 
 distinct from the sense of its morality.' * An act is virtuous 
 on account of the pleasure which supervenes when it is 
 contemplated as proceeding from a motive fitted to produce 
 pleasure to the agent or to others. The presence of this 
 motive, then, being the antecedent condition of the act's 
 being regarded as virtuous, the motive cannot itself have 
 been a regard to the virtue. It may be replied, indeed, 
 that though this shows ' regard to virtue ' or ' sense of 
 morality ' to be not the primary or only virtuous motive, it 
 does not follow that it cannot be a motive at all. An action 
 cannot be prompted for the first time by desire for a pleasure 
 which can only be felt as a consequence of the action having 
 been done, but it may be repeated, after experience of this 
 pleasure, from desire for its renewal. In like manner, since 
 with Hume the ' sense of morality ' is not a desire at all 
 but an emotion, and an emotion which cannot be felt till an 
 
 > Vol. II., p. 253.
 
 VmTUE FOR VIRTUE'S SAKE. 67 
 
 act of a certain kind has been done, it cannot be the original ^^rhen it 
 motive to such an action ; but why may not desire for so seems so, 
 pleasant an emotion, when once it has been experienced, ^g'^re^iy^ 
 lead to a repetition of the act ? The answer to this question pride. 
 is that the pleasure of moral sentiment, as Hume thinks of 
 it, is essentially a pleasure experienced by a spectator of an 
 act who is other than the doer of it. If the doer and 
 spectator were regarded as one person, there would be no 
 meaning in the rule that the tendency to produce pleasure, 
 which excites the sentiment of approbation, must be a 
 tendency to produce it to the doer himself or others, as 
 distinct from the spectator himself. Thus pleasure, in the 
 specific form in which Hume would call it 'moral senti- 
 ment,' is not what any one could attain by his own action, 
 and consequently cannot be a motive to action. Transferred 
 by sympathy to the consciousness of the man whose act is 
 approved, * moral sentiment ' becomes ' pride,' and desire for 
 the pleasure of pride — otherwise called * love of fame ' — is 
 one of the ' virtuous ' motives on which Hume dwells most. 
 When an action, however, is done for the sake of any such 
 positive 2)leasure, he would not allow apparently that the 
 agent does it ' from a sense of duty ' or ' because he ought.' 
 He would confine this description to cases where the object 
 was rather the avoidance of humiliation. * I ought ' means 
 ' it is expected of me.' * When any virtuous motive or 
 principle is common in human nature, a person who feels 
 his heart devoid of that motive may hate himself (strictly, 
 according to Hume's usage of terms, ' despise himself ') ' on 
 that account, and may perform the action without the motive 
 from a certain sense of duty, in order to acquire by practice 
 that virtuous principle, or at least to disguise to himself as 
 much as possible his want of it.' ' 
 
 62. What difference, then, we have finally to ask, does between'^" 
 Hume leave between one motive and another, which can virtuous 
 give any significance to the assertion that an act, to be motivT" "* 
 virtuous, must proceed from a virtuous motive ? When a does not 
 writer has so far distinguished between motive and action as ^^^^^ ^°^ 
 
 • person 
 
 to tell us that the moral value of an action depends on its moved 
 motive — which is what Hume is on occasion ready to tell 
 us — we naturally suppose that any predicate, which he pro- 
 
 > Vol. II., p. 253. 
 V 2
 
 08 INTRODUCTION 
 
 ceeds to apply to the motive, is meant to represent wh&,t it 
 is in relation to the subject of it. It cannot be so, however, 
 when Hume calls a motive virtuous. This predicate, as he 
 explains, refers not to an ' esse * but to a ' percipi ; ' which 
 means that it does not represent what the motive is to the 
 person whom it moves, but a pleasant feeling excited in the 
 spectator of the act. To the excitement of this feeling it 
 is necessary that the action should not merely from some 
 temporary combination of circumstances produce pleasure 
 for that time and turn, but that the desire, to which the 
 spectator ascribes it, should be one according to his expecta- 
 tion * fitted to produce pleasure to the agent or to others.' 
 In this sense only can Hume consistently mean that virtue 
 in the motive is the condition of virtue in the act, and in this 
 sense the qualification has not much significance for the 
 spectator of the act, and none at all in relation to the doer. 
 It has not much for the spectator, because, according to it, 
 no supposed desire will excite his displeasure and conse- 
 quently be vicious unless in its general operation it produces 
 a distinct overbalance of pain to the subject of it and to 
 others ; ' and by this test it would be more difficult to show 
 that an unseasonable passion for reforming mankind was not 
 vicious than that moderate lechery was so. It has no 
 significance at all for the person to whom vice or virtue is 
 imputed, because a difference in the results, which others 
 anticipate from any desire that moves him to action, makes 
 no difference in that desire, as he feels and is moved by it. 
 To him, according to Hume, it is simply desire for the 
 pleasure of which the idea is for the time most lively, and, 
 being most lively, cannot but excite the strongest desire. In 
 this — in the character which they severally bear for the 
 subjects of them — the virtuous motive and the vicious are 
 alike. Hume, it is true, allows that the subject of a vicious 
 desire may become conscious through sympathy of the 
 uneasiness which the contemplation of it causes to others, 
 but if this sympathy were strong enough to neutralize the 
 
 ' I ■write ' AND to others,' not ' or,' pain both to the doer and to others. If, 
 because according to Hume the produc- though tending to bring pain to others, 
 tion of pleasure to the agent alone is it had a contrary tendency for the agent 
 enough to render an action virtuous, if himself, there would be nothing to de- 
 it proceeds from some permanent quality, cide whether the viciousness of the for- 
 Thus an action could not be unmistak- mer tendency was, or was not, balanced 
 ably vicious unless it tended to produce by the virtuousness of the latter.
 
 IF NO ONE DISPLEASED, NO VICE. 69 
 
 imagination which excites the desire, the desire would not 
 move him to act. That predominance of anticipated pain 
 over pleasure in the effects of a motive, which renders it 
 vicious to the spectator, cannot be transferred to the imagina- 
 tion of the subject of it without making it cease to be his 
 motive because no longer his strongest desire. A vicious 
 motive, in short, would be a contradiction in terms, if that 
 productivity of pain, which belongs to the motive in the 
 imagination of the spectator, belonged to it also in the 
 imagination of the agent. 
 
 63. Thus the consequence, which we found to be involved * Con- 
 in Locke's doctrine of motives, is virtually admitted by its s^''^''^,'"!''^ 
 
 ' . •' •' otsm (lis- 
 
 most logical exponent. Locke's confusions began when he appears. 
 tried to reconcile his doctrine with the fact of self-con- 
 demnation, with the individual's consciousness of vice as a 
 condition of himself; or, in his own words, to explain how 
 the vicious man could be 'answerable to himself for his 
 vice. Consciousness of vice could only mean consciousness 
 of pleasure wilfully foregone, and since pleasure could not be 
 wilfully foregone, there could be no such consciousness. 
 Hume, as we have seen, cuts the knot by disposing of the 
 consciousness of vice, as a relation in which the individual 
 stands to himself, altogether. A man's vice is someone else's 
 displeasure with him, and, if we wish to be precise, we must 
 not speals of self-condemnation or desire for excellence as 
 influencing human conduct, but of aversion from the pain 
 of humiliation and desire for the pleasure of pride — humilia- 
 tion and pride of that sort of which each man's sympathy 
 with the feeling of others about him is the condition. 
 
 64. That such a doctrine leaves large fields of human On\y re- 
 experience unexplained, few will now disjDute. Wesley, ^j'?|^.'j 
 Wordsworth, Fichte, Mazzini, and the German theologians, mains'. 
 lie between us and the generation in which, to so healthy a 
 nature as Hume's, and in so explicit a form, it could be 
 possible. Enthusiasm — religious, political, and poetic — if it 
 
 has not attained higher forms, has been forced to understand 
 itself better since the time when Shaftesbury's thin and 
 stilted rhapsody was its most intelligent expression. It is 
 now generally agreed that the saint is not explained by 
 being called a fanatic, that there is a patriotism which is 
 not ' the last refuge of a scoundrel,* and that we know no 
 more about the poet, when we have been told that he seeks
 
 70 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 And even 
 
 this not 
 consis- 
 tently ac- 
 counted 
 for. 
 
 the beautiful, and tliat what is beautiful is pleasant, than we 
 did before. This admitted, Hume's Hedonism needs only to 
 be clearly stated to be found ' unsatisfactory.' If it ever 
 tends to find acceptance with serious people, it is through 
 confusion with that hybrid, though beneficent, utilitarianism 
 which finds the moral good in the ' greatest hapj^iness of the 
 greatest number ' without reflecting that desire for such an 
 object, not being for a feeling of pleasure to be experienced 
 by the subject of the desire, is with Hume impossible. Un- 
 derstood as he himself understood his doctrine, it is only 
 * respectability ' — the temper of the man who * naturall}^' 
 i.e., without definite expectation of ulterior gain, seeks to 
 stand well with his neighbours — that it will explain : and 
 this it can only treat as a fixed quantity. Taking foi 
 granted the heroic virtue, for which it cannot account, it 
 still must leave it a mystery how the heroic virtue of an 
 earlier age can become the respectability of a later one. 
 jKiCcent literary fashion has led us perhaps unduly to 
 depreciate respectability, but the avowed insufficiency of a 
 moral theory to explai]\ anything beyond it may fairlj 
 entitle us to enquire whether it can consistently explain 
 even that. The reason, as we have sufficiently seen, why 
 Hume's ethical speculation has such an issue is that he does 
 not recognize the constitutive action of self-conscious 
 thought. Misunderstanding our passivity in experience — 
 unaware that it has no meaning except in relation to an 
 object which thought itself projects, yet too clear-sighted 
 to acquiesce in the vulgar notion of either laws of matter oi 
 laws of action, as simply thrust upon us from an unaccount- 
 able without — he seeks in the mere abstraction of passivity, 
 of feeling which is a feeling of nothing, the explanation ol 
 the natural and moral world. Nature is a sequence ol 
 sensations, morality a succession of pleasures and pains. 
 It is under the pressure of this abstraction that he so 
 empties morality of its actual content as to leave only the 
 residuum we have described. Yet to account even for this^ 
 he has to admit such motives as ' pride,' ' love,' and * interest ; 
 and each of these, as we have shown, implies that very 
 constitutive action of reason, by ignoring which he compels 
 himself to reduce all moraliiy to that of the average man in 
 his least exalted moments. Tlie formative power of thought, 
 as exhibited in such motives only differs in respect of the
 
 HUME TERiUNAlES AN EPOCH. 71 
 
 lower degree, to whicli it has fashioned its matter, from the 
 same power as the source of the ' desire for excellence,* of 
 the will autonomous in the service of mankind, of the for- 
 ever (to us) unfilled ideal of a perfect society. It is because 
 Hume de-rationalizes respectability, that he can find no 
 rationale, and therefore no room, for the higher morality. 
 This might warn us that an ' ideal ' theory of ethics tampers 
 with its only sure foundation when it depreciates resj)ecta- 
 bility ; and if it were our business to extract a practi- 
 cal lesson from him, it would be that there is no other genuine 
 * enthusiasm of humanity ' than one which has travelled the 
 common highway of reason — the life of the good neighbour 
 and honest citizen — and can never forget that it is still only 
 on a further stage of the same journey. Our business, how- 
 ever, has not been to moralise, but to show that the philoso- 
 phy based on the abstraction of feeling, in regard to morals 
 no less than to nature, was with Hume played out, and that 
 the next step forward in speculation could only be an effort to 
 re-think the process of nature and human action from its true 
 beginning in thought. If this object has been in any way 
 attained, so that the attention of Englishmen 'under five- 
 and-twenty ' may be diverted from the anachronistic systems 
 hitherto prevalent among us to the study of Kant and 
 Hegel, an irksome labour will not have been in vain. 
 
 T. H. Gkeen.
 
 A 
 
 TREATISE 
 
 OF 
 
 Human Nature: 
 
 BEING 
 
 An Attempt to introduce the experimental 
 Method of Reasoning 
 
 INTO 
 
 MORAL SUBJECTS. 
 
 Bara temporum felicitas, uhi sentire, quce velis ; Sf quae sentias, 
 dicere licet. Tacit. 
 
 Vol. II. 
 
 OF THE 
 
 PASSIONS 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Printed for John Noon, at the Wkite-Hart, near Mercera- 
 Chapel, in Cheapside. 
 
 MDCCXXXIX.
 
 A TREATISE 
 
 HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 BOOK 11. 
 
 OF THE PASSIONS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY. 
 Sect. I. — Division of the Subject. 
 
 As all the perceptions of the mind may be divided into im- SECT. 
 pressions and ideas, so the impressions admit of another , ^- 
 division into original and secondary. This division of the Division of 
 impressions i i the same with that which' I formerly made tlio suL- 
 nse of when I disting-uish'd them into impressions of sen- ^^^^ 
 sation and r, flection. Original impressions or impressions 
 of sensation are such as without any antecedent perception 
 arise in the soul, from the constitution of the body, from the 
 animal spirits, or from the application of objects to the ex- 
 ternal organs. Secondary, or reflective impressions are such 
 as proceed from some of these original ones, either imme- 
 diately or by the interposition of its idea. Of the first kind 
 are all the impressions of the senses, and all bodily pains 
 
 ' Book I. Part I. Sect. 2.
 
 76 A TREATISE OF HUM/SA^ NATURE. Part I. 
 
 and pleasures : Of the second are the passions, and other 
 emotions resembling them. 
 Of pride 'Tis certain, that the mind, in its perceptions, must begin 
 
 and huim- somewhere ; and that since the impressions precede their 
 correspondent ideas, there must be some impressions, which 
 without any introduction make their appearance in the soul. 
 As these depend upon natural and physical causes, the ex- 
 amination of them v,-'ou'd lead me too far from my present 
 subject, into the sciences of anatomy and natural philosophy. 
 For this reason I shall here confine myself to those other 
 impressions, which I have call'd secondary and reflective, as 
 arising either from the original impressions, or from their 
 ideas. Bodily pains and pleasures are the source of many 
 passions, both when felt and consider'd by the mind ; but 
 arise originally in the soul, or in the body, whichever you 
 please to call it, without any preceding thought or percep- 
 tion. A fit of the gout produces a long train of passions, 
 as grief, hope, fear ; but is not deriv'd immediately from any 
 affection or idea. 
 
 The reflective impressions may be divided into two kinds, 
 viz. the calm and the violent. Of the first kind is the sense 
 of beauty and deformity in action, composition, and external 
 objects. Of the second are the passions of love and hatred, 
 grief and joy, pride and humility. This division is far from 
 being exact. The raptures of poetry and music frequently 
 rise to the greatest height ; while those other impressions, 
 properly call'd passions, may decay into so soft an emotion, 
 as to become, in a manner, imperceptible. But as in general 
 the passions are more violent than the emotions arising 
 from beauty and deformity, these impressions have been 
 commonly distinguish'd from each other. The subject of the 
 human mind being so copious and various, I si all here take 
 advantage of this vulgar and specious division , that I may 
 proceed with the greater order; and having said all I thought 
 necessary concerning our ideas, shall now explain those 
 violent emotions or passions, their nature, ori:ifin, causes, 
 and effects. 
 
 When we take a survey of the passions, there occurs a 
 division of them into direct and indirect. By dire^ct passions 
 I understand such as arise immediately from gc>od or evil, 
 from pain or pleasure. By indirect such as proceed from the 
 same principles, but by the conjunction of other qualities.
 
 Sect. H. OF THE I'AStSiONS. 77 
 
 This distinction I cannot at present justify or explain any SECT, 
 farther. I can only observe in general, that under the in- — ; ., ^ 
 direct passions I comprehend pride, humility, ambition, Bivisionof 
 vanity, love, hatred, envy, pity, malice, generosity, with their the sub- 
 dependants. And under the direct passions, desire, aversion, 
 grief, joy, hope, fear, despair and security. I shall begin 
 with the former. 
 
 Sect. II. — Of Pride and Humility ; their Objects and Causes.^ 
 
 The passions of pride and humility being simple and uni- 
 form impressions, 'tis impossible we can ever, by a multitude 
 of words, give a just definition of them, or indeed of any of 
 the passions. The utmost we can pretend to is a description 
 of them, by an enumeration of such circumstances, as attend 
 them : But as these words, pride and hiimility, are of general 
 use, and the impressions they represent the most common of 
 any, every one, of himself, will be able to form a just idea of 
 them, without any danger of mistake. For which reason, 
 not to lose time upon preliminaries, I shall immediately enter 
 upon the examination of these passions. 
 
 'Tis evident, that pride and humility, tho' directly con- 
 trary, have yet the same object. This object is self, or that 
 succession of related ideas and impressions, of which we 
 have an intimate memory and consciousness. Here the view 
 always fixes when we are actuated by either of these passions. 
 According as our idea of ourself is more or less advantageous, 
 we feel either of those opposite affections, and are elated by 
 pride, or dejected with humility. Whatever other objects 
 may be comprehended by the mind, they are always con- 
 sider'd with a view to ourselves ; otherwise they wou'd never 
 be able either to excite these passions, or produce the smallest 
 en crease or diminution of them. When self enters not into 
 the consideration, there is no room either for pride or 
 humility. 
 
 But tho' that connected succession of perceptions, which 
 we call self,"^ be always the object of these two passions, 
 'tis impossible it can be their cause, or be sufficient alone to 
 excite them. For as these passions are directly contrary, 
 and have the same object in common ; were their object also 
 their cause ; it cou'd never produce any degree of the one 
 
 [' lutrod. sects. 33 and 34.— Ed.] [^ Introd. sect. 35.— Ed.]
 
 lity. 
 
 78 A TREATISE OF IITOIAN NATURE. Part I. 
 
 PART passion, but at the same tune it must excite an equal dep^re^ 
 ^ ^ ' ^ of the other ; which opposition and contrariety must destroy 
 Of pride both. 'Tis impossible a man can at the same time be both 
 a^d humi- proud and humble ; and where he has different reasons for 
 these passions, as frequently happens, the passions either 
 take place alternately ; or if they encounter, the one annihi- 
 lates the other, as far as its strength goes, and the remainder 
 only of that, which is superior, continues to operate upon 
 the mind. But in the present case neither of the passions 
 cou'd ever become superior ; because supposing it to be the 
 view only of ourself, which excited them, that being perfectly 
 indifferent to either, must produce both in the very same pro- 
 portion ; or in other words, can produce neither. To excite 
 any passion, and at the same time raise an equal share of its 
 antagonist, is immediately to undo what was done, and must 
 leave the mind at last perfectly calm and indifferent. 
 
 We must, therefore, make a distinction betwixt the cause 
 and the object of these passions ; betwixt that idea, which 
 excites them, and that to which they direct their view, when 
 excited. Pride and humility, being once rais'd, immediately 
 turn our attention to ourself, and regard that as their ulti- 
 mate and final object; but there is something farther 
 requisite in order to raise them : Something, which is 
 peculiar to one of the passions, and produces not both in the 
 very same degree. The first idea, that is presented to the 
 mind, is that of the cause or productive principle. This 
 excites the passion, connected with it ; and that passion, 
 when excited, turns our view to another idea, which is that 
 of self. Here then is a passion plac'd betwixt two ideas, of 
 tvhich the one produces it, and the other is produc'd by it. 
 The first idea, therefore, represents the cause, the second the 
 object of the passion. 
 
 To begin with the causes of pride and humility ; we may 
 observe, that their most obvious and remarkable property is 
 the vast variety of subjects, on which they may be plac'd. 
 Every valuable quality of the mind, whether cf the imagina- 
 tion, judgment, memory or disposition; wit, good-sense, 
 learning, courage, justice, integrity ; all these are the causes 
 of pride ; and their opposites of humility. Nor are these 
 passions confin'd to the mind, but extend their view to the 
 body likewise. A man may be proud of his beauty, strength, 
 agility, good mien, address in dancing, riding, fencing, and
 
 Sect. UI. OF THE PASSIONS. 79 
 
 of his dexterity in any manual business or manufacture. 
 But this is not all. The passion looking farther, comprehends 
 whatever objects are in the least allj^'d or related to us. of pride 
 Our country, family, children, relations, riches, houses, «;°<i bumi- 
 gardens, horses, dogs, cloaths ; any of these may become a oi^je'cts and 
 cause either of pride or of humility. causes. 
 
 From the consideration of these causes, it appears neces- 
 sary we shou'd make a new distinction in the causes of 
 the passion, betwixt that quality, which operates, and the 
 subject, on which it is plac'd. A man, for instance, is vain 
 of a beautiful house, which belongs to him, or which he has 
 himself built and contriv'd. Here the object of the passion 
 is himself, and the cause is the beautiful house : Which 
 cause again is sub-divided into two parts, viz. the quality, 
 which operates upon the passion, and the subject, in which the 
 quality inheres. The quality is the beauty, and the subject 
 is the house, consider'd as his property or contrivance. Both 
 these parts are essential, nor is the distinction vain and 
 chimerical. Beauty, consider'd merely as such, unless plac'd 
 upon something related to us, never produces any pride or 
 vanity ; and the strongest relation alone, without beauty, or 
 something else in its place, has as little influence on that 
 passion. Since, therefore, these two pai'ticulars are easily 
 separated, and there is a necessity for their conjunction, in 
 oi'der to produce the passion, we ought to consider them as 
 component parts of the cause ; and infix in our minds an 
 exact idea of this distinction. 
 
 Sect. III. — Whence these Objects and Causes are Derived. 
 
 Being so far advanc'd as to observe a difference betwixt 
 the object of the passions and their cause, and to distinguish 
 in the cause the quality, which operates on the passions, 
 from the subject, in which it inheres ; we now proceed to 
 examine what determines each of them to be what it is, and 
 assigns such a particular object, and quality, and subject to 
 these affections. By this means we shall fully understand 
 the origin of pride and humility. 
 
 'Tis evident in the first place, that these passions are 
 determin'd to have self for their object, not only by a natural 
 but also by an original property. No one can doubt but this 
 property is natural from the constancy and steadiness of its 
 operations. 'Tis always self, which is the object of pride
 
 80 A TllEATISE OF IIUJMAN NATURE. Part I. 
 
 PART and liumilitj ; and whenever the passions look beyond, 'tis 
 . _ ; _. still with a view to ourselves, nor can any person or object 
 Of pride otherwise have any influence upon us. 
 
 and humi- That this proceeds from an original quality or primary 
 impulse, will likewise appear evident, if we consider that 'tis 
 the distinguishing characteristic of these passions. Unlesa 
 nature had given some original qualities to the mind, ib 
 cou'd never have any secondary ones ; because in that case 
 it wou'd have no foundation for action, nor cou'd ever begin 
 to exert itself. Now these qualities, which we must considar 
 as original, are such as are most inseparable from the soul, 
 and can be resolv'd into no other : And such is the quality, 
 which determines the object of pride and humility. 
 
 We may, perhaps, make it a greater question, whether che 
 causes, that produce the passion, be as natural as the object, 
 to which it is directed, and whether all that vast variety pro- 
 ceeds from caprice or from the constitution of the mind. 
 This doubt we shall soon remove, if we cast our eye upon 
 human nature, and consider that in all nations and ages, the 
 same objects still give rise to pride and humility ; and that 
 upon the view even of a stranger, we can know pretty nearly, 
 what will either encrease or diminish his passions of this 
 kind. If there be any variation in this particular, it pro- 
 ceeds from nothing but a difierence in the tempers and com- 
 plexions of men ; and is besides very inconsiderable. Can 
 we imagine it possible, that while human nature remains the 
 same, men will ever become entirely indifferent to their 
 power, riches, beauty or personal merit, and that their pride 
 and vanity will not be affected by these advantages ? 
 
 But tho' the causes of pride and humility be plainly 
 natural, we shall find upon examination, that they are not 
 original, and that 'tis utterly impossible they shou'd each of 
 them be adapted to these passions by a particular provision, 
 and primary constitution of nature. Beside their prodigious 
 number, many of them are the effects of art, and arise parti}'- 
 from the industry, partly from the caprice, and partly from 
 the good fortune of men. Industry produces houses, furni- 
 ture, cloaths. Caprice determines their particular kinds and 
 qualities. And good fortune frequently contributes to all 
 this, by discovering the effects that result from the different 
 mixtures and combinations of bodies. 'Tis absurd, there- 
 fore, to imagine, that each of these was for?seen and pro-
 
 Sect. IV. OF THE TASSIOXS. 81 
 
 vided for by nature, and that every new production of art, SECT. 
 
 which causes pride or humility ; instead of adapting itself to ^_ ^J , 
 
 the passion by partaking of some general quality, that natu- Whonco 
 rally operates on the mind ; is itself the object of an original ^^^^"^ °^^' 
 principle, which till then lay conceal'd in the soul, and is caxisos are 
 only by accident at last brought to light. Thus the first deriv'd. 
 mechanic, that invented a fine scritoire, produc'd pride in 
 him, who became possest of it, by principles different from 
 those, which made him proud of handsome chairs and tables. 
 As this appears evidently ridiculous, we must conclude, that 
 each cause of pride and humility is not adapted to the pas- 
 sions by a distinct original quality ; but that there are some 
 one or more circumstances common to all of them, on which 
 their efficac}' depends. 
 
 Besides, we find in the course of nature, that tho' the 
 effects be many, the principles, from which they arise, are 
 commonly but few and simple, and that 'tis the sign of an 
 unskilful naturalist to have recourse to a different quality, in 
 order to explain every different operation. How much more 
 must this be true with regard to the human mind, which 
 being so confin'd a subject may justly be thought incapable 
 of containing such a monstrous heap of principles, as wou'd 
 be necessary to excite the passions of pride and humility, 
 were each distinct cause adapted to the passion by a distinct 
 set of principles ? 
 
 Here, therefore, moral philosophy is in the same condition 
 as natural, with regard to astronomy before the time of 
 Copernicus. The antients, tho' sensible of that maxim, that 
 nature does nothing in vain, contriv'd such intricate systems 
 of the heavens, as seem'd inconsistent with true philosophy, 
 and gave place at last to something more simple and natural. 
 To invent without scruple a new principle to every new phae- 
 nomenon, instead of adapting it to the old ; to overload our 
 hypotheses with a variety of this kind ; are certain prools, 
 that none of these principles is the just one, and that we 
 only desire, by a number of falsehoods, to cover our ignorance 
 of the truth. 
 
 Sect. IV. — Of the Relations of Impressions and Ideas. 
 
 Thus we have establish'd two truths without any obstacle 
 or difficulty, that His from natural principles this variety of 
 VOL. II. G
 
 82 A TllEATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Pakt I. 
 
 PART causes excite -pride and humility, and tJtat His not by a different 
 . principle each different cause is adapted to its passion. We 
 
 Of pride shall DOW proceed to enquire how we may reduce these prin- 
 and liumi. ciples to a lesser number, and find among the causes some- 
 thing common, on which their influence depends. 
 
 In order to this we must reflect on certain properties of 
 human nature, which tho' they have a mighty influence on 
 every operation both of the understanding and passions, are 
 not commonly much insisted on by philosophers. The first 
 of these is the association of ideas, which I have so often 
 observ'd and explain'd. 'Tis impossible for the mind to fix 
 itself steadily upon one idea for any considerable time ; nor 
 can it by its utmost efforts ever arrive at such a constancy. 
 But however changeable our thoughts may be, they are not 
 entirely without rule and method in their changes. The 
 rule, by which they proceed, is to pass from one object to 
 what is resembling, contiguous to, or produc'd by it. When 
 one idea is present to the imagination, any other, united by 
 these relations, naturally follows it, and enters with more 
 facility by means of that introduction. 
 
 The second property I shall observe in the human mind 
 is a like association of impressions. All resembling im- 
 pressions are connected together, and no sooner one arises 
 than the rest immediately follow. Grief and disappointment 
 give rise to anger, anger to envy, envy to malice, and malice 
 to grief again, till the whole circle be compleated. In like 
 manner our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws 
 itself into love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the 
 other resembling affections. 'Tis difficult for the mind, 
 Avhen actuated by any passion, to confine itself to that 
 passion alone, without any change or variation. Human 
 nature is too inconstant to admit of any such regularity. 
 Changeableness is essential to it. And to what can it so 
 naturally change as to affections or emotions, which are 
 suitable to the temper, and agree with that set of passions, 
 which then prevail ? 'Tis evident, then, there is an attrac- 
 tion or association among impressions, as well as among 
 ideas ; tho' with this remarkable difference, that ideas are 
 associated by resemblance, contiguit}^ and causation ; and 
 impressions only by resemblance. 
 
 In the third place, 'tis observable of these two kinds of 
 association, that they very much assist and forward each
 
 St.ct. V. OF THE TASSIOXS. 83 
 
 other, and that the transition is more easily made where 
 they both concur in the same object. Thus a man, who, by 
 any injury from another, is very much discompos'd and Of the re- 
 ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred subjects of lotions of 
 discontent, impatience, fear, and other uneasy passions ; sionrand 
 especially if he can discover these subjects in or near the J'^®^". 
 person, who was the cause of his first passion. Those prin- 
 ciples, which forward the transition of ideas, here concur 
 with those, which operate on the passions ; and both uniting 
 in one action, bestow on the mind a double impulse. The 
 new passion, therefore, must arise with so much greater 
 violence, and the transition to it must be render 'd so much 
 more easy and natural. 
 
 Upon this occasion I may cite the authority of an elegant 
 writer, who expresses himself in the following manner. ' As 
 the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, or 
 beautiful, and is still more pleas'd the more it finds of these 
 perfections in the same object, so it is capable of receiving 
 a new satisfaction by the assistance of another sense. Thus 
 any continu'd sound, as the music of birds, or a fall of 
 waters, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, 
 and makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the 
 place, that lie before him. Thus if there arises a fragrancy 
 of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasure of the 
 imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the 
 landschape appear more agreeable ; for the ideas of both 
 senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together 
 than when they enter the mind separately : As the different 
 colours of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one 
 another, and receive an additional beauty from the advan- 
 tage of the situation.' ' In this phcenomenon we may remark 
 the association both of impressions and ideas, as well as the 
 mutual assistance they lend each other. 
 
 Sect. V. — Of the Influence of these Relations on Pride and 
 
 Humility. 
 
 These principles being establish'd on unquestionable ex- 
 perience, I begin to consider how we shall apply them, by 
 revolving over all the causes of pride and humility, whether 
 these causes be regarded, as the qualities, that operate, or 
 
 [' The 'Spectator,' No. 412. ~ Ed.] 
 G 2
 
 84 A TIIEATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part 1. 
 
 as the subjects, on whicli the qualities are plac'd. In ex- 
 amining these qualities I immediately find many of them to 
 Ofprido concur in producing the sensation of pain and pleasure, 
 and hunu- independent of those affections, which I here endeavour to 
 ^ ^' explain. Thus the beauty of our person, of itself, and by 
 
 its very appearance, gives pleasure, as well as pride ; and its 
 deformity, pain as well as humility. A magnificent feast 
 delights us, and a sordid one displeases. What I discover 
 to be true in some instances, I suppose to be so in all ; and 
 take it for granted at present, without any farther proof, 
 that every cause of pride, by its peculiar qualities, produces 
 a separate pleasure, and of humility a separate uneasiness. 
 
 Again, in considering the subjects^ to which these qualities 
 adhere, I make a new supposition, which also appears pro- 
 bable from many obvious instances, viz. that these subjects 
 are either parts of ourselves, or something nearly related to 
 us. Thus the good and bad qualities of our actions and 
 manners constitute virtue and vice, and determine our per- 
 sonal character, than which nothing operates more strongly 
 on these passions. In like manner, 'tis the beauty or de- 
 formity of our person, houses, equipage, or furniture, by 
 which we are render'd either vain or humble. The same 
 qualities, when transfer'd to subjects, which bear us no rela- 
 tion, influence not in the smallest degree either of these 
 affections. 
 
 Having thus in a manner suppos'd two properties of the 
 causes of these affections, viz. that the qualities produce a 
 separate pain or pleasure, and that the subjects, on which the 
 qualities are plac'd, are related to self; I proceed to ex- 
 amine the passions themselves, in order to find something in 
 them, correspondent to the suppos'd properties of their 
 causes. First, I find, that the peculiar object of pride and 
 humility is determin'd by an original and natural instinct, 
 and that 'tis absolutely impossible, from the primary con- 
 stitution of the mind, that these passions shou'd ever look 
 beyond self, or that individual person, of whose actions and 
 sentiments each of us is intimately conscious.' Here at last 
 the view always rests, when we are actuated by either of 
 these passions ; nor can we, in that situation of mind, ever 
 lose sight of this object. For this I pretend not to give 
 
 [' Introd. Sect. 3o. -Ed.]
 
 humility. 
 
 SriCT. ^'. OF THE PASSIONS. 85 
 
 any reason *, but consider such a peculiar direction of the SECT, 
 thought as an original quality. . _ ' . ^ 
 
 The second quality, which I discover in these passions, and of the in- 
 which I likewise consider as an original quality, is their ^^^^'^'^ of 
 
 , , , . . , ■ • ,1 1 these rela- 
 
 sensations, or the peculiar emotions they excite m the soul, tjony qq 
 and which constitute their very being and essence. Thus P'^^f':,!^"'^ 
 pride is a pleasant sensation, and humility a painful ; and 
 upon the removal of the pleasure and pain, there is in 
 reality no pride nor humility. Of this our very feeling con- 
 vinces us; and beyond our feeling, 'tis here in vain to reason 
 or dispute. 
 
 If I compare, therefore, these two established properties of 
 the passions, viz. their object, which is self, and their sensa- 
 tion, which is either pleasant or painful, to the two siippos'd 
 pro]3erties of the causes, viz. their relation to self, and their 
 tendency to produce a pain or pleasure, independent of the 
 passion ; I immediately find, that taking these suppositions 
 to be just, the true system breaks in upon me with an irre- 
 sistible evidence. That cause, which excites the passion, is 
 related to the object, which nature has attributed to the 
 passion ; the sensation, which the cause separately produces, 
 is related to the sensation of the passion : From this double 
 relation of ideas and impressions, the passion is deriv'd.' 
 The one idea is easily converted into its cor-relative ; and 
 the one impression into that, which resembles and corre- 
 sponds to it : With how much greater facility must this 
 transition be made, where these movements mutually assist 
 each other, and the mind receives a double impulse from the 
 relations both of its impressions and ideas ? 
 
 That we may comprehend this the better, we must sup- 
 pose, that nature has given to the organs of the human 
 mind, a certain disposition fitted to produce a peculiar im- 
 pression or emotion, which we call -pride : To this emotion 
 she has assign'd a certain idea, viz. that of self, which it 
 never fails to produce. This contrivance of nature is easily 
 conceiv'd. We have many instances of such a situation of 
 affairs. The nerves of the nose and palate are so dispos'd, 
 as in certain circumstances to convey such peculiar sensa- 
 tions to the mind : The sensations of lust and hunger always 
 produce in us the idea of those peculiar objects, which are 
 
 [' Introd. Sect. 33.— Ed.]
 
 86 A TREATISE OF HU^LVN NATURE. Part I. 
 
 PAKT suitable to eacli appetite. These two circumstances are 
 ^_ ; united in pride. The organs are so dispos'd as to produce 
 Of pride the passion ; and the passion, after its production, naturally 
 and humi- jjroduces a certain idea.' All this needs no proof. 'Tis evi- 
 dent we never shou'd be possest of that passion, were thert; 
 not a disposition of mind proper for it ; and 'tis as evident, 
 that the passion always turns our view to ourselves, and 
 makes us think of our own qualities and circumstances. 
 
 This being- fully comprehended, it may now be ask'd. 
 Whether nature produces the passion immediately, of herself ; 
 or whether she must he assisted hy the co-operation of other 
 causes ? For 'tis observable, that in this particular her con- 
 duct is different in the different passions and sensations. 
 The palate must be excited by an external object, in order to 
 produce sluj relish : But hunger arises internally, without 
 the concurrence of any external object. But however the 
 case may stand with other passions and impressions, 'tis 
 certain, that pride requires the assistance of some foreign 
 object, and that the organs, which produce it, exert not 
 themselves like the heart and arteries, by an original inter- 
 nal movement. For first, daily experience convinces us, 
 that pride requii-es certain causes to excite it, and languishes 
 when unsupported b}"- some excellency in the character, in 
 bodily accomplishments, in cloaths, equipage or fortune. 
 Secondly, 'tis evident pride wou'd be perpetual, if it arose 
 immediatel}' from nature ; since the object is always the 
 same, and there is no disposition of body peculiar to pride, 
 as there is to thirst and hunger. Thirdly, Humility is in the 
 very same situation with pride ; and therefore, either must, 
 upon this supposition, be perpetual likewise, or must destroy 
 the conti'ary passion from the very first moment ; so that 
 none of them cou'd ever make its appearance. Upon the 
 whole, we may rest satisfy'd with the foregoing conclusion, 
 that pride must have a cause, as well as an object, and that 
 the one has no influence without the other. 
 
 The difficulty, then, is only to discover this cause, and find 
 what it is that gives the first motion to pride, and sets 
 those organs in action, which are naturally fitted to produce 
 that emotion. Upon my consulting experience, in order to 
 resolve this difficulty, I immediately find a hundred different 
 
 [' lutrod. Sects. 36 and 37.— Eu.]
 
 Sect. V. OF THE PASSIONS. 87 
 
 causes, that produce pride ; and upon examining these SECT, 
 causes, I suppose, what at first I perceive to be probable, ._ / . _^ 
 that all of them concur in two circumstances ; which are, of the in- 
 that of themselves they produce an impression, ally'd to the fl^ence of 
 passion, and are plac'd on a subject, ally'd to the object of tions on 
 the passion. When I consider after this the nature of vela- pnde aud 
 Hon, and its effects both on the passions and ideas, I can no 
 longer doubt, upon these suppositions, that 'tis the very 
 principle, which gives rise to pride, and bestows motion on 
 those organs, which being naturally dispos'd to produce 
 that affection, require only a first impulse or beginning to 
 their action. Any thing, that gives a pleasant sensation, 
 and is related to self, excites the passion of pride, which is 
 also agreeable, and has self for its object. 
 
 What I have said of pride is equally true of humility. 
 The sensation of humility is uneasy, as that of pride is 
 agreeable ; for which reason the separate sensation, arising 
 from the causes, must be revers'd, while the relation to self 
 continues the same. Tho' pride and humility are directly 
 contrary in their effects, and in their sensations, they have 
 notwithstanding the same object ; so that 'tis requisite only 
 to change the relation of impressions, without making any 
 change upon that of ideas. Accordingly we find, that a 
 beautiful house, belonging to ourselves, produces pride ; and 
 that the same house, still belonging to ourselves, produces 
 humility, when by any accident its beauty is chang'd into 
 deformity, and thereby the sensation of pleasure, which 
 corresponded to pride, is transform'd into pain, which is 
 related to humility. The double relation between the ideas 
 and impressions subsists in both cases, and produces an easy 
 transition from the one emotion to the other. 
 
 In a word, nature has bestow'd a kind of attraction on 
 certain impressions and ideas, by which one of them, upon 
 its appearance, naturally introduces its correlative. If these 
 two attractions or associations of impressions and ideas con- 
 cur on the same object, they mutually assist each other, and 
 the transition of the affections and of the imagination is 
 made with the greatest ease and facility. When an idea 
 produces an impression, related to an impression, which is 
 connected with an idea, related to the first idea, these 
 two impressions must be in a manner inseparable, nor 
 will the one in any case be unattended with the other. 'Tis
 
 88 A TREATISE OF IIUINLIN NATUUE. Pakt L 
 
 PART after this manner, that the particular causes of pride and 
 
 . ; . humility are determin'd. The quality, which operates on the 
 
 Of pride passion, produces separately an impression resembling it; 
 and humi- ^-^q subject, to which the quality adheres, is related to self, 
 the object of the passion : No wonder the whole cause, con- 
 sisting of a quality and of a subject, does so unavoidably 
 give rise to the passion. 
 
 To illustrate this hypothesis, we may compare it to that, 
 by which I have already explain'd the belief attending the 
 judgments, which we form from causation. I have observ'd, 
 that in all judgments of this kind, there is always a present 
 impression, and a related idea ; and that the present impres- 
 sion gives a vivacity to the fancy, and the relation conveys 
 this vivacity, by an easy transition, to the related idea. 
 Without the present impression, the attention is not fix'd, 
 nor the spu-its excited. Without the relation, this attention 
 rests on its first object, and has no farther consequence. 
 There is evidently a great analogy betwixt that hypothesis, 
 and our present one of an impression and idea, that trans- 
 fuse themselves into another impression and idea by means 
 of their double relation : Which analogy must be allow'd to 
 be no despicable proof of both hypotheses. 
 
 Sect. YI. — Limitations of this System. 
 
 But before we proceed farther in this subject, and examine 
 particularly all the causes of pride and humility, 'twill be 
 proper to make some limitations to the general system, that 
 all agreeable objects, related to ourselves, by an association of 
 ideas and of impressions, 'produce pride, and disagreeable ones, 
 humility : And these limitations are deriv'd from the very 
 nature of the subject. 
 
 T. Suppose an agreeable object to acquire a relation to 
 self, the first passion, that appears on this occasion, is joy ; 
 and this passion discovers itself upon a slighter relation than 
 pride and vain-glory. We may feel joy upon being present 
 at a feast, where our senses are regal'd with delicacies of 
 every kind: But 'tis only the master of the feast, who, 
 beside the same joy, has the additional passion of self- 
 applause and vanity. 'Tis true, men sometimes boast of a 
 great entertainment, at which they have only been present ; 
 and by so small a relation convert their pleasure into pride :
 
 Skct. VI. OF TIIE PASSIONS. 89 
 
 But however, this must in general be own'd, that joy arises SECT, 
 from a more inconsiderable relation than vanity, and that ._ ^ '_ 
 many things, v^hich are too foreign to produce pride, are Limita- 
 yet able to give us a delight and pleasure. The reason of ^1°."^ °^ 
 
 ~ tills SVS* 
 
 the difference may be explain'd thus. A relation is requisite tem. 
 to joy, in order to approach the object to us, and make it 
 give us any satisfaction. But beside this, which is common 
 to both passions, 'tis requisite to pride, in order to produce a 
 transition from one passion to another, and convert the 
 satisfaction into vanity. As it has a double task to perform, 
 it must be endow'd with double force and energy. To 
 which we may add, that where agreeable objects bear not a 
 very close relation to ourselves, they commonly do to some 
 other person; and this latter relation not only excels, but 
 even diminishes, and sometimes destroys the former, as we 
 shall see afterwards.* 
 
 Here then is the first limitation, we must make to our 
 general position, that every thing related to us, which pro- 
 duces 'pleasure or pain, produces likewise pride or humility. 
 There is not only a relation reqair'd, but a close one, and a 
 closer than is requir'd to joy. 
 
 II. The second limitation is, that the agretiable or dis- 
 agreeable object be not only closely related, but also peculiar 
 to ourselves, or at least common to us with a few persons. 
 'Tis a quality observable in human nature, and which we 
 shall endeavour to explain afterwards, that every thing, 
 which is often presented, and to which we have been long 
 accustom'd, loses its value in our eyes, and is in a little time 
 despis'd and neglected. We likewise judge of objects more 
 from comparison than from their real and intrinsic merit ; 
 and where we cannot by some contrast enhance their value, 
 Ave are apt to overlook even what is essentially good in them. 
 These qualities of the mind have an effect upon joy as well 
 as pride ; and 'tis remarkable, that goods, which are com- 
 mon to all mankind, and have become familiar to us by 
 custom, give us little satisfaction ; tho' perhaps of a more 
 excellent kind, than those on which, for their singularity, 
 we set a much higher value. But tho' this circumstance 
 operates on both these passions, it has a much greater influ- 
 ence on vanity. We are rejoic'd for many goods, which, on 
 
 ' Part II. Sect. 4.
 
 uo 
 
 A TREATISE OF IIU^LiX NATURE. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 PART 
 I. 
 
 •" 1 ■ 
 
 Of pride 
 Hiul humi- 
 litj. 
 
 account of their frequency, give us no pride. Health, when 
 it returns after a long absence, affords us a very sensible 
 satisfaction ; but is seldom regarded as a subject of vanit}", 
 because 'tis sliar'd with such vast numbers. 
 
 The reason, why pride is so much more delicate in this 
 particular than joy, I take to be, as follows. In order to 
 excite pride, there are always two objects we must contem- 
 jjlate, viz. the cmise or that object which produces pleasure ; 
 and self, which is the real object of the passion. But joy 
 has only one object necessary to its production, viz. that 
 which gives pleasure ; and tho' it be requisite, that this bear 
 some relation to self, yet that is only requisite in order 
 to render it agreeable ; nor is self, properly speaking, the 
 object of this passion. Since, therefore, pride has in a 
 manner two objects, to which it directs our view ; it follows, 
 that where neither of them have any singularity, the passion 
 must be more weaken'd upon that account, than a passion, 
 which has only one object. Upon comparing ourselves with 
 others, as we are every moment apt to do, we find we are 
 not in the least distinguish'd ; and upon comparing the 
 object we possess, we discover still the same unlucky circum- 
 staiice. By two comparisons so disadvantageous the passion 
 must be entirely destroy'd. 
 
 III. The third limitation is, that the pleasant or painful 
 object be very discernible and obvious, and that not only to 
 ourselves, but to others also. This circumstance, like the 
 two foregoing, has an effect upon joy, as well as pride. We 
 fancy ourselves more happy, as well as more virtuous or 
 beautiful, when we appear so to others ; but are still more 
 ostentacious of our vu'tues than of our pleasures. This pro- 
 ceeds from causes, which I shaU endeavour to explain after- 
 wards. 
 
 IV. The fourth limitation is deriv'd from the inconstancy 
 of the cause of these passions, and from the short duration 
 of its connexion with ourselves. What is casual and incon- 
 stant gives but little joy, and less pride. We are not much 
 satisfy 'd with the thing itself; and are still less apt to feel 
 any new degrees of self-satisfaction upon its account. We 
 foresee and anticipate its change by the imagination ; which 
 makes us little satisfy'd with the thing : We compare it to 
 ourselves, whose existence is more durable ; by which means 
 its inconstancy appears still greater. It seems ridiculous to
 
 Si.:cr. \'I. OF TIIE PASSIONS. 91 
 
 infer an excellency in ourselves from an object, wliicli is of SECT. 
 so mucli shorter duration, and attends us during so small a ._ / . 
 part of our existence. 'Twill be easy to compreliend the Limita- 
 reason, why this cause operates not with the same force in |!°'^^ °* 
 joy as in pride ; since the idea of self is not so essential to tem. 
 the former passion as to the latter. 
 
 V. I may add as a fifth limitation, or rather enlargement 
 of this system, that general rules have a great influence upon 
 pride and humility, as well as on all the other passions. 
 Hence we form a notion of different ranks of men, suitable 
 to the power or riches they are possest of ; and this notion 
 we change not upon account of any peculiarities of the 
 health or temper of the persons, which may deprive them of 
 all enjoyment in their possessions. This may be accounted 
 for from the same principles, that explain'd the influence of 
 general rules on the understanding. Custom readily carries 
 us beyond the just bounds in our passions, as well as in our 
 reasonings. 
 
 It may not be amiss to observe on this occasion, that the 
 influence of general rules and maxims on the passions very 
 much contributes to facilitate the effects of all the principles, 
 which we shall explain in the progress of this treatise. For 
 'tis evident, that if a person full-grown, and of the same 
 nature w ith ourselves, were on a sudden transported into our 
 world, he wou'd be very much embarrass'd with every object, 
 and wou'd not readily find what degree of love or hatred, 
 pride or humility, or any other passion he ought to attribute 
 to it. The passions are often vary'd by very inconsiderable 
 principles ; and these do not always play with a perfect regu- 
 larity, especially on the first trial. But as custom and prac- 
 tice have brought to light all these principles, and have 
 settled the just value of every thing; this must certainly 
 contribute to the easy production of the passions, and guide 
 us, by means of general establish'd maxims, in the propor- 
 tions we ought to observe in preferring one object to another. 
 This remark may, perhaps, serve to obviate difliculties, that 
 may arise concerning some causes, which I shall hereafter 
 ascribe to particular passions, and which may be esteem 'd 
 too refin'd to operate so universally and certainly, as they 
 are found to do. 
 
 I shall close this subject with a reflection deriv'd from 
 these five limitations. This reflection is, that the persons,
 
 92 A TREATISE OF HU.AL^ NATURE. Part I. 
 
 PART who are proudest, and who in the eye of the world have most 
 -_ ,' reason for their pride, are not always the happiest ; nor the 
 Of pride niost humblo always the most miserable, as may at first si^ht 
 and humi- j^g imagin'd from this systeui. An evil may be real, tho' its 
 cause has no relation to us : It may be real, without beini^ 
 peculiar : It may be real, without shewing itself to others ; 
 It may be real, without being constant : And it may be real, 
 without falling under the general rules. Such evils as these 
 will not fail to render us miserable, tho' they have little ten- 
 dency to diminish pride : And perhaps the most real and the 
 most solid evils of life will be found of this nature. 
 
 Sect. VII. — Of Vice and Virtue. 
 
 Taking these limitations along with us, let us proceed to 
 examine the causes of pride and humility ; and see, whether 
 in every case we can discover the double relations, by which 
 they operate on the passions. If we find that all these 
 causes are related to self, and produce a pleasure or uneasi- 
 ness separate from the passion, there will remain no farther 
 scruple with rega.rd to the present system. We shall princi- 
 pally endeavour to prove the latter point ; the former being 
 in a manner self-evident. 
 
 To begin with vice and virtue, which are the most obvious 
 causes of these passions ; 'twould be entirely foreign to my 
 present purpose to enter upon the controversy, which of late 
 years has so much excited the curiosity of the publick, 
 whether these moral distinctions he founded on natural and 
 original principles, or arise from interest and education. The 
 examination of this I reserve for the following book ; and in 
 the mean time shall endeavour to show, that my system 
 maintains its ground upon either of these hypotheses ; which 
 will be a strong proof of its solidity. 
 
 For granting that morality had no foundation in nature, 
 it must still be allow'd, that vice and virtue, either from self- 
 interest or the prejudices of education, produce in us a real 
 pain and pleasure ; and this we may observe to be strenuously 
 asserted by the defenders of that hypothesis. Every passion, 
 habit, or turn of character (say they) which has a tendency 
 to our advantage or prejudice, gives a delight or uneasiness ; 
 and 'tis from thence the approbation or dis-approbation 
 arises. We easily gain from the liberality of others, but are
 
 Sarc. VII. OF TIIE PASSIONS. 93 
 
 always in Janger of losing by their avarice : Courage defends SECT, 
 us, but cowardice lays us open to every attack: Justice is the ^^^- ^ 
 support of society, but injustice, unless check'd, wou'd quickly of vice 
 prove its ruin : Humility exalts ; but pride mortifies us. For and virtue, 
 these reasons the former qualities are esteem'd virtues, and 
 the latter regarded as vices. Now since 'tis granted there is 
 a delight or uneasiness still attending merit or demerit of 
 every kind, this is all that is requisite for my purpose. 
 
 But I go farther, and observe, that this moral hypothesis 
 and my present system not only agree together, but also that, 
 allowing the former to be just, 'tis an absolute and invincible 
 proof of the latter. For if all morality be founded on the 
 pain or pleasure, which arises fi'om the prospect of any loss 
 or advantage, that may result from our own characters, or 
 from those of others, all the effects of morality must be de- 
 riv'd from the same pain or pleasure, and among the rest, 
 the passions of pride and humility. The very essence of 
 virtue, according to this hypothesis, is to produce pleasure, 
 and that of vice to give pain. The virtue and vice must be 
 part of our character in order to excite pride or humility. 
 What farther proof can we desire for the double relation of 
 impressions and ideas ? 
 
 The same unquestionable argument may be deriv'd from 
 the opinion of those, who maintain that morality is some- 
 thing real, essential, and founded on nature. The most pro- 
 bable hypothesis, which has been advanc'd to explain the 
 distinction betwixt vice and virtue, and the origin of moral 
 rights and obligations, is, that from a primary constitution 
 of nature certain characters and passions, by the very view 
 and contemplation, produce a pain, and others in like manner 
 excite a pleasure. The uneasiness and satisfaction are not 
 only inseparable from vice and virtue, but constitute their 
 very nature and essence. To approve of a character is to 
 feel an original delight upon its appearance. To disapprove 
 of it is to be sensible of an uneasiness. The pain and 
 pleasure, therefore, being the primary causes of vice and 
 virtue, must also be the causes of all their effects, and con- 
 sequently of pride and humility, which are the unav^oidable 
 attendants of that distinction.' 
 
 But supposing this hypothesis of moral philosophy shou'd 
 
 [• Cf. Book III. Part I. Sect. 2 ; and Part III. Sect. 1 ; and Introd. Sect. 
 61.— Ed.]
 
 94 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part I 
 
 PAKT be allow'd to be false, 'tis still evident, that pain and pleasure, 
 
 , ■'•• if not the causes of vice and virtue, are at least inseparable 
 
 Of pride ft'oni them. A generous and noble character affords a satis- 
 and humi- faction even in the survey ; and when presented to us, tho* 
 ' ^' only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm and delight us. 
 
 On the other hand cruelty and treachery displease from their 
 very nature ; nor is it possible ever to reconcile us to these 
 qualities, either in ourselves or others. Thus one hypothesis 
 of morality is an undeniable proof of the foregoing system, 
 and the other at worst agrees with it. 
 
 But pride and humility arise not from these qualities 
 alone of the mind, which, according to the vulgar systems 
 of ethicks, have been comprehended as parts of moral duty, 
 but from any other that has a connexion with pleasure and 
 uneasiness. Nothing flatters our vanity more than the talent 
 of pleasing by our wit, good humour, or any other accom- 
 plishment ; and nothing gives us a more sensible mortifica- 
 tion than a disapjjointment in any attempt of that nature. 
 No one has ever been able to tell what wit is, and to shew 
 why such a system of thought must be receiv'd under that 
 denomination, and such another rejected. 'Tis only by taste 
 we can decide concerning it, nor are we possest of any other 
 standard, upon which we can form a judgment of this kind. 
 Now what is this taste, from which true and false wit in a 
 manner receive their being, and without which no thought 
 can have a title to either of these denominations? 'Tis 
 plainly nothing but a sensation of pleasure from true wit, 
 and of uneasiness from false, without our being able to tell 
 the reasons of that pleasure or uneasiness. The power of 
 bestowing these opposite sensations is, therefore, the very 
 essence of true and false wit ; and consequently the cause of 
 that pride or humility, which arises from them. 
 
 There may, perhaps, be some, who being accustom'd to the 
 style of the schools and pulpit, and having never consider'd 
 human nature in any other light, than that in which they 
 place it, may here be surpriz'd to hear me talk of virtue as 
 exciting pride, which they look upon as a vice ; and of vice 
 as producing humilit}^ which they have been taught to con- 
 sider as a virtue. But not to dispute about words, I observe, 
 that by j^nde I understand that agreeable impression, which 
 arises in the mind, when the view either of our virtue, 
 beauty, riches or power makes us satisfy'd with ourselves :
 
 Secy. VIll. OF THE PASSIONS. 9o 
 
 And tliat by humility I mean tlie opposite impression. 'Tis SECT. 
 
 evident the former impression is not always vicious, nor the .^ ^_^ 
 
 latter virtuous. The most rigid morality allows us to receive Of nee and 
 a pleasure from reflecting on a generous action ; and 'tis by ^'^''tue. 
 none esteem'd a virtue to feel any fruitless remorses upon 
 the thoughts of past villainy and baseness. Let us, there- 
 fore, examine these impressions, consider'd in themselves ; 
 and enquire into their causes, whether plac'd on the mind or 
 body, without troubling ourselves at present with that merit 
 or blame, which may attend them. 
 
 Sect. VIII. — Of Beauty and Deformity. 
 
 Whether we consider the body as a part of ourselves, or 
 assent to those philosophers, who regard it as something 
 external, it must still be allow'd to be near enough connected 
 with us to form one of these double relations, which I have 
 asserted to be necessary to the causes of pride and humility. 
 Wherever, therefore, we can find the other relation of im- 
 pressions to join to this of ideas, we may expect with assur- 
 ance either of these passions, according as the impression 
 is pleasant or uneasy. But beauty of all kinds gives us a 
 peculiar delight and satisfaction ; as deform^ity produces 
 pain, upon whatever subject it may be plac'd, and whether 
 survey'd in an animate or inanimate object. If the beauty 
 or deformity, therefore, be plac'd upon our own bodies, this 
 pleasure or uneasiness must be converted into pride or 
 humility, as having in this case all the circumstances requi- 
 site to produce a perfect transition of impressions or ideas. 
 These opposite sensations are related to the opposite pas- 
 sions. The beauty or deformity is closely related to self, the 
 object of these passions. No wonder, then our own beauty 
 becomes an object of pride, and deformity of humility. 
 
 But this effect of personal and bodily qualities is not 
 only a proof of the present system, by shewing that the 
 passions arise not in this case without all the circumstances 
 I have requir'd, but maybe employ'd as a stronger and more 
 convincing argument. If v/e consider all the hypotheses, 
 which have been form'd either by philosophy or common 
 reason, to explain the diff'erence betwixt beauty and defor- 
 mity, we shall find that all of them resolve into this, that 
 beauty is such an order and construction of parts, as either
 
 96 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part I. 
 
 PAKT by the primary constitution of our nature, by custom, or by 
 , _ ' caprice, is fitted to give a pleasure and satisfaction to the 
 Of pride souL^ This is the distinguishing character of beauty, and 
 and hunu- forms all the difference betwixt it and deformity, whose 
 natural tendency is to produce uneasiness. Pleasure and 
 pain, therefore, are not only necessary attendants of beauty 
 and deformity, but constitute their very essence. And 
 indeed, if we consider, that a great part of the beauty, which 
 we admire either in animals or in other objects, is deriv'd 
 from the idea of convenience and utility, we shall make no 
 scruple to assent to this opinion. That shape, which pro- 
 duces strength, is beautiful in one animal ; and that which 
 is a sign of agility in another. The order and convenience 
 of a palace are no less essential to its beauty, than its mere 
 figure and appearance. In like manner the rules of archi- 
 tecture require, that the top of a pillar shou'd be more 
 slender than its base, and that because such a figure conveys 
 to us the idea of security, which is pleasant ; whereas the 
 contrary form gives us the apprehension of danger, which is 
 uneasy. From innumerable instances of this kind, as well 
 as from considering that beauty like wit, cannot be defin'd, 
 but is discern'd only by a taste or sensation, we may conclude, 
 that beauty is nothing but a form, which produces pleasure, as 
 deformity is a structure of- parts, which conveys pain; and 
 since the power of producing pain and pleasure make in this 
 manner the essence of beauty and deformity, all the effects 
 of these qualities must be deriv'd from the sensation ; and 
 among the rest pride and humility, which of all their effects 
 are the most common and remarkable. 
 
 This argument I esteem just and decisive ; but in order 
 to give greater authority to the present reasoning, let us 
 suppose it false for a moment, and see what will folloAv. 
 'Tis certain, then, that if the power of producing pleasure 
 and pain forms not the essence of beauty and deformity, the 
 sensations are at least inseparable from the qualities, and 'tis 
 even difficult to consider them apart. Now there is nothing 
 common to natural and moral beauty, (both of which are the 
 causes of pride) but this power of producing pleasure ; and 
 as a common effect supposes always a common cause, 'tis 
 plain the pleasure must in both cases be the real and in- 
 
 [• Introd. Sect. 34.— Ed.]
 
 Sect. VI FI. OF THE PASSIONS. 07 
 
 xluencing canse of the passion. Again ; tliero is nothing SECT. 
 
 originally different betwixt the beauty of our bodies and the , ^^^^ 
 
 beauty of external and foreign objects, but that the one has Of beauty 
 a near relation to ourselves, which is wanting in the other. ^^^ ^e- 
 This original difference, therefore, must be the cause of all 
 their other differences, and among the rest, of their different 
 influence upon the passion of pride, which is excited by the 
 beauty of our person, but is not affected in the least by that 
 of foreign and external objects. Placing, then, these two 
 conclusions together, we find they compose the preceding 
 Fystem betwixt them, viz. that pleasure, as a related or 
 resembling impression, when placed on a related object, by a 
 natural transition, produces pride ; and its contrary, humility. 
 This system, then, seems already sufficiently confirm'd by 
 experience ; tho' we have not yet exhausted all our argu- 
 ments. 
 
 'Tis not the beauty of the body alone that produces pride, 
 but also its strength and force. Strength is a kind of power ; 
 and therefore the desire to excel in strength is to be con- 
 sider'd as an inferior species of ambition. For this reason 
 the present phsenomenon will be sufficiently accounted for, 
 in explaining that passion. 
 
 Concerning all other bodily accomplishments we may ob- 
 serve in general, that whatever in ourselves is either useful, 
 beautiful, or surprising, is an object of pride ; and it's con- 
 trary, of humility. Now 'tis obvious, that every thing useful, 
 beautiful or surprising, agrees in producing a separate 
 pleasure, and agrees in nothing else. The pleasure, there- 
 fore, with the relation to self must be the cause of the 
 passion. 
 
 Tho' it shou'd be qnestion'd, whether beauty be not some- 
 thing real, and different from the power of producing 
 pleasure, it can never be disputed, that as surprize is nothing 
 but a pleasure arising from novelty, it is not, properly speak- 
 ing, a quality in any object, but merely a passion or impres- 
 sion in the soul. It must, therefore, be from that impression, 
 that pride by a natural transition arises. And it arises so 
 naturally, that there is nothing in us or belonging to tis^ 
 which produces surprize, that does not at the same time 
 excite that other passion. Thus we are vain of the surprising 
 adventures we have met with, the escapes we liave made, and 
 dangei's we have been expos'd to. Hence the origin of vulgar 
 
 VOL. 11. IT
 
 1)8 A TREATISE OF IIU:\L\N NATURE. Part T. 
 
 lyiiifj ; where men without any interest, and merely out of 
 vanity, heap up a number of extraordinary events, which are 
 Of pride either the fictions of their brain, or if true, have at least no 
 and humi- connexion with themselves. Their fruitful invention supplies 
 them with a variety of adventures ; and where that talent 
 is wanting, they appropriate such as belong to others, in 
 order to satisfy their vanity. 
 
 In this phsenomenon are contain'd two curious experiments, 
 which if we compare them together, according to the known 
 rules, by which we judge of cause and effect in anatomy, 
 natural philosophy, and other sciences, will be an undeniable 
 arfjument for that influence of the double relations above- 
 mention'd. By one of these experiments we find, that an 
 object produces pride merely by the interposition of pleasure ; 
 and that because the quality, by which it produces pride, is 
 in reality nothing but the power of producing pleasure. By 
 the other experiment we find, that the pleasure produces the 
 pride by a transition along related ideas ; because when we 
 cut off that relation the passion is immediately destroy'd. 
 A surprising adventure, in which we have been ourselves 
 engag'd, is related to us, and by that means produces pride : 
 But the adventures of others, tho' they may cause pleasure, 
 yet for want of this relation of ideas, never excite that 
 passion. What farther proof can be desired for the present 
 system ? 
 
 There is only one objection to this system with regard to 
 our body ; which is, that tho' nothing be more agreeable 
 than health, and more painful than sickness, yet commonly 
 men are neither proud of the one, nor mortify'd with the 
 other. This will easily be accounted for, if we consider the 
 second undfourtJi limitations, propos'd to our general system. 
 It was observ'd, that no object ever produces pride or huiui- 
 lity, if it has not something peculiar to ourself ; as also, that 
 every cause of that passion must be in some measure constant, 
 and hold some proportion to the duration of ourself, which is 
 its object. Now as health and sickness vary incessantly to 
 all men, and there is none, who is solely or certainly fix'd in 
 either, these accidental blessings and calamities are in a 
 manner separated from us, and are never consider'd as con- 
 nected with our being and existence. And that this account 
 is just appears hence, that wherever a malady of any kind is 
 so rooted in our constitution, that we no longer entertain
 
 and de- 
 formity 
 
 Skct. IX. OF THE ^ASSI0^'3. 9n 
 
 any hopes of recovery, from that moment it becomes an object sect. 
 
 of humility ; as is evident in old men, whom nothing morti- . ^ 
 
 fies more than the consideration of their age and infirmities, of beauty 
 They endeavour, as long as possible, to conceal their blind- 
 ness and deafness, their rheums and gouts ; nor do they ever 
 confess them without reluctance and uneasiness. And tho' 
 young men are not asham'd of every head-ach or cold they 
 fall into, yet no topic is so proper to mortify human pride, 
 and make us entertain a mean opinion of our nature, than 
 this, that we are every moment of our lives subject to such 
 infirmities. This sufficiently proves that bodily pain and 
 sickness are in themselves proper causes of humility ; tho' 
 the custom of estimating every thing by comparison more 
 than by its intrinsic worth and value, makes us overlook 
 these calamities, which we find to be incident to every one, 
 and causes us to form an idea of our merit and character in- 
 dependent of them. 
 
 We are asham'd of such maladies as affect others, and are 
 either dangerous or disagreeable to them. Of the epilepsy ; 
 because it gives a horror to every one present : Of the itch ; 
 because it is infectious : Of the king's -evil ; because it com- 
 monly goes to posterity. Men always consider the senti- 
 ments of others in their judgment of themselves. This has 
 evidently appear'd in some of the foregoing reasonings ; and 
 will appear still more evidently, and be more fully explained 
 afterwards. 
 
 Sect. IX. — Of 'External Advantages and Disadvantages. 
 
 But tho' pride and humility have the qualities of our mind 
 and body, that is self, for their natural and more immediate 
 Causes, we find by experience, that there are many other 
 objects, which produce these affections, and that the primary 
 one is, in some measure, obscur'd and lost by the multi- 
 plicity of foreign and extrinsic. We found a vanity upon 
 houses, gardens, equipages, as well as upon personal merit 
 and accomplishments ; and tho' these external advantages 
 be in themselves widely distant from thought or a person, 
 yet they considerably influence even a passion, which is 
 directed to that as its ultimate object. This happens when 
 external objects acquire any particular relation to ourselves, 
 ^.nd are associated or connected with us. A beautiful fish in 
 
 H 2
 
 100 A TREATISE OF IIU^LAN NATURE. Part I. 
 
 the ocean, an animal in a desart, and indeed any thing that 
 neither belongs, nor is related to us, has no manner of 
 Of pride influence on our vanity, whatever extraordinary qualities it 
 and humi- j^^^y ^g endow'd with, and whatever degree of surprize and 
 admiration it may naturally occasion. It must be some way 
 associated with us in order to touch our pride. Its idea 
 must hang in a manner, upon that of ourselves ; and the 
 transition from the one to the other must be easy and 
 natural. 
 
 But here 'tis remarkable, that tho' the relation of resem- 
 hlance operates upon the mind in the same manner as 
 contiguity and causation, in conveying us from one idea to 
 another, yet 'tis seldom a foundation either of pride or of 
 humility. If we resemble a person in any of the valuable 
 parts of his character, we must, in some degree, possess the 
 quality, in which we resemble him ; and this quality we 
 always chuse to survey directly in ourselves ratlier than by 
 reflexion in another person, when we wou'd found upon it 
 any degree of vanity. So that tho' a likeness may occa- 
 sionallj'" produce that passion by suggesting a more advan- 
 tageous idea of ourselves, 'tis there the view fixes at last, 
 and the passion finds its ultimate and final cause. 
 
 There are instances, indeed, wherein men shew a vanity 
 in resembling a great man in his countenance, shape, air, or 
 other minute circumstances, that contribute not in any 
 degree to his reputation ; but it must be confess'd, that this 
 extends not very far, nor is of any considerable moment in 
 these affections. For this I assign the following reason. 
 "We can never have a va.nity of resembling in trifles any 
 person, unless he be possess'd of very shining qualities, 
 which give us a respect and veneration for him. These 
 qualities, then, are, properly speaking, the causes of our 
 vanity, by means of their relation to ourselves. Now after 
 what manner are they related to ourselves ? They are parts 
 of the person we value, and consequently connected with 
 these trifles ; which are also suppos'd to be parts of him. 
 These trifles are connected with the resembling qualities in 
 us; and these qualities in us, being parts, are connected 
 with the whole ; and by that means form a chain of several 
 links betwixt ourselves and the shining qualities of the 
 person we resemble. But besides that this multitude of 
 relations must weaken the connexion ; 'tis evident the mind,
 
 Sect. IX, OF TILE PASSIONS. 101 
 
 in passing from the shining qualities to the trivial ones, SECT. 
 must by that contrast the better jperceive the minuteness of . y" ,. 
 the latter, and be in some measure asham'd of the comparison of exter- 
 and resemblance. n^l adv^n 
 
 The relation, therefore, of contiguity, or that of causation, disadvan- 
 betwixt the cause and object of pride and humility, is alone t;ig<'s. 
 requisite to give rise to these passions; and these relations 
 are nothing else but qualities, by which the imagination is 
 convey'd from one idea to another. Now let us consider 
 what effect these can possibly have upon the mind, and by 
 what means they become so requisite to the production of 
 the passions. 'Tis evident, that the association of ideas 
 operates in so silent and imperceptible a manner, that we 
 are scarce sensible of it, and discover it more by its effects 
 than by any immediate feeling or perception. It produces 
 no emotion, and gives rise to no new impression of any kind, 
 but only modifies those ideas, of which the mind was for- 
 merly possess'd, and which it cou'd recal upon occasion. 
 From this reasoning, as well as from undoubted experience, 
 we may conclude, that an association of ideas, however 
 necessary, is not alone sufficient to give rise to any passion. 
 
 'Tis evident, then, that when the mind feels the passion 
 either of pride or humility upon the appearance of a related 
 object, there is, beside the relation or transition of thought, 
 an emotion or original impression produc'd by some other 
 principle. The question is, whether the emotion first pro- 
 duc'd be the passion itself, or some other impression re- 
 lated to it. This question we cannot be long in deciding. 
 For besides all the other arguments, with which this subject 
 abounds, it must evidently appear, that the relation of ideas, 
 which experience shews to be so requisite a circumstance to 
 the production of the passion, wou'd be entirely superfluous, 
 were it not to second a relation of affections, and facilitate 
 the transition from one impression to another. If nature 
 produc'd immediately the passion of pride or humility, it 
 wou'd be compleated in itself, and wou'd require no farther 
 addition or encrease from any other affection. But sup- 
 posing the first emotion to be only related to pride or 
 humility, 'tis easily conceiv'd to what purpose the relation of 
 objects may serve, and how the two different associations, of 
 impressions and ideas, by uniting their forces, may assist 
 each other's operation. This is not only easily conceiv'd.
 
 102 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part I- 
 
 PART but I will venture to affirm 'tis the only manner, in which 
 
 - _ / _ ^ we can conceive this subject. An easy transition of ideas. 
 
 Of prido which, of itself, causes no emotion, can never be necessary, or 
 
 and humi- qyq^ useful to the passions, but by forwarding the transition 
 
 betwixt some related impressions. Not to mention, that the 
 
 same object causes a greater or smaller degree of pride, not 
 
 only in proportion to the encrease or decrease of its qualities, 
 
 but also to the distance or nearness of the relation ; which is 
 
 a clear argument for the transition of affections along the 
 
 relation of ideas ; since every change in the relation produces 
 
 a proportionable change in the passion. Thus one part of 
 
 the preceding system, concerning the relations of ideas is a 
 
 sufficient proof of the other, concerning that of impressions ; 
 
 and is itself so evidently founded on experience, that 'twou'd 
 
 be lost time to endeavour farther to prove it. 
 
 This will appear still more evidently in particular in- 
 stances. Men are vain of the beauty of their country, of 
 their county, of their parish. Here the idea of beauty 
 plainly produces a pleasure. This pleasure is related to 
 pride. The object or cause of this pleasure is, by the sup- 
 position, related to self, or the object of pride. By this 
 double relation of impressions or ideas, a transition is made 
 from the one impression to the other. 
 
 Men are also vain of the temperature of the climate, in 
 which they were born ; of the fertility of their native soil ; 
 of the goodness of the wines, fruits or victuals, produc'd by 
 it ; of the softness or force of their language ; with other 
 particulars of that kind. These objects have plainly a 
 reference to the pleasures of the senses, and are originally 
 consider'd as agreeable to the feeling, taste or hearing. How 
 is it possible they cou'd ever become objects of pride, except 
 by means of that transition above-explain'd ? 
 
 There are some, that discover a vanity of an opposite 
 kind, and affect to depreciate their own country, in com- 
 parison of those, to which they have travell'd. These persons 
 find, when they are at home, and surrounded with their 
 countrymen, that the strong relation betwixt them and their 
 own nation is shar'd with so many, that 'tis in a manner 
 lost to them ; whereas their distant relation to a foreign 
 country, which is form'd by their having seen it and liv'd in 
 it, is augmented by their considering how few there are who 
 have done the same. For this reason they always admire
 
 Sect. IX. OF TIIE PASSIONS. 108 
 
 the beauty, utility and rarity of what is abroad, above Avhat SECT. 
 is at home. — V — • 
 
 Since we can be vain of a country, climate or any inani- Ofexter- 
 mate obiect, which bears a relation to us, 'tis no wonder we ^^^ advan- 
 are vain of the qualities of those, who are connected with disadvaa- 
 us by blood or friendship. Accordingly we find, that the *^ses. 
 very same qualities, which in ourselves produce pride, pro- 
 duce also in a lesser degree the same affection, when dis- 
 cover'd in persons related to us. The beauty, address, 
 merit, credit and honours of their kindred are carefully 
 display 'd by the proud, as some of the most considerable 
 sources of their vanity. 
 
 As we are proud of riches in ourselves, so to satisfy our 
 vanity we desire that every one, who has any connexion with 
 us, shou'd likewise be possest of them, and are asham'd of 
 any one, that is mean or poor, among our friends and rela- 
 tions. Tor this reason we remove the poor as far from us 
 as possible ; and as we cannot prevent poverty in some dis- 
 tant collaterals, and our forefathers are taken to be our 
 nearest relations ; upon this account every one affects to be 
 of a good family, and to be descended from a long succession 
 of rich and honourable ancestors. 
 
 I have frequently observ'd, that those, who boast of the 
 antiquity of their families, are glad when they can join this 
 circumstance, that their ancestors for many generations have 
 been uninterrupted proprietors of the same portion of land, 
 and that their family has never chang'd its possessions, or 
 been transplanted into any other county or province. I 
 have also observ'd, that 'tis an additional subject of vanity, 
 when they can boast, that these possessions have been 
 transmitted thro' a descent compos'd entirely of males, and 
 that the honours and fortune have never past thro' any 
 female. Let us endeavour to explain these phsenomena by 
 the foregoing system. 
 
 'Tis evident, that when any one boasts of the antiquity of 
 his family, the subjects of his vanity are not merely the 
 extent of time and number of ancestors, but also their riches 
 and credit, which are suppos'd to reflect a lustre on himself 
 on account of his relation to them. He first considers 
 these objects ; is affected by them in an agreeable manner ; 
 and then returning back to himself, thro' the relation of 
 parent and child, is elevated with the passion of pride, by
 
 104 A TREATISE OF IIUiLVN NATURE. r.vET I. 
 
 PART means of the double relation of impressions and ideas. Since 
 
 , ^ _^ therefore the passion depends on these relations, whatever 
 
 Of pride strengthens any of the relations must also encrease the 
 aiid hiuni- passion, and whatever weakens the relations must diminish 
 *^' the passion. Now 'tis certain the identity of the possession 
 
 strengthens the relation of ideas arising from blood and 
 kindred, and conveys the fancy with greater facility from 
 one generation to another, from the remotest ancestors to 
 their posterity, who are both their heirs and their descend- 
 ants. By this facility the impression is transmitted more 
 entire, and excites a greater degree of pride and vanity. 
 
 The case is the same with the transmission of the honours 
 and fortune thro' a succession of males without their passing 
 thro' any female. 'Tis a quality of human nature, which 
 ^ve shall consider' afterwards, that the imagination natur- 
 ally turns to whatever is important and considerable ; and 
 where two objects are presented to it, a small and a great 
 one, usually leaves the former, and dwells entirely upon the 
 latter. As in the society of marriage, the male sex has the 
 advantage above the female, the husband first engages our 
 attention ; and whether we consider him directly, or reach 
 him by passing thro' related objects, the thought both rests 
 upon him with greater satisfaction, and arrives at him with 
 greater facility than his consort. 'Tis easy to see, that this 
 property must strengthen the child's relation to the father, 
 and weaken that to the mother. For as all relations are 
 nothing but a propensity to pass from one idea to another, 
 whatever strengthens the propensity strengthens the rela- 
 tion ; and as we have a stronger propensity to pass from the 
 idea of the children to that of the father, than from the 
 same idea to that of the mother, we ought to regard the 
 former relation as the closer and more considerable. This is 
 the reason w^hy children commonly bear their father's name, 
 and are esteem'd to be of nobler or baser birth, according 
 to his family. And tho' the mother shou'd be possest of a 
 superior spirit and genius to the father, as often happens, 
 the general rule prevails, notwithstanding the exception, 
 according to the doctrine above-explain'd. Nay even when 
 a superiority of any kind is so great, or when any other 
 reasons have such an effect, as to make the children rather 
 
 > Part II. Sect. 2.
 
 Skct. X. OF THE PASSIONS. 105 
 
 represent tlie mother's family than the father's, the general SECT. 
 rule still retains such an efficacy that it weakens the relation, ^^ ' . ^ 
 and makes a kind of break in the line of ancestors. Tlie Of exter- 
 imagination runs not along them with facility, nor is able to n^l advi-.n- 
 transfer the honour and credit of the ancestors to their dlfadTan- 
 posterity of the same name and family so readily, as when tages. 
 the transition is conformable to the general rules, and passes 
 from father to son, or from brother to brother. 
 
 Sect. X. — Of Property and Riches. 
 
 But the relation, which is esteem'd the closest, and which 
 of all others produces most commonly the passion of pride, 
 is that of property. This relation 'twill be impossible for me 
 fully to explain before I come to treat of justice and the 
 other moral virtues. 'Tis sufficient to observe on this occa- 
 sion, that property may be defin'd, such a relation hetwixt a 
 person and an object as permits him, hut forbids any other, the 
 free use and possession of it, without violating the laws of justice 
 and moral equity. If justice, therefore, be a virtue, which 
 has a natural and original influence on the human mind, 
 property may be look'd upon as a particular species of causa- 
 tion ; whether we consider the liberty it gives the proprietor 
 to operate as he please upon the object, or the advantages, 
 which he reaps from it. 'Tis the same case, if justice, 
 according to the system of certain philosophers, shou'd be 
 esteem'd an artificial and not a natural virtue. For then 
 honour, and custom, and civil laws supply the place of 
 natural conscience, and produce, in some degree, the same 
 effects. This in the mean time is certain, that the mention 
 of the property naturally carries our thought to the pro- 
 prietor, and of the proprietor to the property ; which being 
 a proof of a perfect relation of ideas is all that is requisite to 
 our present purpose. A relation of ideas, join'd to that of 
 impressions, always produces a transition of affections ; and 
 therefore, whenever any pleasure or pain arises from an 
 object, connected with us by property, we may be certain, 
 that either pride or humility must arise from this conjunc- 
 tion of relations ; if the foregoing system be solid and satis- 
 factory. And whether it be so or not, we may soon satisfy 
 ourselves by the most cursory view of human life. 
 
 Every thing belonging to a vain man is the best that is any
 
 106 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part I. 
 
 PART where to be found. His houses, equipage, furniture, cloaths, 
 
 — ^ . horses, hounds, excel all others in his conceit; and 'tis easy 
 
 Of pride to observe, that from the least advantage in any of these, he 
 and humi- ^jj-g^^g ^ ^^^ subject of pride and vanity. His -svine, if you'll 
 believe him, has a finer flavour than any other ; his cookery 
 is more exquisite ; his table more orderly ; his servants more 
 expert ; the air, in which he lives, more healthful ; the soil 
 he cultivates more fertile ; his fruits ripen earlier and to 
 greater perfection : Such a thing is remarkable for ita 
 novelty ; such another for its antiquity : This is the work- 
 manship of a famous artist; that belong'd once to such a 
 jirince or great man : All objects, in a word, that are useful, 
 beautiful or surprizing, or are related to such, may, by means 
 of property, give rise to this passion. These agree in. giving 
 pleasure, and agree in nothing else. This alone is common 
 to them ; and therefore must be the quality that produces the 
 passion, which is their common effect. As every new in- 
 stance is a new argument, and as the instances are here 
 without number, I may venture to affirm, that scarce any 
 system was ever so fully prov'd by experience, as that which 
 I have here advanc'd. 
 
 If the property of any thing, that gives pleasure either by 
 its utility, beauty or novelty, produces also pride by a double 
 relation of impressions and ideas ; we need not be surpriz'd, 
 that the power of acquiring this property, shou'd have the 
 same effect. Now riches are to be consider'd as the power of 
 acquiring the property of what pleases ; and 'tis only in this 
 view they have any influence on the passions. Paper will, 
 on many occasions, be consider'd as riches, and that because 
 it may convey the power of acquiring money : And money is 
 not riches, as it is a metal endow'd with certain qualities of 
 solidity, weight and fusibility; but only as it has a relation 
 to the pleasures and conveniences of life. Taking then this 
 for granted, which is in itself so evident, we may draw from 
 it one of the strongest arguments I have yet employ'd to 
 prove the influence of the double relations on pride and 
 humility. 
 
 It has been observ'd in treating of the understanding, that 
 the distinction, which we sometimes make betwixt a. power 
 and the exercise of it, is entirely frivolous, and that neither 
 man nor any other being ought ever to be thought possest of 
 any ability, unless it be exerted and put in action. But tho'
 
 Sect. X. OF THE PASSIONS. 107 
 
 this be strictly true in a just and philosopJiical way of think- SECT. 
 
 ing, 'tis certain it is not the philosophy of our passions; but , ^ — , 
 
 that many things operate upon them by means of the idea Of pro- 
 and supposition of power, independent of its actual exercise, ^-^fj^^g^"^ 
 We are pleas'd when we acquire an ability of procuring 
 pleasure, and are displeas'd when another acquires a power 
 of giving pain. This is evident from experience ; but in 
 order to give a just explication of the matter, and account 
 for this satisfaction and uneasiness, we must weigh the fol- 
 lowing reflections. 
 
 'Tis evident the error of distinguishing power from its ex- 
 ercise proceeds not entirely from the scholastic doctrine of 
 free-will, which, indeed, enters very little into common life, 
 and has but small influence on our vulgar and popular ways 
 of thinking. According to that doctrine, motives deprive us 
 not of free-will, nor take away our power of performing or 
 forbearing any action. But according to common notions 
 a man has no power, where very considerable motives lie 
 betwixt him and the satisfaction of his desires, and deter- 
 mine him to forbear what he wishes to perform. I do not 
 think I have fallen into my enemy's power, when I see him 
 pass me in the streets with a sword by his side, while I am 
 unprovided of any weapon. I know that the fear of the 
 civil magistrate is as strong a restraint as any of iron, and 
 that I am in as perfect safety as if he were chain'd or im- 
 prison'd. But when a person acquires such an authority 
 over me, that not only there is no external obstacle to his 
 actions ; but also that he may punish or reward me as he 
 pleases, without any dread of punishment in his turn, I then 
 attribute a full power to him, and consider myself as his 
 subject or vassal. 
 
 Now if we compare these two cases, that of a person, who 
 has very strong motives of interest or safety to forbear any 
 action, and that of another, who lies under no such obliga- 
 tion, we shall find, according to the philosophy explain'd in 
 the foregoing book, that the only known difference betwixt 
 them lies in this, that in the former case we conclude from 
 past experience, that the person never will perform that 
 action, and in the latter, that he possibly or probably will 
 perform it. Nothing is more fluctuating and inconstant on 
 many occasions, than the will of man ; nor is there any 
 thing but strong motives, which can give us an absolute
 
 108 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Rapt I. 
 
 PART certainty in pronouncing concerning any of his future actions. 
 . _. ; _. When we see a person free from these motives, we suppose a 
 Of pride possibility either of his acting or forbearing ; and tho' in 
 and hunii- general we may conclude him to be determin'd by motives 
 and causes, yet this removes not the uncertainty of our 
 judgment concerning these causes, nor the influence of that 
 uncertainty on the passions. Since therefore we ascribe a 
 j)ower of performing an action to every one, who has no very 
 powerful motive to forbear it, and refuse it to such as have ; 
 it may justly be concluded, that power has always a reference 
 to its exercisBy either actual or probable, and that we consider 
 a person as endow'd with any ability when we find from 
 past experience, that 'tis probable, or at least possible he 
 may exert it. And indeed, as our passions always regard 
 the real existence of objects, and we always judge of this 
 reality from past instances ; nothing can be more likely of 
 itself, without any farther reasoning, than that power con- 
 sists in the possibility or probability of any action, as dis- 
 co ver'd by experience and the practice of the world. 
 
 Now 'tis evident, that wherever a person is in such a 
 situation with regard to me, that there is no very powerful 
 motive to deter him from injuring me, and consequently 'tis 
 uncertain whether he will injure me or not, I must be uneasy 
 in such a situation, and cannot consider the possibility or 
 probability of that injury without a sensible concern. The 
 passions are not only affected by such events as are certain 
 and infallible, but also in an inferior degree by such as are 
 possible and contingent. And tho' perhaps I never really 
 feel any harm, and discover by the event, that, philosophi- 
 cally speaking, the person never had any power of harming 
 me ; since he did not exert any ; this prevents not my 
 uneasiness from the preceding uncertainty. The agreeable 
 passions may here operate as well as the uneasy, and convey 
 a pleasure when I perceive a good to become either possible 
 or probable by the possibility or probability of another's 
 bestowing it on me, upon the removal of any strong motives, 
 which might formerly have hinder'd him. 
 
 But we may farther observe, that this satisfaction en creases, 
 when any good approaches in such a manner that it is in 
 one's own power to take or leave it, and there neither is any 
 physical impediment, nor any very strong motive to hinder 
 our enjoyment. As all men desire pleasure, nothing can be
 
 ST.CI. X. OF THE PASSIONS. ]00 
 
 more probable, than its existence when there is no external SECT, 
 obstacle to the producing it, and men perceive no danger in / _ , . 
 
 following their inclinations. In that case their imagination of pro- 
 easily anticipates the satisfaction, and conveys the same joy, P^rty and 
 as if they were perswaded of its real and actual existence. 
 
 But this accounts not sufficiently for the satisfaction, 
 which attends riches. A miser receives delight from his 
 money ; that is, from the power it affords him of procuring 
 aU the pleasures and conveniences of life, tho' he knows he 
 has enjoy'd his riches for forty years without ever employing 
 them ; and consequently cannot conclude by any species of 
 reasoning, that the real existence of these pleasures is nearer, 
 than if he were entirely depriv'd of all his possessions. But 
 tho' he cannot form any such conclusion in a way of reason- 
 ing concerning the nearer approach of the pleasure, 'tis 
 certain he imagines it to approach nearer, whenever all 
 external obstacles are remov'd, along with the more powerful 
 motives of interest and danger, which oppose it. For 
 farther satisfaction on this head I must refer to my account 
 of the will, where I shall ' explain that false sensation of 
 liberty, which makes us imagine we can perform any thing, 
 that is not very dangerous or destructive. Whenever any 
 other person is under no strong obligations of interest to 
 forbear any pleasure, we judge from experience, that the 
 pleasure will exist, and that he will probably obtain it. But 
 when ourselves are in that situation, we judge from an 
 illusion of the fancy, that the pleasure is still closer and 
 more immediate. The will seems to move easily every way, 
 and casts a shadow or image of itself, even to that side, on 
 which it did not settle. By means of this image the enjoy- 
 ment seems to approach nearer to us, and gives us the same 
 lively satisfaction, as if it were perfectly certain and unavoid- 
 able. 
 
 'Twill now be easy to draw this whole reasoning to a point, 
 and to prove, that when riches produce any pride or vanity 
 in their possessors, as they never fail to do, 'tis only by 
 means of a double relation of impression and ideas. The 
 very essence of riches consists in the power of procuring the 
 pleasures and conveniences of life. The very essence of 
 this power consists in the probability of its exercise, and in 
 
 > Part III. Sect. 2.
 
 110 A TIlExiTISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Pari I, 
 
 PART its causing us to anticipate, by a true or false reasoning, the 
 
 ^ • _ . real existence of tlie pleasure. This anticipation of pleasure 
 
 Of pride IS, in itself, a very considerable pleasure ; and as its cause is 
 
 aud humi- gome possession or property, which we enjoy, and which is 
 
 thereby related to us, we here clearly see all the parts of the 
 
 foregoing system most exactly and distinctly drawn out 
 
 before us. 
 
 For the same reason, that riches cause pleasure and pride, 
 and poverty excites uneasiness and humility, power must 
 jiroduce the former emotions, and slavery the latter. • Power 
 or an authority over others makes us capable of satisfying all 
 our desires ; as slavery, by subjecting us to the will of others, 
 exposes us to a thousand wants, and mortifications. 
 
 'Tis here worth observing, that the vanity of power, or 
 shame of slavery, are much augmented by the consideration 
 of the persons, over whom we exercise our authority, or who 
 exercise it over us. For supposing it possible to frame 
 statues of such an admirable mechanism, that they cou'd 
 move and act in obedience to the will ; 'tis evident the pos- 
 session of them wou'd give pleasure and pride, but not to 
 such a degree, as the same authority, when exerted over sen- 
 sible and rational creatures, whose condition, being compar'd 
 to our own, makes it seem more agreeable and honourable. 
 Comparison is in every case a sure method of augmenting 
 our esteem of any thing. A rich man feels the felicity of 
 his condition better by opposing it to that of a beggar. But 
 there is a peculiar advantage in power, by the contrast, 
 which is, in a manner, presented to us, betwixt ourselves and 
 the person we command. The comparison is obvious and 
 natural : The imagination finds it in the very subject : The 
 passage of the thought to its conception is smooth and easy. 
 And that this circumstance has a considerable effect in 
 augmenting its influence, will appear afterwards in examining 
 the nature of malice and envy. 
 
 Sect. XI. — Of the Love of Fame. 
 
 But beside these original causes of pride and humility, 
 there is a secondary one in the opinions of others, which has 
 an equal influence on the affections. Our reputa,tion, our 
 character, our name are considerations of vast weight and 
 importance ; and even the other causes of pride ; virtue,
 
 Sect. XI. OF THE PASSIONS. Ill 
 
 beauty and riches ; have L'ttle influence, when not seconded SECT, 
 by the opinions and sentiments of others. In order to . _ ^ / . 
 account for this phsenomenon 'twill be necessary to take of the love 
 some compass, and first explain the nature of sympathy. of fame. 
 
 No quality of human nature is more remarkable, both in 
 itself and in its consequences, than that propensity we have 
 to sympathize with others, and to receive by communication 
 their inclinations and sentiments, however different from, or 
 even contrary to our own. This is not only conspicuous in 
 children, who implicitly embrace every opinion propos'd to 
 them ; but also in men of the greatest judgment and under- 
 standing, who find it very difficult to follow their own reason 
 or inclination, in opposition to that of their friends and daily 
 companions. To this principle we ought to ascribe the great 
 uniformity we may observe in the humours and turn of 
 thinking of those of the same nation ; and 'tis much more 
 probable, that this resemblance arises from sympathy, than 
 from any influence of the soil and climate, which, tho' they 
 continue invariably the same, are not able to preserve the 
 character of a nation the same for a century together. A 
 good-natur'd man finds himself in an instant of the same 
 humour with his company ; and even the proudest and most 
 surly take a tincture from their countrymen and acquaint- 
 ance. A chearful countenance infuses a sensible compla- 
 cency and serenity into my mind ; as an angry or sorrowful 
 one throws a sudden damp upon me. Hatred, resentment, 
 esteem, love, courage, mirth and melancholy; all these 
 passions I feel more from communication than from mj own 
 natural temper and disposition. So remarkable a phseno- 
 menon merits our attention, and must be trac'd up to its 
 first principles. 
 
 When any affection is infus'd by sympathy, it is at first 
 known only by its effects, and by those external signs in the 
 countenance and conversation, which convey an idea of it. 
 This idea is presently converted into an impression, and ac- 
 quires such a degree of force and vivacity, as to become the 
 very passion itself, and produce an equal emotion, as any 
 original affection.' However instantaneous this change of 
 the idea into an impression may be, it proceeds from certain 
 views and reflections, which will not escape the strict scrutiny 
 of a philosopher, tho' they may the person himself, who 
 makes them. 
 
 [' Introd. Sect 40.— Ed.]
 
 lity. 
 
 112 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part T. 
 
 'Tis evident, that tlie idea, or rather impression of ourselves 
 is always intimately present with us, and that our conscious- 
 Of pride ness gives us so lively a conception of our own person, that 
 v!t ^'^™' '*^^ ^^^ possible to imagine, that any thing can in this parti- 
 cular go beyond it. Whatever object, therefore, is related to 
 ourselves must be conceived with a like vivacity of conception, 
 according to the foregoing principles ; and tho' this relation 
 sliou'd not be so strong as that of causation, it must still have 
 a considerable influence. Resemblance and contiguity are 
 relations not to be neglected ; especially when by an inference 
 from cause and effect, and by the observation of external 
 signs, we are inform'd of the real existence of the object, 
 which is resembling or contiguous. 
 
 Now 'tis obvious, that nature has preserv'd a great resem- 
 blance among all human creatures, and that we never remark 
 any passion or principle in others, of which, in some degree 
 or other, we may not find a parallel in ourselves. The case 
 is the same with the fabric of the mind, as with that of the 
 body. However the parts may differ in shape or size, their 
 structure and composition a.re in general the same. There 
 is a very remarkable resemblance, which preserves itself 
 amidst all their variety ; and this resemblance must very 
 much contribute to make us enter into the sentiments of 
 others, and embrace them with facility and pleasure. Ac- 
 cordingly we find, that where, beside the general resemblance 
 of our natures, there is any peculiar similarity in our man- 
 ners, or character, or country, or language, it facilitates the 
 sympathy. The stronger the relation is betwixt ourselves 
 and any object, the more easily does the imagination make 
 the transition, and convey to the related idea the vivacity of 
 conception, with which we always form the idea of our own 
 person. 
 
 Nor is resemblance the only relation, which has this effect, 
 but receives new force from other relations, that may accom- 
 pany it. The sentiments of others have little influence, when 
 far remov'd from us, and require the relation of contiguity, 
 to make them communicate themselves entirely. The rela- 
 tions of blood, being a, species of causation, may sometimes 
 contribute to the same effect ; as also acquaintance, which 
 operates in the same manner with education and custom ; as 
 we shall see more fully • afterwards. All these relations, 
 
 ' Part II. Sect. 4.
 
 Sect. XL OF THE PASSIOJ^S. 113 
 
 when united together, convey the impression or consciousness SECT. 
 of our own person to the idea of the sentiments or passions . ' ' . 
 of others, and makes us conceive them in the strongest and of the love 
 most lively manner. of fame. 
 
 It has been remark'd in the beginning of this treatise, that 
 all ideas are borrow'd from impressions, and that these two 
 kinds of perceptions diflfer only in the degrees of force and 
 vivacity, with which they strike upon the soul. The compo- 
 nent parts of ideas and impressions are precisely alike. The 
 manner and order of their appearance may be the same. The 
 different degrees of their force and vivacity are, therefore, 
 the only particulars, that distinguish them : And as this 
 difference may be remov'd, in some measure, by a relation 
 betwixt the impressions and ideas, 'tis no wonder an idea of 
 a sentiment or passion, may by this means be so inliven'd 
 as to become the very sentiment or passion. The lively idea 
 of any object always approaches its impression ; and 'tis cer- 
 tain we may feel sickness and pain from the mere force of 
 imagination, and make a malady real by often thinking of it. 
 But this is most remarkable in the opinions and affections ; 
 and 'tis there principally that a lively idea is converted into 
 an impression. Our affections depend more upon ourselves, 
 and the internal operations of the mind, than any other im- 
 pressions ; for which reason they arise more naturally from 
 the imagination, and from every lively idea we form of them. 
 This is the nature and cause of sympathy ; and 'tis after this 
 manner we enter so deep into the opinions and affections of 
 others, whenever we discover them. 
 
 What is principally remarkable in this whole affair is the 
 strong confirmation these phaenomena give to the foregoing 
 system concerning the understanding, and consequently to 
 the present one concerning the passions; since these are 
 analogous to each other. 'Tis indeed evident, that when we 
 sympathize with the passions and sentiments of others, these 
 movements appear at first in our mind as mere ideas, and are 
 conceiv'd to belong to another person, as we conceive any 
 other matter of fact.' 'Tis also evident, that the ideas of the 
 affections of others are converted into the very impressions 
 they represent, and that the passions arise in conformity to 
 the images we form of them. All this is an object of the 
 plainest experience, and depends not on any hypothesis of 
 
 [ ' Introd. Sect. 40.— Ed.] 
 VOL. II. I
 
 114 A TRFATISE OF IIUALiN NATURE. Tart T. 
 
 PART philosophy. That science can only be admitted to explain 
 . _• the phsenomena; tho' at the same time it must be confest, 
 Of pride ^^^Y ^^^ SO clear of themselves, that there is but little occa- 
 anil humi- gion to employ it. For besides the relation of cause and 
 effect, by which we are convinc'd of the reality of the passion, 
 with which we sympathize ; besides this, I say, we must be 
 assisted by the relations of resemblance and contiguity, in 
 order to feel the sympathy in its full perfection. And since 
 V these relations can entirely convert an idea into an impres- 
 
 sion, and convey the vivacity of the latter into the former, 
 so perfectly as to lose nothing of it in the transition, we may 
 easily conceive how the relation of cause and effect alone, 
 may serve to strengthen and inliven an idea. In sympathy 
 there is an evident conversion of an idea into an impression. 
 This conversion arises from the relation of objects to ourself. 
 Ourself is always intimately present to us. Let us compare 
 all these circumstances, and we shall find, that sympathy is 
 exactly correspondent to the operations of our understand- 
 ing ; and even contains something more surprising and 
 extraordinary. 
 
 'Tis now time to turn our view from the general considera- 
 tion of sympathy, to its influence on pride and humility, 
 when these passions arise from praise and blame, from repu- 
 tation and infamy. We may observe, that no person is ever 
 prais'd by another for any quality, which wou'd not, if real, 
 produce, of itself, a pride in the person possest of it. The 
 elogiums either turn upon his power, or riches, or family, 
 or virtue ; all of which are subjects of vanity, that we have 
 already explain'd and accounted for. 'Tis certain, then, that 
 if a person consider'd himself in the same light, in which he 
 appears to his admirer, he wou'd first receive a separate 
 pleasure, and afterwards a pride or self-satisfaction, according 
 to the hypothesis above explain'd. Now nothing is more 
 natural than for us to embrace the opinions of others in this 
 particular ; both from sympathy, which renders all their senti- 
 ments intimately present to us ; and from reasoning, which 
 makes us regard their judgment, as a kind of argument for 
 what they affirm. These two principles of authority and 
 sympathy influence almost all our opinions ; but must have 
 a peculiar influence, when we judge of our own worth and 
 character. Such judgments are always attended with passion ;^ 
 
 ' Book I. Part III. Sect. 10.
 
 Sect. XI. OF THE PASSIONS. 115 
 
 and nothing tends more to disturb our understanding, and SECT, 
 precipitate us into any opinions, however unreasonable, than _^"L_ 
 their connexion with passion ; which diffuses itself over the of the love 
 imagination, and gives an additional force to every related of fame. 
 idea. To which we may add, that being conscious of great 
 partiality in our own favour, we are peculiarly pleas'd with 
 any thing, that confirms the good opinion we have of our- 
 selves, and are easily shock'd with whatever opposes it. 
 
 All this appears very probable in theory ; but in order to 
 bestow a full certainty on this reasoning, we must examine 
 the phaenomena of the passions, and see if they agree with it. 
 
 Among these phsenomena we may esteem it a very favour- 
 able one to our present purpose, that tho' fame in general be 
 agreeable, yet we receive a much greater satisfaction from the 
 approbation of those, whom we ourselves esteem and approve 
 of, than of those, whom we hate and despise. In like manner 
 we are principally mortify'd with the contempt of persons, 
 upon whose judgment we set some value, and are, in a great 
 measure, indifferent about the opinions of the rest of man- 
 kind. But if the mind receiv'd from any original instinct a 
 desire of fame, and aversion to infamy, fame and infamy 
 wou'd influence us without distinction ; and every opinion, 
 according as ifc were favourable or unfavourable, wou'd equallj- 
 excite that desire or aversion. The judgment of a fool is the 
 judgment of another person, as well as that of a wise man, 
 and is only inferior in its influence on our own j udgment. 
 
 We are not only better pleas'd with the approbation of a 
 wise man than with that of a fool, but receive an additional 
 satisfaction from the former, when 'tis obtain'd after a long 
 and intimate acquaintance. This is accounted for after the 
 same manner. 
 
 The praises of others never give us much pleasure, unless 
 they concur with our own opinion, and extol us for those 
 qualities, in which we chiefly excel. A mere soldier little 
 values the character of eloquence : A gown man of courage : 
 A bishop of humour : Or a merchant of learning. Whatever 
 esteem a man may have for any quality, abstractedly cou- 
 sider'd ; when he is conscious he is not possest of it ; the 
 opinions of the whole world will give him little pleasure in 
 that particular, and that because they never will be able to 
 draw his own opinion after them. 
 
 Nothing is more usual than for men of good families, but 
 
 I 2
 
 110 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part T. 
 
 PART narrow circumstances, to leave tlieir friends and country, and 
 
 . _ ^- ^ rather seek tlieir livelihood by mean and mechanical em- 
 
 Of pride ployments among strangers, than among those, who are 
 
 and humi- acquainted with their birth and education. We shall be un- 
 
 ^^^' known, say they, where we go. No body will suspect from 
 
 what family we are sprung. We shall be remov'd from all 
 
 our friends and acquaintance, and our poverty and meanness 
 
 will by that means sit more easy upon us. In examining 
 
 these sentiments, I find they afford many very convincing 
 
 arguments for my present purpose. 
 
 First, We may infer from them, that the uneasiness of 
 being contemn'd depends on sympathy, and that sympathy 
 depends on the relation of objects to ourselves ; since we are 
 most uneasy under the contempt of persons, who are both 
 related to us by blood, and contiguous in place. Hence we 
 seek to diminish this sympathy and uneasiness by separating 
 these relations, and placing ourselves in a contiguity to 
 strangers, and at a distance from relations. 
 
 Secondly, We may conclude, that relations are requisite to 
 sympathy, not absolutely consider'd as relations, but by their 
 influence in converting our ideas of the sentiments of others 
 into the very sentiments, by means of the association betwixt 
 the idea of their persons, and that of our own. For here the 
 relations of kindred and contiguity both subsist ; but not 
 being united in the same persons, they contribute in a less 
 degree to the sympathy. 
 
 Thirdly, This very circumstance of the diminution of sym- 
 pathy by the separation of relations is worthy of our atten- 
 tion. Suppose I am plac'd in a poor condition among 
 strangers, and consequently am but lightly treated ; I yet 
 find myself easier in that situation, than when I was every 
 day expos'd to the contempt of my kindred and countrymen. 
 Here I feel a double contempt ; from my relations, but they 
 are absent; from those about me, but they are strangers. 
 This double contempt is likewise strengthen'd by the two 
 relations of kindred and contiguity. But as the persons are 
 not the same, who are connected with me by those two rela- 
 tions, this difference of ideas separates the impressions arising 
 from the contempt, and keeps them from running into each 
 other. The contempt of my neighbours has a certain in- 
 fluence ; as has also that of my kindred : But these influences 
 are distinct, and never unixe ; as when the contempt proceeds
 
 Sj.;ct. XI. OF THE PASSIONS. 317 
 
 from persons wlio are at once both mj neighbours and SECT. 
 kindred. This phsenomenon is analogous to the system of ^^' . - 
 pride and humility above-explain'd, which may seem so ex- Of the love 
 traordinary to vulgar apprehensions. of fame. 
 
 Fourthly, A person in these circumstances naturally con- 
 ceals his birth from those among whom he lives, and is very 
 uneasy, if any one suspects him to be of a family, much 
 superior to his present fortune and way of living. Every 
 thing in this world is judg'd of by comparison. What is an 
 immense fortune for a private gentleman is beggary for a 
 prince. A peasant wou'd think himself happy in what cannot 
 afford necessaries for a gentleman. When a man has either 
 been accustom'd to a more splendid way of living, or thinks 
 himself intitled to it by his birth and quality, every thing 
 below is disagreeable and even shameful ; and 'tis with the 
 greatest industry he conceals his pretensions to a better 
 fortune. Here he himself knows his misfortunes ; but as 
 those, with whom he lives, are ignorant of them, he has the 
 disagreeable reflection and comparison suggested onlj^ by his 
 own thoughts, and never receives it by a sympathy with 
 others ; which must contribute very much to his ease and 
 satisfaction. 
 
 K there be any objections to this hypothesis, tliat the 
 "pleasure, which we receive from praise, arises from a communi- 
 cation of sentiments, we shall find, upon examination, that 
 these objections, when taken in a proper light, will serve to 
 confirm it. Popular fame may be agreeable even to a man, 
 who despises the vulgar ; but 'tis because their multitude 
 gives them additional weight and authority. Plagiaries are 
 delighted with praises, which they are conscious they do not 
 deserve ; but this is a kind of castle-building, where the 
 imagination amuses itself with its own fictions, and strives to 
 render them firm and stable by a sympathy with the senti- 
 ments of others. Proud men are most shock'd with contempt, 
 tho' they do not most readily assent to it ; but 'tis because 
 of the opposition betwixt the passion, which is natural to 
 them, and that receiv'd by sympathy. A violent lover in like 
 manner is very much displeas'd when you blame and con- 
 demn his love ; tho' 'tis evident your opposition can have no 
 influence, but by the hold it takes of himself, and by his 
 sympathy with you. If he despises you, or perceives you 
 are in jest, whatever you say has no effect upon him.
 
 118 A TREATISE OF HU:\L\N NATURE. Part T. 
 
 PART 
 L Sect. XIT. — Of the Pride and Humility of A7iimals. 
 
 Of pride Thus in whatever light we consider this subject, we may 
 
 and humi- still observe, that the causes of pride and humility corre- 
 ^^^^' spond exactly to our hypothesis, and that nothing can excite 
 
 either of these passions, unless it be both related to our- 
 selves, and produces a pleasure or pain independent of the 
 passion. We have not only prov'd, that a tendency to pro- 
 duce pleasure or pain is common to all the causes of pride 
 or humility, but also that 'tis the only thing, which is com- 
 mon ; and consequently is the quality, by which they operate. 
 We have farther prov'd, that the most considerable causes of 
 these passions are really nothing but the power of producing 
 either agreeable or uneasy sensations ; and therefore that all 
 their effects, and amongst the rest, pride and humility, are 
 deriv'd solely from that origin. Such simple and natural 
 principles, founded on such solid proofs, cannot fail to be re- 
 ceiv'd by philosophers, unless oppos'd by some objections, 
 that have escap'd me. 
 
 'Tis usual with anatomists to join theu" observations and 
 experiments on human bodies to those on beasts, and from 
 the agreement of these experiments to derive an additional 
 argument for any particular hypothesis. 'Tis indeed certain, 
 that where the structure of parts in brutes is the same as in 
 men, and the operation of these parts also the same, the 
 causes of that operation cannot be different, and that what 
 ever we discover to be true of the one species, may be con- 
 cluded without hesitation to be certain of the other. Thus 
 tho' the mixture of humours and the composition of minute 
 parts may justly be presum'd to be somewhat different in men 
 from what it is in mere animals; and therefore any experi- 
 ment we make upon the one concerning the effects of medi- 
 cines will not alwaj^s apply to the other ; yet as the structure 
 of the veins and muscles, the fabric and situation of the 
 heart, of the lungs, the stomach, the liver and other parts, 
 are tlie same or nearly the same in all animals, the very same 
 hypothesis, which in one species explains muscular motion, 
 the progress of the chyle, the circulation of the blood, must 
 be applicable to everyone; and according as it agrees or 
 disagrees with the experiments we may make in any species 
 of creatures, wo may draw a proof of its truth or falshooJ 
 on the whole. Let us, therefore, apply this method of en
 
 Sect. Xll. OF THE PASSIONS. U\f 
 
 quirv, which is found so just and useful in reasonings con- SECT, 
 cerning the body, to our present anatomy of the mind, and , . ^ 
 
 see what discoveries we can make by it. Of the 
 
 In order to this we must first shew the correspondence prido and 
 
 n • • 1 • 1 1 n 1 i.1 numilitj of 
 
 of passions in men and animals, and afterwards compare the animals. 
 causes, which produce these passions. 
 
 'Tis plain, that almost in every species of creatures, but 
 especially of the nobler kind, there are many evident marks 
 of pride and humility. The very port and gait of a swan, or 
 turkey, or peacock show the high idea he has entertain'd of 
 himself, and his contempt of all others. This is the more 
 remarkable, that in the two last species of animals, the pride 
 always attends the beauty, and is discover'd in the male only. 
 The vanity and emulation of nightingales in singing have 
 been commonly remark'd; as likewise that of horses in 
 swiftness, of hounds in sagacity and smell, of the bull and 
 cock in strength, and of every other animal in his particular 
 excellency. Add to this, that every species of creatures, 
 which approach so often to man, as to familiarize themselves 
 with him, show an evident pride in his approbation, and are 
 pleas'd with his praises and caresses, independent of every 
 other consideration. Nor are they the caresses of every one 
 without distinction, which give them this vanity, but those 
 principally of the persons they know and love ; in the same 
 manner as that passion is excited in mankind. All these are 
 evident proofs, that pride and humility are not merely 
 human passions, but extend themselves over the whole 
 animal creation. 
 
 The causes of these passions are likewise much the same 
 in beasts as in us, making a just allowance for our superior 
 knowledo-e and understandino-. Thus animals have little or 
 no sense of virtue or vice ; they quickly lose sight of the 
 relations of blood ; and are incapable of that of right and 
 pr(»perty : For which reason the causes of their pride and 
 humility must lie solely in the body, and can never be plac'd 
 either in the mind or external objects. But so far as regards 
 the body, the same qualities cause pride in the animal as m 
 the human kind ; and 'tis on beauty, strength, swiftness or 
 some other useful or agreeable quality that this passion is 
 always founded. 
 
 The next question is, whether, since those passions are 
 the same, and arise from the same causes thro' the whole
 
 120 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part T. 
 
 PART creation, the manner^ in which the causes operate, be also the 
 
 . • same. According to all rules of analogy, this is justly to be 
 
 Of pride expected ; and if we find upon ti-ial, that the explication of 
 
 and humi- these phsenomena, which we make use of in one species, will 
 
 not apply to the rest, we may presume that that explication, 
 
 however specious, is in reality without foundation. 
 
 In order to decide this question, let us consider, that there 
 is evidently the same relation of ideas, and deriv'd from the 
 same causes, in the minds of animals as in those of men. 
 A dog, that has hid a bone, often forgets the place ; but 
 when brought to it, his thought passes easily to what he for- 
 merly conceal'd, by means of the contiguity, which produces 
 a relation among his ideas. In like manner, when he has 
 been heartily beat in any place, he wiU tremble on his ap- 
 proach to it, even bho' he discover no signs of any present 
 danger. The effects of resemblance are not so remarkable ; 
 but as that relation makes a considerable ingredient in 
 causation, of which all animals shew so evident a judgment, 
 we may conclude that the three relations of resemblance, 
 contiguity and causation operate in the same manner upon 
 beasts as upon human creatures. 
 
 There are also instances of the relation of impressions, 
 sufficient to convince us, that there is an union of certain 
 affections with each other in the inferior species of creatures 
 as well as in the superior, and that their minds are frequently 
 convey'd thro' a series of connected emotions. A dog, when 
 elevated with joy, runs naturally into love and kindness, 
 whether of his master or of the sex. In like manner, when 
 full of pain or sorrow, he becomes quarrelsome and ill- 
 natur'd ; and that passion, which at first was grief, is by the 
 smallest occasion converted into anger. 
 
 Thus all the internal principles, that are necessary in us to 
 produce either pride or humility, are common to all crea- 
 tures ; and since the causes, which excite these passions, are 
 likewise the same, we may justly conclude, that these causes 
 operate after the same manner thro' the whole animal crea- 
 tion. My hypothesis is so simple, and supposes so little 
 reflection and judgement, that 'tis applicable to every sen- 
 sible creature ; which must not only be allowed to be a con- 
 vincing proof of its veracity, but, I am confident, will be 
 found an objection to every other system.
 
 Sect. I. OF THE TASSIONS. lf]1 
 
 PART 11. 
 
 OF LOVE AND HATRED. 
 
 Sect. I. — Of the Object and Causes of Love and HatredJ 
 
 'Tis altogether impossible to give any definition of the SECT, 
 passions of love and hatred; and that because they produce ^ • 
 merely a simple impression, without any mixture or com- oftheob- 
 position. 'Twou'd be as unnecessary to attempt any descrip- ject and 
 tion of them, drawn from their nature, origin, causes and jovrand 
 objects ; and that both because these are the subjects of our hatred. 
 present enquiry, and because these passions of themselves 
 are sufficiently known from our common feeling and expe- 
 rience. This we have already observ'd concerning pride and 
 humility, and here repeat it concerning love and hatred ; 
 and indeed there is so great a resemblance betwixt these two 
 sets of passions, that we shall be oblig'd to begin with a kind 
 of abridgment of our reasonings concerning the former, in 
 order to explain the latter. 
 
 As the immediate object of pride and humility is self or 
 that identical person, of whose thoughts, actions, and sen- 
 sations we are intimately conscious ; so the object of love 
 and hatred is some other person, of whose thoughts, actions, 
 and sensations we are not conscious. This is sufficiently 
 evident from experience. Our love and hatred are always 
 directed to some sensible being external to us ; and when we 
 talk of self-love, 'tis not in a proper sense, nor has the sensa- 
 tion it produces any thing in common with that tender 
 emotion, which is excited by a friend or mistress. 'Tis the 
 same case with hatred. We may be mortified by our own 
 faults and follies ; but never feel any anger or hatred, except 
 from the injuries of others. 
 
 [' Introd. Sect. 38.— Ed.]
 
 122 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. I'art II. 
 
 But tlio' tlie object of love and hatred be always some 
 other person, 'tis plain that the object is not, properly 
 speaking, the cause of these passions, or alone sufficient to 
 excite them. For since love and hatred are directly con- 
 trary in their sensation, and have the same object in common, 
 if that object were also their cause, it wou'd produce these 
 opposite passions in an equal degree ; and as they must, from 
 the very first moment, destroy each other, none of them 
 wou'd ever be able to make its appearance. There must, 
 therefore, be some cause different from the object. 
 
 If we consider the causes of love and hatred, we shall find 
 they are very much diversify 'd, and have not many things 
 in common. The virtue, knowledge, wit, good sense, good 
 humour of any person, produce love and esteem ; as the 
 opposite qualities, hatred and contempt. The same passions 
 arise from bodily accomplishments, such as beauty, force, 
 swiftness, dexterity ; and from their contraries ; as likewise 
 from the external advantages and disadvantages of family, 
 possessions, cloaths, nation and climate. There is not one 
 of these objects, but what by its different qualities may 
 produce love and esteem, or hatred and contempt. 
 
 From the view of these causes we may derive a new 
 distinction betwixt the quality that operates, and the subject 
 on which it is plac'd. A prince, that is possess'd of a stately 
 palace, commands the esteem of the people upon that 
 account ; and that first, by the beauty of the palace, and 
 secondly, by the relation of property, which connects it with 
 him. The removal of either of these destroys the passion ; 
 which evidently proves that the cause is a compounded one. 
 
 'Twou'd be tedious to trace the passions of love and 
 hatred, thro' all the observations which we have form'd 
 concerning pride and humility, and which are equally 
 applicable to both sets of passions. 'Twill be sufficient to 
 remark in general, that the object of love and hatred is 
 evidently some thinking person ; and that the sensation of 
 the former passion is always agreeable, and of the latter 
 uneasy. We may also suppose with some shew of probability, 
 that the cause of hoth these passions is always related to a 
 thinking being, and that the cause of the former produces a 
 separate pleasure, and of the latter a separate uneasiness. 
 
 One of these suppositions, viz. that the cause of love and 
 hatred must be related to a person or thinking being, ir.
 
 Skct. I. OF THE PASSIONS. 123 
 
 order to produce these passions, is not only probable, but SECT, 
 too evident to be contested. Virtue and vice, wlien con- _, . 
 
 sider'd in the abstract ; beauty and deformity, wben plac'd of the ob- 
 on inanimate objects; poverty and riches, when belonging- jectand 
 to a third person, excite no degree of love or hatred, esteem love and 
 or contempt towards those, who have no relation to them, hatred, 
 A person looking out at a window, sees me in the street, and 
 beyond me a beautiful palace, with which I have no concern : 
 I believe none will pretend, that this person will pay me the 
 same respect, as if I were owner of the palace. 
 
 'Tis not so evident at first sight, that a relation of 
 impressions is requisite to these passions, and that because 
 in the transition the one impression is so much confounded 
 with the other, that they become in a manner undistinguish- 
 able. But as in pride and humility, we have easily been 
 able to make the separation, and to prove, that every cause 
 of these passions produces a separate pain or pleasure, I 
 might here observe the same method with the same success, 
 in examining particularly the several causes of love and 
 hatred. But as I hasten to a full and decisive proof of these 
 systems, I delay this examination for a moment : And in 
 the mean time shall endeavour to convert to my present 
 purpose all my reasonings concerning pride and humility, 
 by an argument that is founded on unquestionable experience. 
 
 There are few persons, that are satisfy'd with their own 
 character, or genius, or fortune, who are not desirous of 
 shewing themselves to the world, and of acquiring the love 
 and approbation of mankind. Now 'tis evident, that the 
 very same qualities and circumstances, which are the causes 
 of pride or self-esteem, are also the causes of vanity or the 
 desire of reputation ; and that we always put to view those 
 particulars with which in ourselves we are best satisfy'd. 
 But if love and esteem were not produc'd by the same quali- 
 ties as pride, according as these qualities are related to 
 ourselves or others, this method of proceeding wou'd be 
 very absurd, nor cou'd men expect a correspondence in the 
 sentiments of every other person, with those themselves have 
 entertain'd. 'Tis true, few can form exact systems of the 
 passions, or make reflections on their general nature and 
 resemblances. But without such a progress in philosophy, 
 we are not subject to many mistakes in this particular, but 
 are sufficiently guided by common experience, as well as by a
 
 124 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part U. 
 
 PART kind of 'presentation ; wliicli tells us what will operate on 
 
 ^ ^ . others, by what we feel immediately in ourselves. Since 
 
 Of love then the same qualities that produce pride or humility, cause 
 
 and hatred. Jove or hatred ; all the arguments that have been employ'd 
 
 to prove, that the causes of the former passions excite a pain 
 
 or pleasure independent of the passion, will be applicable 
 
 with equal evidence to the causes of the latter. 
 
 Sect. II. — Experiments to Confirm this System. 
 
 Upon duly weighing these arguments, no one will make 
 any scruple to assent to that conclusion I draw from them, 
 concerning the transition along related impressions and 
 ideas, especially as 'tis a principle, in itself, so easy and 
 natural. But that we may place this system beyond doubt 
 both with regard to love and hatred, pride and humility, 
 'twill be proper to make some new experiments upon all 
 these passions, as well as to recal a few of these observations, 
 which I have formerly touch'd upon. 
 
 In order to make these experiments, let us suppose I am 
 in company with a person, whom I formerly regarded with- 
 out any sentiments either of friendship or enmity. Here I 
 have the natural and ultimate object of all these four pas- 
 sions plac'd before me. Myself am the proper object of 
 pride or humility ; the other person of love or hatred. 
 
 Eegard now with attention the nature of these passions, 
 and their situation with respect to each other. 'Tis evident 
 here are four affections, plac'd, as it were, in a square or 
 regular connexion with, and distance from each other. The 
 passions of pride and humility, as well as those of love and 
 hatred, are connected together by the identity of their 
 object, which to the first set of passions is self, to the 
 second some other person. These two lines of commu- 
 nication or connexion form two opposite sides of the square. 
 Again, pride and love are agreeable passions ; hatred and 
 humility uneasy. This similitude of sensation betwixt pride 
 and love, and that betwixt humility and hatred form a new 
 connexion, and may be consider'd as the other two sides 
 of the square. Upon the whole, pride is connected with 
 humility, love with hatred, by their objects or ideas : Pride 
 with love, humility with hatred, by their sensations or im- 
 pressions.
 
 Sect. II. OF THE PASSIONS. 125 
 
 I say then, that nothmg can produce any of these passions SECT. 
 without bearing- it a double relation, viz. of ideas to the 
 
 object of the passion, and of sensation to the passion itself. Experi- 
 This we must prove by our experiments. ments to 
 
 1- -^ i- _ connrm 
 
 First Experiment. To proceed with the greater order m this sys- 
 these experiments, let us first suppose, that being plac'd in ^^• 
 the situation above-mention'd, viz. in company with some 
 other person, there is an object presented, that has no rela- 
 tion either of impressions or ideas to any of these passions. 
 Thus suppose we regard together an ordinary stone, or other 
 common object, belonging to neither of us, and causing of 
 itself no emotion, or independent pain and pleasure : 'Tis 
 evident such an object will produce none of these four 
 i:)assions. Let us try it upon each of them successively. 
 Let us apply it to love, to hatred, to humility, to pride ; 
 none of them ever arises in the smallest degree imaginable. 
 Let us change the object, as oft as we please ; provided still 
 we choose one, that has neither of these two relations. Let 
 us repeat the experiment in all the dispositions, of which 
 the mind is susceptible. No object, in the vast variety of 
 nature, will, in any disposition, produce any passion without 
 these relations. 
 
 Second Experiment. Since an object, that wants both 
 these relations can never produce any passion, let us bestow 
 on it only one of these relations ; and see what will follow. 
 Thus suppose, I regard a stone or any common object, that 
 belongs either to me or my companion, and by that means 
 acquires a relation of ideas to the object of the passions : 
 'Tis plain, that to consider the matter a priori, no emotion 
 of any kind can reasonably be expected. For besides, that 
 a relation of ideas operates secretly and calmly on the mind, 
 it bestows an equal impulse towards the opposite passions of 
 pride and humility, love and hatred, according as the object 
 belongs to ourselves or others ; which opposition of the 
 passions must destroy both, and leave the mind perfectly 
 free from any affection or emotion. This reasoning a priori 
 is confirm'd by experience. No trivial or vulgar object, that 
 causes not a pain or pleasure, independent of the passion, 
 Avill ever, by its property or other relations, either to our- 
 selves or others, be able to produce the affections of pride or 
 humility, love or hatred. 
 
 Third Experiment. 'Tis evident, therefore, that a relation
 
 126 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part IL 
 
 of ideas is not able alone to give rise to these affections. 
 Let us now remove this relation, and in its stead place a 
 relation of impressions, by presenting an object, which is 
 agreeable or disagreeable, but has no relation either to our- 
 self or companion ; and let us observe the consequences. 
 To consider the matter first a priori, as in the preceding 
 experiment ; we may conclude, that the object will have a 
 small, but an uncertain connexion with these passions. For 
 besides, that this relation is not a cold and imperceptible 
 one, it has not the inconvenience of the relation of ideas, 
 nor directs us with equal force to two contrary passions, 
 which by their opposition destroy each other. But if we 
 consider, on the other hand, that this transition from the 
 sensation to the affection is not forwarded by any principle, 
 that produces a transition of ideas ; but, on the contrary, 
 that tho' the one impression be easily transfus'd into the 
 other, yet the change of objects is suppos'd contrary to all 
 the principles, that cause a transition of that kind ; we may 
 from thence infer, that nothing will ever be a steady or 
 durable cause of any passion, that is connected with the 
 passion merely by a relation of impressions. What our 
 reason wou'd conclude from analogy, after ballancing these 
 arguments, wou'd be, that an object, which produces 
 pleasure or uneasiness, but has no manner of connexion 
 either with ourselves or others, may give such a turn to the 
 disposition, as that it may naturally fall into pride or love, 
 humility or hatred, and search for other objects, uj)on which, 
 by a double relation, it can found these affections ; but that 
 an object, which has only one of these relations, tho' the 
 most advantageous one, can never give rise to any constant 
 and establisli'd passion. 
 
 Most fortunately all this reasoning is found to be exactly 
 conformable to experience, and the phsenomena of the 
 passions. Suppose I were travelling with a companion thro' 
 a country, to which we are both utter strangers ; 'tis evident, 
 that if the prospects be beautiful, the roads agreeable, and 
 the inns commodious, this may put me into good humour 
 both with myself and fellow-traveller. But as we suppose, 
 that this country has no relation either to myself or friend, 
 it can never be the immediate cause of pride or love ; and 
 therefore if I found not the passion on some other object, 
 that bears either of us a closer relation, my emotions are
 
 Sect. II. OF THE PASSIONS. I'i7 
 
 rather to be consider'd as the overflowings of an elevate or SECT, 
 humane disposition, than as an estabhsh'd passion. The . _ ^' ^ 
 case is the same where the object produces uneasiness. Experi- 
 
 Fourth Experiment. Having found, that neither an object ments to 
 without any relation of ideas or impressions, nor an object, ^.his sys- 
 that has only one relation, can ever cause pride or humility, tem. 
 love or hatred ; reason alone may convince us, without any 
 farther experiment, that whatever has a double relation 
 must necessarily excite these passions ; since 'tis evident 
 they must have some cause. Bat to leave as little room for 
 doubt as possible, let us renew our experiments, and see 
 whether the event in this case answers our expectation. I 
 choose an object, such as virtue, that causes a separate 
 satisfaction: On this object I bestow a relation to self; and 
 find, that from this disposition of affairs, there immediately 
 arises a passion. But what passion? That very one of 
 pride, to which this object bears a double relation. Its idea 
 is related to that of self, the object of the passion : The 
 sensation it causes resembles the sensation of the passion. 
 That I may be sure I am not mistaken in this exj)eriment, I 
 remove first one relation ; then another ; and find, that each 
 removal destroys the passion, and leaves the object perfectly 
 indifferent. But I am not content with this. I make a still 
 farther trial ; and instead of removing the relation, I only 
 change it for one of a different kind. I suppose the virtue 
 to belong to my companion, not to myself; and observe 
 what follows from this alteration. I immediately perceive 
 the affections to wheel about, and leaving pride, where there 
 is only one relation, viz. of impressions, fall to the side of 
 love, where they are attracted by a double relation of im- 
 pressions and ideas. By repeating the same experiment, in 
 changing anew the relation of ideas, I bring the affections 
 back to pride ; and by a new repetition I again place them 
 at love or kindness. Being fully convinc'd of the influence of 
 this relation, I try the effects of the other; and by changing 
 virtue for vice, convert the pleasant impression, which arises 
 from the former, into the disagreeable one, which proceeds 
 from the latter. The effect still answers expectation. Vice, 
 when plac'd on another, excites, by means of its double 
 relations, the passion of hatred, instead of love, which for 
 the same reason arises from virtue. To continue the experi- 
 ment, I change anew the relation of ideas, and suppose the
 
 128 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part U. 
 
 PART vice to belong to myself. What follows ? What is usual. 
 
 ._ _ . A subsequent change of the passion from hatred to humility. 
 
 Of love This humility I convert into pride by a new change of the 
 
 andhatred. impression ; and find after all that 1 have compleated the 
 
 round, and have by these changes brought back the passion 
 
 to that very situation, in which I first found it. 
 
 But to make the matter still more certain, I alter thft 
 object ; and instead of vice and virtue, make the trial upon 
 beauty and deformity, riches and poverty, power and servi- 
 tude. Each of these objects runs the circle of the passions 
 in the same manner, by a change of their relations : And in 
 whatever order we proceed, whether thro' pride, love, hatred, 
 humility, or thro' humility, hatred, love, pride, the ex- 
 periment is not in the least diversify'd. Esteem and con- 
 tempt, indeed, arise on some occasions instead of love and 
 hatred ; but these are at the bottom the same passions, only 
 diversify'd by some causes, which we shall explain after- 
 wards. 
 
 Fifth Experiment. To give greater authority to these 
 experiments, let us change the situation of affairs as much 
 as possible, and place the passions and objects in all the 
 different positions, of which they are susceptible. Let us 
 suppose, beside the relations above-mention'd, that the per- 
 son, along with whom I malce all these experiments, is 
 closely connected with me either by blood or friendship. He 
 is, we shall suppose, my son or brother, or is united to me 
 by a long and familiar acquaintance. Let us next suppose, 
 that the cause of the passion acquires a double relation of 
 impressions and ideas to this person ; and let us see what 
 the effects are of all these complicated attractions and re- 
 lations. 
 
 Before we consider what they are in fact, let us determine 
 what they ought to be, conformable to my hypothesis. 'Tis 
 plain, that, according as the impression is either pleasant 
 or uneasy, the passion of love or hatred must arise towards 
 the person, who is thus connected to the cause of the im- 
 pression by these double relations, which I have all along 
 requir'd. The virtue of a brother must make me love him ; 
 as his vice or infamy must excite the contrary passion. But 
 to judge only from the situation of affairs, I shou'd not 
 expect, that the affections wou'd rest there, and never trans- 
 fuse themselves into any other impression. As there is here
 
 Sect. H. OF TIIE PASSIONS. 129 
 
 a person, who by means of a double relation is the object SECT. 
 
 of my passion, the very same reasoning leads me to think , ^__ 
 
 the passion will be carry 'd farther. The person has a rela- Experi- 
 tion of ideas to myself, according- to the supposition ; the ments to 
 passion, of which he is the object, by being either agreeable tij^g gyg. 
 or uneasy, has a relation of impressions to pride or humility, tem. 
 'Tis evident, then, that one of these passions must arise 
 from the love or hatred. 
 
 This is the reasoning I form in conformity to my hypo- 
 thesis ; and am pleas'd to find upon trial that every thing 
 answers exactly to my expectation. The virtue or vice of 
 a son or brother not only excites love or hatred, but by a 
 new transition, from similar causes, gives rise to pride or 
 humility. Nothing causes greater vanity than any shining 
 quality in our relations ; as nothing mortifies ns more than 
 their vice or infamy. This exact conformity of experience 
 to our reasoning is a convincing proof of the solidity of that 
 hypothesis, upon which we reason. 
 
 Sixth Experiment. This evidence will be still augmented, 
 if we reverse the experiment, and preserving still the same 
 relations, begin only with a different passion. Suppose, 
 that instead of the virtue or vice of a son or brother, which 
 causes first love or hatred, and afterwards pride or humility, 
 we place these good or bad qualities on ourselves, without 
 any immediate connexion with the person, who is related 
 to us : Experience shews us, that by this change of situation 
 the whole chain is broke, and that the mind is not con- 
 vey 'd from one passion to another, as in the preceding 
 instance. We never love or hate a son or brother for the 
 virtue or vice we discern in ourselves ; tho' 'tis evident the 
 same qualities in him give us a very sensible pride or 
 humility. The transition from pride or humility to love or 
 hatred is not so natural as from love or hatred to j)ride or 
 humility. This may at first sight be esteem'd contrary to 
 my hypothesis ; since the relations of impressions and ideas 
 are in both cases precisely the same. Pride and humility 
 are impressions related to love and hatred. Myself am re- 
 lated to the person. It shoTi'd, therefore, be expected, that 
 like causes must produce like effects, and a perfect transition 
 arise from the double relation, as in all other cases. This 
 difficulty we may easily solve by the following reflections. 
 
 'Tis evident, that as we are at all times intimately con- 
 
 YOL. Tl. K
 
 130 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUJNIAN NATURE. 
 
 Part TI. 
 
 PART 
 U. 
 
 Of love 
 and hatred. 
 
 scious of ourselves, our sentiments and passions, their ideas 
 must strike upon us witli greater vivacity than the ideas of 
 the sentiments and passions of any other person. But ever}? 
 thing, that strikes upon us with vivacity, and appears in a 
 full and strong light, forces itself, in a manner, into our con- 
 sideration, and becomes present to the mind on the smallest 
 hint and most trivial relation. For the same reason, when 
 it is once present, it engages the attention, and keeps it from 
 wandering to other objects, however strong may be their 
 relation to our first object. The imagination passes easily 
 from obscure to lively ideas, but with difficulty from lively to 
 obscure. In the one case the relation is aided by anothe? 
 principle : In the other case, 'tis oppos'd by it. 
 
 Now I have observ'd, that those two faculties of the mind, 
 the imagination and passions, assist each other in tlieii 
 operation, when their propensities are similar, and when they 
 act upon the same object. The mind has always a propensity 
 to pass from a passion to any other related to it ; and thig 
 propensity is forwarded when the object of the one passion 
 is related to that of the other. The two impulses concur 
 with each other, and render the whole transition more 
 smooth and easy. But if it shou'd happen, that while the 
 relation of ideas, strictly speaking, continues the same, its 
 influence, in causing a transition of the imagination, shou'd 
 no longer take place, 'tis evident its influence on the passions 
 must also cease, as being dependent entirely on that transi- 
 tion. This is the reason why pride or humility is not trans- 
 fus'd into love or hatred with the same ease, that the latter 
 passions are chang'd into the former. If a person be my 
 brother I am his likewise : But tho' the relations be recip- 
 rocal, they have very different effects on the imagination. 
 The passage is smooth and open from tlie consideration of 
 any person related to us to that of ourself, of whom we are 
 every moment conscious. But when the affections are once 
 directed to ourself, the fancy passes not with the same 
 facility from that object to any other person, how closely so 
 ever connected with us. This easy or difficult transition of 
 the imagination operates upon the passions, and facilitates 
 or retards their transition ; which is a clear proof, that these 
 two faculties of the passions and imagination are connected 
 together, and that the relations of ideas have an influeiico 
 upon the affections. Besides innumerable experiments that
 
 Sect. H. OF THE PASSIONS. 131 
 
 prove this, we here find, that even wlien the relation remains ; SECT, 
 if by any particular circumstance its usual effect upon the , _ ;' . 
 fancy in producing an association or transition of ideas, is Experi- 
 prevented ; its usual effect upon the passions, in conveying "lents tx. 
 us from one to another, is in like manner prevented. this sys- 
 
 Sorae may, perhaps, find a contradiction betwixt this phse- '^^''"• 
 nomenon and that of sympathy, where the mind passes easily 
 from the idea of ourselves to that of any other object related 
 to us. But this difficulty will vanish, if we consider that in 
 sympathy our own person is not the object of any passion, 
 nor is there any thing, that fixes our attention on ourselves ; 
 as ill the present case, where we are suppos'd to be actuated 
 with pride or humility. Ourself, independent of the percep- 
 tion of every other object, is in reality nothing : For which 
 reason we must turn our view to external objects ; and 'tis 
 natural for us to consider with most attention such as lie 
 contiguous to us, or resemble us. But when self is the object 
 of a passion, 'tis not natural to quit the consideration of it, 
 till the passion be exhausted ; in which case the double rela- 
 tions of impressions and ideas can no longer operate. 
 
 Seventh Experiment. To put this whole reasoning to a 
 farther trial, let us make a new experiment ; and as we have 
 already seen the effects of related passions and ideas, let us 
 here suppose an identity of passions along with a relation of 
 ideas ; and let us consider the effects of this new situation. 
 'Tis evident a transition of the passions from the one object 
 to the other is here in all reason to be expected ; since the 
 relation of ideas is suppos'd still to continvie, and an identity 
 of impressions must produce a stronger connexion, than the 
 most perfect resemblance, that can be imagin'd. Tr' a double 
 relation, therefore, of impressions and ideas is able to pro- 
 duce a transition from one to the other, much more an 
 identity of impressions with a relation of ideas. Accordingly 
 we find, that when we either love or hate any person, the 
 passions seldom continue within their first bounds ; but 
 extend themselves towards all the contiguous objects, and 
 comprehend the friends and relations of him we love or hate. 
 Nothing is more natural than to bear a kindness to one 
 brother on account of our friendship for another, without 
 any farther examination of his character. A. quarrel with 
 one person gives us a hatred for the whole family, tho'
 
 102 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part II, 
 
 entirely innocent of that, which displeases us. Instances of 
 this kind are every where to be met with. 
 
 There is only one difficulty in this experiment, which it 
 will be necessary to account for, before we proceed any 
 farther. 'Tis evident, that tho' all passions pass easily from 
 one object to another related to it, yet this transition is made 
 with greater facility, where the more considerable object is 
 first presented, and the lesser follows it, than where this 
 order is revers'd, and the lesser takes the precedence. Thus 
 'tis more natural for us to love the son upon account of the 
 fiither, than the father upon account of the son ; the servant 
 for the master, than the master for the servant ; the subject 
 for the prince, than the prince for the subject. In like 
 manner we more readily contract a hatred against a whole 
 family, where our first quarrel is with the head of it, than 
 where we are displeas'd with a son, or servant, or some 
 inferior member. In short, our passions, like other objects, 
 descend with greater facility than they ascend. 
 
 That we may comprehend, wherein consists the difficulty 
 of explaining this phsenomenon, we must consider, that the 
 very same reason, which determines the imagination to pass 
 from remote to contiguous objects, with more facility than 
 from contiguous to remote, causes it likewise to change with 
 more ease, the less for the greater, than the greater for the less. 
 Whatever has the greatest influence is most taken notice of ; 
 and whatever is most taken notice of, presents itself most 
 readily to the imagination. We are more apt to over-look in 
 any subject, Avhat is trivial, than what appears of considerable 
 moment ; but especially if the latter takes the precedence, and 
 first engages our attention. Thus if any accident makes us 
 consider the Satellites of Jupiter, our fancy is naturally deter- 
 min'd to form the idea of that planet ; but if we first 
 reflect on the principal planet, 'tis more natural for us to 
 overlook its attendants. The mention of the provinces of 
 any empire conveys our thought to the seat of the empire ; 
 but the fancy i-cturns not with the same facility to the* con- 
 sideration of the provinces. Tho idt^a of the servant makes 
 us think of the master; that of the subject carries our view 
 to the prince. But the snrnc relation has not an equal in- 
 fluence in conveying us back again. And on this is founded 
 that reproach of Cornelia to her sons, that they ought to be 
 ashmn'd she sliou'd be more known by the title of the
 
 Skcx. II. of the passions. 103 
 
 daughter of 8ci2no, than by that of the mother of the SECT. 
 
 Gracchi. This was, in other words, exhorting them to ^ — 
 
 render themselves as illustrious and famous as their grand- Experi- 
 father, otherwise the imagination of the people, passing from ^^^|;*^^jj|^'^ 
 her who was intermediate, and plac'd in an equal relation to this ays- 
 botli, wou'd always leave them, and denominate her by what t^im. 
 was more considerable and of greater moment. On the same 
 principle is founded that common custom of making wives 
 bear the name of their husbands, rather than husbands tluit 
 of their wives ; as also the ceremony of giving the prece- 
 dency to those, whom we honour and respect. We might 
 find many other instances to confirm this principle, were it 
 not already sufficiently evident. 
 
 Now since the fancy finds the same facility in passing 
 from the lesser to the greater, as from remote to coiitiguous, 
 why does not this easy transition of ideas assist the transi- 
 tion of passions in the former case, as well as in the latter? 
 The virtues of a friend or brother produce first love, and then 
 pride ; because in that case the imagination passes from 
 remote to contiguous, according to its propensity. Our own 
 virtues produce not first pride, and then love to a friend or 
 brother; because the passage in that case wou'd be from 
 contiguous to remote, contrary to its propensity. But the 
 love or hatred of an inferior causes not readily any passion 
 to the superior, tho' that be the natural propensity of the 
 imagination : While the love or hatred of a superior, causes 
 a passion to the inferior, contrary to its propensity. In 
 short, the same facility of transition operates not in the 
 same manner upon superior and inferior as upon contiguous 
 and remote. These two phoenoniena appear contradictory, 
 and require some attention to be reconcil'd. 
 
 As the transition of ideas is here made contrary to the 
 natural propensity of the imagination, that faculty must bo 
 overpower 'd by some stronger princijDle of another kind ; and 
 as there is nothing ever present to the mind but impressions 
 and ideas, this principle nivist necessarily lie in the impres- 
 sions. Now it has been observ'd, that impressions or passions 
 are connected only by their resemblance, and that where any 
 two passions place the mind in the same or in similar dis- 
 l^ositions, it very naturally passes from the one to the other : 
 As on the contrary, a repugnance in the dispositions pro. 
 duces a difficulty in the transition of the passions. But 'ti:?
 
 134 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of love 
 audliatred. 
 
 observable, that this repugnance may arise from a difference 
 of degree as well as of kind nor do we experience a greater 
 difficulty in passing suddenly from a small degree of love to 
 a small degree of hatred, than from a small to a great degree 
 of either of these affections. A man, when calm or only 
 moderately agitated, is so different, in every respect, from 
 himself, when disturbed with a violent passion, that no two 
 persons can be more unlike ; nor is it easy to pass from the 
 one extreme to the other, without a considerable interval 
 betwixt them. 
 
 The difficulty is not less, if it be not rather greater, in 
 passing from the strong passion to the weak, than in passing 
 from the weak to the strong, provided the one j)assion upon 
 its appearance destroys the other, and they do not both of 
 them exist at once. But the case is entirely alter'd, when 
 the passions unite together, and actuate the mind at the 
 same time. A weak passion, when added to a strong, makes 
 not so considerable change in the disposition, as a strong 
 when added to a weak ; for which reason there is a closer 
 connexion betwixt the great degree and the small, than be- 
 twixt the small degree and the great. 
 
 The degree of any passion depends upon the nature of its 
 object ; and an affection directed to a person, who is con- 
 siderable in our eyes, fills and possesses the mind much more 
 than one, which has for its object a person we esteem of less 
 consequence. Here then the contradiction betwixt the pro- 
 pensities of the imagination and passion displays itself. 
 When we turn our thought to a great and a small object, the 
 imagination finds more facility in passing from the small to 
 the great, than from the great to the small ; but the affec- 
 tions find a greater difficulty : And as the affections are a 
 more powerful principle than the imagination, no wonder 
 they prevail over it, and draw the mind to their side. In 
 spite of the difficulty of passing from the idea of great to 
 that of little, a passion directed to the former, produces 
 always a similar passion towards the latter ; when the great 
 and little are related together. The idea of the servant 
 conveys our thought most readily to the master ; but the 
 hatred or love of the master produces with greater facility 
 anger or good- will to the servant. The strongest passion in 
 this case takes the pz'ecedence ; and the addition of the 
 weaker making no considerable change on the disposition,
 
 Sect. II. OF THE PASSIONS. 135 
 
 the passage is by that means render'd more easy and natural SECT, 
 
 betwixt them. . _ ,' 
 
 As in the foregoing experiment we found, that a relation Experi- 
 
 of ideas, which, by any particular circumstance, ceases to ^^^}^ *<* 
 
 •^ continn 
 
 produce its usual effect of facilitating the transition of ideas, this sys- 
 ceases likewise to operate on the passions ; so in the present '■'^'^• 
 experiment we find the same property of the impressions. 
 Two different degrees of the same passion are surely related 
 together ; but if the smaller be first present, it has little or 
 no tendency to introduce the greater ; and that because the 
 addition of the great to the little, produces a more sensible 
 alteration on the temper, than the addition of the little to the 
 great. These phsenomena, wlien duly weigh'd, will be found 
 convincing proofs of this hypothesis. 
 
 And these proofs will be confirra'd, if we consider the 
 manner in which the mind here reconciles the contradiction, 
 I have observ'd betwixt the passions and the imagination. 
 The fancy passes with more facility from the less to the 
 greater, than from the greater to the less : But on the con- 
 trary a violent passion produces more easily a feeble, than 
 that does a violent. In this opposition the passion in the 
 end prevails over the imagination ; but 'tis commonly by 
 complying with it, and by seeking another quality, which 
 may counter-ballance that principle, from whence the oppo- 
 sition arises. When we love the father or master of a family, 
 we little think of his children or servants. But when these 
 are present with us, or when it lies any ways in our power to 
 serve them, the nearness and contiguity in this case encreases 
 their magnitude, or at least removes that opposition, which 
 the fancy makes to the transition of the affections. If the 
 imagination finds a difficulty in passing from greater to less, 
 it finds an equal facility in passing from remote to con- 
 tiguous, which brings the matter to an equality, and leaves 
 the way open from the one passion to the other. 
 
 Eighth Experiment. I have observ'd that the transition 
 from love or hatred to pride or humility, is more easy than 
 from pride or humility to love or hatred ; and that the diffi- 
 cult)^ which the imagination finds in passing from contiguous 
 to remote, is the cause why we scarce have any instance of 
 the latter transition of the aflFections. I must, however 
 make one exception, viz. when the very cause of the pride 
 and hiunility is plac'd in some other person. For in that
 
 136 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part II 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of love 
 Rnd iiHtreJ. 
 
 case the imagination is necessitated to consider the person, 
 nor can it possibly confine its view to ourselves. Thus 
 nothing- more readily produces kindness and affection to any 
 person, than his approbation of our conduct and character : 
 As on the other hand, nothing inspires us with a stronger 
 hatred, than his blame or contempt. Here 'tis evident, 
 that the original passion is pride or humility, whose object 
 is self; and that this passion is transfus'd into love or hatred, 
 whose object is some other person, notwithstanding the rule 
 I have already establish'd, that the imagination ijasses with 
 difficulty from contiguous to remote. But the transition iii 
 this case is not made merely on account of the relation be- 
 twixt ourselves and the person ; but because that very person 
 is the real cause of our first passion, and of consequence is 
 intimately connected with it. 'Tis his approbation that 
 produces pride ; and disapprobation, humility. No wonder, 
 then, the imagination returns back again attended with the 
 related passions of love and hatred. This is not a con- 
 tradiction, but an exception to the rule; and an exception 
 that arises from the same reason with the rule itself. 
 
 Such an exception as this is, therefore, rather a confirma- 
 tion of the rule. And indeed, if we consider all the eight 
 experiments I have explain'd, we shall find that the same 
 principle appears in all of them, and that 'tis by means of a 
 transition arising from a double relation of impressions and 
 ideas, pride and humilit}', love and hatred are produc'd. An 
 object without ' a relation, or ^ with but one, never pro- 
 duces either of these passions ; and 'tis ^ found that the 
 passion always varies in conformity to the relation. Nay 
 we may observe, that where the relation, by any particular 
 circumstance, has not its usual effect of producing a transi- 
 tion either of* ideas or of impressions, it ceases to operate 
 upon the passions, and gives rise neither to pride nor love, 
 humility nor hatred. This rule we find still to hold good,'' 
 even under the appearance of its contrary ; and as relation 
 is frequently experienc'd to have no effect; which upon 
 examination is found to proceed from some particular cir- 
 cumstance, that prevents the transition ; so even in instances, 
 where (hat circumstance, tho' present, prevents not the 
 
 First Experiment. 
 
 Second and Third Experiments. 
 
 Fourth Experiment. 
 
 * Sixth Experiment. 
 
 * Seventh and Eighth Experiments.
 
 Sect. HI. OF THE TASSIONS. 137 
 
 transition, 'tis found to arise from some otlier circumstance, SECT. 
 
 which coanter-ballances it. Thus not only the variations . — i^-1— - 
 
 resolve themselves into the general principle, but even the DifReultio« 
 
 variations of these variations. ^^' ^ 
 
 Sect. 111.— Difficulties 8olv\l. 
 
 After so many and such undeniable proofs drawn from 
 daily experience and observation, it may seem superflaous to 
 enter into a particular examination of all the causes of love 
 and hatred. I shall, therefore, employ the sequel of this part. 
 First, In removing some difficulties, concerning particular 
 causes of these passions. Secondly, In examining the com- 
 pound affections, which arise from the mixture of love and 
 hatred with other emotions. 
 
 Nothing is more evident, than that any person acquires 
 our kindness, or is expos'd to our ill-will, in proportion to 
 the pleasure or uneasiness we receive from him, and that the 
 passions keep pace exactly with the sensations in all their 
 changes and variations. Whoever can find the means either 
 by his services, his beauty, or his flattery, to render himself 
 useful or aprreeable to us, is sure of our affections : As on the 
 other hand, whoever harms or displeases us never fails to 
 excite our anger or hatred. When our own nation is at war 
 with any other, we detest them under the character of cruel, 
 perfidious, unjust and violent : But always esteem ourselves 
 and allies equitable, moderate, and merciful. If the general 
 of our enemies be successful, 'tis with difficulty we allow 
 him the figure and character of a man. He is a sorcerer : 
 He has a communication with daemons ; as is reported of 
 Oliver Cromwell, and the DiiJcc of Luxembourg : He is bloody- 
 minded, and takes a pleasure in death and destruction. 
 But if the success be on our side, our commaiider has all tlie 
 opposite good qualities, and is a pattern of virtue, as well 
 as of courage and conduct. His treachery we call policy : 
 His cruelty is an evil inseparable from war. In short, every 
 one of his faults we either endeavour to extenuate, or dignify 
 it with the name of that virtue, which approaches it. 'Tis 
 evident the same method of thinking runs thro' common 
 life. 
 
 There are some, who add another condition, and require 
 aot only that the pain and pleasure arise from the person,
 
 138 A TIIEATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part II. 
 
 but likewise that it arise knowingly, and with a particular 
 design and intention. A man, who wounds and harms us by 
 Of love accident, becomes not our enemy upon that account, nor do 
 and hatred, -^yg think oursclvcs bouud by any ties of gratitude to one, 
 who does us any service after the same manner. By the in- 
 tention we judge of the actions, and according as that is 
 good or bad, they become causes of love or hatred. 
 
 But here Ave must make a distinction. If that quality in 
 another, which pleases or displeases, be constant and in- 
 herent in his person and character, it will cause love or 
 hatred independent of the intention : But otherwise a know- 
 ledge and design is requisite, in order to give rise to these 
 passions. One that is disagreeable by his deformity or folly 
 is the object of our aversion, tho' nothing be more certain, 
 than that he has not the least intention of displeasing us by 
 these qualities. But if the uneasiness proceed not from a 
 quality, but an action, which is produc'd and annihilated in 
 a moment, 'tis necessarj^, in order to produce some relation, 
 and connect this action sufficiently with the person, that it 
 be deriv'd from a particular fore-thought and design. 'Tis not 
 enough, that the action arise from the person, and have him 
 for its immediate cause and author. This relation alone is too 
 feeble and inconstant to be a foundation for these passions. 
 It reaches not the sensible and thinking part, and neither 
 proceeds from any thing dnrahle in him, nor leaves any thing 
 behind it ; but passes in a moment, and is as if it had never 
 been. On the other hand, an intention shews certain quah- 
 ties, which remaining after the action is perform'd, connect 
 it with the person, and facilitate the transition of ideas from 
 one to the other. We can never think of him without 
 reflecting on these qualities ; unless repentance and a change 
 of life have produc'd an alteration in that respect : In 
 which case the passion is likewise alter'd. This therefore is 
 one reason, Avhy an intention is requisite to either love or 
 hatred. 
 
 But we must farther consider, that an intention, besides 
 its strengthening the relation of ideas, is often necessary to 
 produce a relation of impressions, and give rise to pleasure 
 and uneasiness. For 'tis observable, that the principal part 
 of an injury is the contempt and hatred, Avhich it shews in 
 the person, that injures us ; and without that, the mere harm 
 gives us a less sensible uneasiness. In like manner, a good
 
 Sect. III. OF THE TASSIONS. 139 
 
 office IS agreeable, chiefly because it flatters our vauity, and SECT. 
 is a proof of the kindness and esteem of the person, who __i^L_ 
 performs it. The removal of the intention, removes the DifReultie 
 mortification in the one case, and vanity in the other ; and solv'd. 
 must of course cause a remarkable diminution in the passions 
 of love and hatred. 
 
 I grant, that these effects of the removal of design, in 
 diminishing the relations of impressions and ideas, are not 
 eutire, nor able to remove every degree of these relations. 
 But then I ask, if the removal of design be able entirely to 
 remove the passion of love and hatred ? Experience, I am 
 sure, informs us of the contrary, nor is there any thing more 
 certain, than that men often fall into a violent anger for 
 injuries, which they themselves must own to be entirely 
 involuntary and accidental. This emotion, indeed, cannot 
 be of long continuance ; but still is sufficient to shew, that 
 there is a natural connexion betwixt uneasiness and anger, 
 and that the relation of impressions will operate upon a 
 very small relation of ideas. But when the violence of the 
 impression is once a little abated, the defect of the relation 
 begins to be better felt ; and as the character of a person is 
 no wise interested in such injuries as are casual and in- 
 voluntary, it seldom happens that on their account, we 
 entertain a lasting enmity. 
 
 To illustrate this doctrine by a parallel instance, we may 
 observe, that not only the uneasiness, which proceeds from 
 another by accident, has but little force to excite our passion, 
 but also that which arises from an acknowledg'd necessity 
 and duty. One that has a real design of harming us, pro- 
 ceeding not from hatred and ill-will, but from justice and 
 equity, draws not upon him our anger, if we be in any 
 degree reasonable ; notwithstanding he is both the cause, 
 and the knowing cause of our sufferings. Let us examine 
 a little this phsenomenon. 
 
 'Tis evident in the first place, that this circumstance is 
 not decisive ; and tho' it may be able to diminish the 
 passions, 'tis seldom it can entirely remove them. How 
 few criminals are there, who have no ill-will to the person, 
 that accuses them, or to the judge, that condemns them, 
 even tho' they be conscious of their own deserts ? In like 
 manner our antagonist in a law-suit, and our competitor for 
 an office, are commonly regarded as our enemies; tho' we
 
 140 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATUIIE. Part II. 
 
 PART must acknowledg-e, if we won'd but reflect a moment, that 
 
 ^ ' their motive is entirely as justifiable as our own. 
 
 Of love Besides we may consider, that when we receive harm from 
 
 indb^trud. j^j^y person, we are apt to imagine him criminal, and 'tis 
 with extreme difficulty we allow of his justice and innocence. 
 This is a clear proof, that, indepoident of the opinion of 
 iniquity, any harm or uneasiness has a natural tendency to 
 excite our hatred, and that afterwards we seek for reasons 
 upon which we may justify and establish the passion. Here 
 the idea of injury produces not the passion, but arises 
 from it. 
 
 Nor is it any wonder that passion shou'd produce the 
 opinion of injury ; since otherwise it must suffer a con- 
 siderable diminution, which all the passions avoid as much 
 as possible. The removal of injury may remove the anger, 
 without proving that the anger arises only from the injury. 
 The harm and the justice are two contrary objects, of which 
 the one has a tendency to produce hatred, and the other 
 love ; and 'tis according to their different degrees, and our 
 particular turn of thinking, that either of the objects pre- 
 vails, and excites its proper passion. 
 
 Sect. IV. — Of the Love of Relations. 
 
 Having given a reason, why several actions, that cause a 
 real pleasure or uneasiness, excite not any degree, or but a 
 small one, of the passion of love or ha.tred towards the 
 actors; 'twill be necessary to shew, wherein consists the 
 pleasure or uneasiness of many objects, which we find by 
 experience to produce these passions. 
 
 According to the preceding system there is always requir'd 
 a double relation of impressions and ideas betwixt the cause 
 and effect, in order to produce either love or hatred. But 
 tho' this be UJiiversally true, 'tis remarkable that the passion 
 of love may be excited by only one relation of a different 
 kind, viz., betwixt ourselves and the object; or more pro- 
 perly speaking, that this relation is always attended with 
 both the others. Whoever is united to us by any connexion 
 is always sure of a share of our love, proportion'd to the 
 coimcxion, without enquiring into his other qualities. Thus 
 the relation of blood produces the sti'ongest tie the mind is
 
 Sect. IV. OF THE PASSIONS. 141 
 
 capable of in the love of parents to tlieir cliildren, and a 
 lesser degree of the same affection, as the relation lessens. 
 Nor has consanguinity alone this effect, but any other rela- 
 tion without exception. We love our country-men, our 
 neighbours, those of the same trade, profession, and even 
 name with ourselves. Every one of these relations is es- 
 teem'd some tie, and gives a title to a share of our affection. 
 
 There is another phajnomenon, which is parallel to this, 
 viz. that acquaint a7ice, without any kind of relation, gives 
 rise to love and kindness. When we have contracted a 
 habitude and intimacy with any person ; tho' in frequenting 
 his company we have not been able to discover any very 
 valuable quality, of which he is possess'd ; yet we cannot 
 forbear preferring him to strangers, of whose superior merit 
 we are fully convinc'd. These two phcenomena of the effects 
 of relation and acquaintance will give mutual light to each 
 other, and may be both explain'd from the same principle. 
 
 Those, who take a pleasure in declaiming against human 
 nature, have observ'd, that man is altogether insufficient to 
 support himself ; and that when you loosen all the holds, 
 which he has of external objects, he immediately drops down 
 into the deepest melancholy and despair. From this, say 
 they, proceeds that continual search after amusement in 
 gaming, in hunting, in business ; by which we endeavour to 
 forget ourselves, and excite our spirits from the languid 
 state, into which they fall, when not sustain'd by some brisk 
 and lively emotion. To this method of thinking I so far 
 agree, that I own the mind to be insufficient, of itself, to its 
 own entertainment, and that it naturally seeks after foreign 
 objects, which may produce a lively sensation, and agitate 
 i,he spirits. On the appearance of such an object it awakes, 
 as it were, from a dream : The blood flows with a new tide : 
 The heart is elevated : And the whole man acquires a 
 vigour, which he cannot command in his solitary and calm 
 moments. Hence company is naturally so rejoicing, as 
 presenting the liveliest of all objects, viz. a rational and 
 thinking Being like ourselves, who communicates to us all 
 the actions of his mind ; makes us privy to his inmost 
 sentiments and affections ; and lets us see, in the very instant 
 of their production, all the emotions, which are caus'd by 
 any object. Every lively idea is ngreeable, but especially 
 that of a passion, because such an idea becomes a kind of
 
 142 
 
 A TREATISE OF IfCBLVN NATURE. 
 
 Pakt it. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of love 
 and hatred. 
 
 passion, and gives a more sensible agitation to the mind, 
 than any other image or conception. 
 
 This being once admitted, all the rest is easy. For as the 
 company of strangers is agreeable to us for a short time, by 
 inlivening our thought ; so the company of our relations and 
 acquaintance must be peculiarly agreeable, because it has 
 this effect in a greater degree, and is of more durable 
 influence. Whatever is related to us is conceiv'd in a lively 
 manner by the easy transition from ourselves to the related 
 object. Custom also, or acquaintance facilitates the entrance, 
 and strengthens the concei)tion of any object. The first case 
 is parallel to our reasonings from cause and effect; the 
 second to education. And as reasoning and education 
 concur only in producing a lively and strong idea of any 
 object ; so is this the only particular, which is common to 
 relation and acquaintance. This must, therefore, be the 
 influencing quality, by which they produce all their common 
 effects ; and love or kindness being one of these effects, it 
 must be from the force and liveliness of conception, that the 
 passion is deriv'd. Such a conception is peculiarly agree- 
 able, and makes us have an affectionate regard for every 
 thing, that produces it, vfhen the proper object of kindness 
 and good- will. 
 
 'Tis obvious, that people associate together according to 
 their particular tempers and dispositions, and that men of 
 gay tempers naturally love the gay ; as the serious bear an 
 affection to the serious. This not only happens, where they 
 remark this resemblance betwixt themselves and others, but 
 also by the natural course of the disposition, and by a certain 
 sympathy, which always arises betwixt similar characters. 
 Where they remark the resemblance, it operates after the 
 manner of a relation, by producing a connexion of ideas. 
 Where they do not remark it, it operates by some other 
 principle ; and if this latter principle be similar to the former, 
 it must be received as a confirmation of the foregoing 
 reasoning. 
 
 The idea of ourselves is always intimately present to us, 
 and conveys a sensible degree of vivacity to the idea of any 
 other object, to which we are related. This lively idea 
 changes by degrees into a real impression ; these two kinds 
 of perception being in a great measure the same, and differing 
 only in their degrees of force and vivacity. But this change
 
 Sect. TV. OF THE PASSIONS. 143 
 
 must be prodiic'd with the greater ease, that our natural SECT. 
 temper gives us a propensity to the same impression, which .__£^__, 
 we observe in others, and makes it arise upon any slight oftleloTo 
 occasion. In that case resemblance converts the idea into of rela- 
 an impression, not only by means of the relation, and by 
 transfusing the original vivacity into the related idea ; but 
 also by presenting such materials as take fire from the least 
 spark. And as in both cases a love or affection arises from 
 the resemblance, we may learn that a sympathy with others 
 is agreeable only by giving an emotion to the spirits, since 
 an easy sympathy and correspondent emotions are alone 
 common to relation, acquaintance, and resem.hlance. 
 
 The great propensity men have to pride may be consider'd 
 as another similar phisnomenon. It often happens, that 
 after we have liv'd a considerable time in any city ; however 
 at first it might be disagreeable to us ; yet as we become 
 familiar with the objects, and contract an acquaintance, tho' 
 merely with the streets and buildings, the aversion diminishes 
 by degrees, and at last changes into the opposite passion. 
 The mind finds a satisfaction and ease in the view of objects, 
 to which it is accustom'd, and naturally prefers them to 
 others, which, tho', perhaps, in themselves more valuable, 
 are less known to it. By the same quality of the mind we 
 are seduc'd into a good opinion of ourselves, and of all 
 objects, that belong to us. They appear in a stronger light; 
 are more agreeable; and consequently fitter subjects of pride 
 and vanity, than any other. 
 
 It may not be amiss, in treating of the affection we bear 
 our acquaintance and relations, to observe some pretty 
 curious phenomena, which attend it. 'Tis easy to remark in 
 common life, that children esteem their relation to their 
 mother to be weaken'd, in a great measure, by her second 
 marriage, and no longer regard her with the same eye, as if 
 she had continu'd in her state of widow-hood. Nor does tliis 
 happen only, when they have felt any inconveniencies from 
 her second marriage, or when her husband is much her 
 inferior ; but even without any of these considerations, and 
 merely because she has become part of another family. This 
 also takes place with regard to the second marriage of a 
 father ; but in a much less degree : And 'tis certain the ties 
 of blood are not so much loosen'd in the latter case as b}^ the
 
 144 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Tart IT. 
 
 PART marriage of a mother. These two phfcnomena are remark- 
 ^^- able in themselves, but much more so when compar'd. 
 Qf i^^Q In order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects, 
 
 andhatred. 'tis requisite, not only that the imagination be convey'd from 
 one to the other by resemblance, contiguity or causation, but 
 also that it return back from the second to the first, with the 
 same ease and facility. At first sight this may seem a neces- 
 sary and unavoidable consequence. If one object resemble 
 another, the latter object must necessarily resemble the 
 former. If one object be the cause of another, the second ob- 
 ject is effect to its cause. 'Tis the same case with contiguity : 
 And therefore the relation being always reciprocal, it inay be 
 thought, that the return of the imagination from the second 
 to the first must also, in every case, be equally natural as its 
 passage from the first to the second. But upon farther ex- 
 amination we shall easily discover our mistake. For sup- 
 posing the second object, beside its reciprocal relation to the 
 first, to have also a strong relation to a third object ; in that 
 case the thought, passing from the first object to the second, 
 returns not back with the same facilit}^, tho' the relation 
 continues the same ; but is readily carry 'd on to the third 
 object, by means of the new relation, which presents itself, 
 and gives a new impulse to the imagination. This new re- 
 lation, thei^efore, weakens the tie betwixt the first and second 
 objects. The fancy is by its very nature wavering and in- 
 constant ; and considers always two objects as more strongly 
 related together, where it finds the passage equolly easy both 
 in going and returning, than where the transition is easy 
 only in one of these motions. The double motion is a kind 
 of a double tie, and binds the objects together in the closest 
 and most intimate manner. 
 
 The second marriage of a mother breaks not the relation 
 of child and parent ; and that relation sufiices to convey my 
 imagination from myself to her with the greatest ease and 
 facility. But after the imagination is arrived at this point 
 of view, it finds its object to be surrounded with so many 
 other relations, which challenge its regard, that it know^s not 
 wliich to prefer, and is at a loss what new object to pitch 
 upon. The ties of interest and duty bind her to another 
 family, and prevent that return of the fancy from her to my- 
 self, which is necessary to support the union. The thought 
 has no longer the vibration, requisite to set it perfectly at
 
 Skct. V. OF THE PASSIONS. 145 
 
 ease, and indulge its inclination to eliange. It goes with 
 facility, but returns with difficulty ; and by that interruption 
 finds the relation much weaken'd fi-om what it wou'd be 
 were the passage open and easy on both sides. 
 
 Now to give a reason, why this etfect follows not in the 
 same degree upon the second marriage of a father : we may 
 reflect on what has been prov'd already, that tho' the imagi- 
 nation goes easily from the view of a lesser object to that of 
 a greater, yet it returns not with the same facility from the 
 greater to the less. When my imagination goes from myself 
 to my ftither, it passes not so readil}^ from him to his second 
 wife, nor considers him as entering into a different family, 
 but as continuing' the head of that family, of which I am 
 myself a part. His superiority prevents the easy transition 
 of the thought from him to his spouse, but keeps the passage 
 still oj^en for a return to myself along the same relation of 
 child and parent. He is not sunk in the new relation he 
 acquires ; so that the double motion or vibration of thought 
 is still easy and natural. By this indulgence of the fancy in 
 its inconstancy, the tie of child and parent still preserves 
 its full force and influence. 
 
 A mother thinks not her tie to a son weaken'd, because 'tis 
 shar'd with her husband : Nor a son his with a parent, be- 
 cause 'tis shar'd with a brother. The third object is here 
 related to the first, as well as to the second ; so that the 
 imagination goes and comes along all of them with the 
 greatest facility. 
 
 Sect. V. — Of our Esteem for the Rich and Powerful. 
 
 Nothing has a greater tendency to give us an esteem for 
 any person, than his power and riches ; or a contempt, than 
 his poverty and meanness : And as esteem and contempt are 
 to be consider'd as species of love and hatred, 'twill be j)roper 
 in this place to explain these pheenomena. 
 
 Here it happens most fortunately, that the grea.test diffi- 
 culty is not to discover a principle capable of jjroducing such 
 an effect, but to choose the chief and predominant among 
 several, that present themselves. The satisfaction we take in 
 the riches of others, and the esieetn we have for the posses- 
 sors may be ascrib'd to three different causes. Firsty To the 
 objects they possess ; such as houses, gardens, equipages ; 
 
 VOL. II. L
 
 146 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part TI. 
 
 PART which, being agreeable in themselves, necessarily produce a 
 
 ^ ^ , sentiment of pleasure in every one, that either considers or 
 
 Ofiove surveys them. Secondly, To the expectation of advantage 
 and hatred, from the rich and powerful by our sharing their possessions. 
 Thirdly, To sympathy, which makes us partake of the satis- 
 faction of every one, that approaches us. All these princi- 
 ples may concur in producing the present jjliaiuomenon. 
 The question is, to which of them we ought principally to 
 ascribe it. 
 
 'Tis cei'tain, that the first principle, viz. the reflection on 
 agreeable objects, has a greater influence, than what, at first 
 sight, we may be apt to imagine. We seldom reflect on what 
 is beautiful or ugly, agreeable or disagreeable, without an 
 emotion of pleasure or uneasiness ; and tho' these sensations 
 appear not much in our common indolent way of thinking, 
 'tis easy, either in reading or conversation, to discover them. 
 Men of wit always turn the discourse on subjects that are 
 entertaining to the imagination ; and poets never present 
 any objects but such as are of the same nature. Mr. Philips 
 has chosen Cyder for the subject of an excellent poem. Beer 
 wou'd not have been so proper, as being neither so agreeable 
 to the taste nor eye. But he wou'd certainly have preferr'd 
 wine to either of them, cou'd his native country have afforded 
 him so agreeable a liquor. "We may learn from thence, that 
 every thing, which is agreeable to the senses, is also in some 
 measure agreeable to the fancy, and conveys to the thought 
 an image of that satisfaction, which it gives by its real appli- 
 cation to the bodily organs. 
 
 But tho' these reasons may induce us to comprehend this 
 delicacy of the imagination among the causes of the respect, 
 which we pay the rich and powerful, there are many other 
 reasons, that may keep us from regarding it as the sole or 
 principal. For as the ideas of pleasure can have an influence 
 only by means of their vivacity, which makes them approach 
 impressions, 'tis most natural those ideas shou'd have that 
 influence, which are favour'd by most circumstances, and 
 have a natural tendency to become strong and lively ; such 
 as our ideas of the passions and sensations of any human 
 creature. Every human creature resembles ourselves, and 
 by that means has an advantage above any other object, in 
 operating on the imagination. 
 
 Besides, if we consider the nature of that faculty, and the
 
 Sect. V. OF THE PASSIOIS^S. 147 
 
 great influence which all relations have upon it, we shall SECT, 
 easily be perswaded, that however the ideas of the pleasant , _ / . 
 wines, music, or gardens, which the rich man enjoys, may ofoures- 
 become lively and agreeable, the fancy will not confine itself [f'"'"/?^ 
 to them, but will carry its view to the related objects ; and and power- 
 in particular, to the person, who possesses them. And this f^^- 
 is the more natural, that the pleasant idea or image pro- 
 duces here a passion towards the person, by means of his 
 relation to the object ; so that 'tis unavoidable but he must 
 enter into the original conception, since he makes the object 
 of the derivative passion. But if he enters into the original 
 conception, and is consider'd as enjoying these agreeable 
 objects, 'tis sympathy, which is properly the cause of the 
 afiection ; and the third principle is more powerful and uni- 
 versal than the first. ^ 
 
 Add to this, that riches and power alone, even tho' un- 
 employ'd, naturally cause esteem and respect : And con- 
 sequently these passions arise not from the idea of any 
 beautiful or agreeable objects. 'Tis true ; money implies a 
 kind of representation of such objects, by the power it 
 affords of obtaining them ; and for that reason may still be 
 esteem'd proper to convey those agreeable images, which 
 may give rise to the passion. But as this prospect is very 
 distant, 'tis more natural for us to take a contiguous object, 
 viz. the satisftiction, which this power affords the person, 
 who is possest of it. And of this we shall be farther satis- 
 fy 'd, if we consider, that riches represent the goods of life, 
 only by means of the will ; which employs them ; and there- 
 fore imply in their very nature an idea of the person, and 
 cannot be consider'd without a kind of sympathy with his 
 sensations and enjoyments. 
 
 This we may confirm by a reflection, which to some will, 
 perhaps, appear too subtile and refin'd. I have already 
 observ'd, that power, as distinguish'd from its exercise, has 
 either no meaning at all, or is nothing but a possibility or 
 probability of existence ; by which any object approaches to 
 reality, and has a sensible influence on the mind. I have 
 also observ'd, that this approach, by an illusion of the fancy, 
 appears much greater, when we ourselves are possest of the 
 power, than when it is enjoy'd hj another; and that in the 
 former case the objects seem to touch upon the very verge 
 
 [' Introd. Sect. 38.— En.] 
 i2
 
 148 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part IL 
 
 PART of reality, and convey almost an equal satisfaction, as if 
 . ^^- _ actually in our possession. Now I assert, tlia,t where we 
 Of love esteem a person upon account of liis riches, we must enter 
 andhatred. \xAo this sentiment of the proprietor, and that without such 
 a sympathy the idea of the agreeable objects, which they 
 give him the power to produce, wou'd have but a feeble in- 
 fluence upon us. An avaritious man is respected for his 
 money, tho' he scarce is possest of a jpower ; that is, there 
 scarce is a prohability or even possibility of his employing it 
 in the acquisition of the pleasures and conveniences of life. 
 To himself alone this power seems perfect and entire ; and 
 therefore we must receive his sentiments by sympathy, be- 
 fore we can have a strong intense idea of these enjoyments, 
 • or esteem liini upon account of them. 
 
 Thus we have found, that the first principle, viz. the agree- 
 able idea of those objects, which riches afford the enjoyment of ; 
 resolves itself in a great measure into the third, and becomes 
 a sympathy with the person we esteem or love. Let us now 
 examine the second principle, viz. the agreeable expectation of 
 advantage, and see what force we may justly attribute to it. 
 
 'Tis obvious, that tho' riches and authority undoubtedly 
 give their owner a power of doing us service, yet this power 
 is not to be considerd as on the same footing with that, 
 which they afford him, of pleasing himself, and satisfying 
 his own appetites. Self-love approaches the power and exer- 
 cise very near each other in the latter case ; but in order to 
 produce a similar effect in the former, we must suppose a 
 friendship and good-wiJl to be conjoin'd with the riches. 
 Without that circumstance 'tis difficult to conceive on what 
 we can found our hope of advantage from the riches of 
 others, tho' there is nothing more certain, than that we 
 naturally esteem and respect the rich, even before we dis- 
 cover in them any such favourable disposition towards us. 
 
 But I carry this farther, and observe, not only that we 
 respect the rich and powerful, where they shew no inclina- 
 tion to serve us, but also when we lie so much out of the 
 sphere of their activity, that they cannot even be suppos'd 
 to be endow'd with that power. Prisoners of war are always 
 treated with a respect suitable to their condition ; and "tis 
 certain riches go very far towards fixing the condition of 
 any person. If birth and quality enter for a share, this still 
 afi'ords us an avouiaont of the same kind. For what is it
 
 Sect. V. OF THE PASSIONS. 149 
 
 we call a man of birth, but one wlio is descended from a SECT. 
 long- succession of rich and powerful ancestors, and who . • ^ 
 acquires our esteem by his relation to persons whom we ofoures- 
 esteem ? His ancestors, therefore, tho' dead, are respected, teem for 
 in some measure, on account of their riches, and conse- ;indpowei> 
 quently without any kind of expectation. f"l- 
 
 But not to go so far as prisoners of war and the dead to 
 find instances of this disinterested esteem for riches, let us 
 observe with a little attention those phainomena that occur 
 to us in common life and conversation. A man, who is him- 
 self of a competent fortune, upon coming into a company 
 of strangers, naturally treats them with different degrees of 
 respect and deference, as he is inform'd of their different 
 fortunes and conditions ; tho' 'tis impossible he can ever 
 propose, and perhaps wou'd not accept of any advantage from 
 them. A traveller is always admitted into company, and 
 meets with civility, in proportion as his train and equipage 
 speak him a man of great or moderate fortune. In short, 
 the different ranks of men are, in a great measure, regulated 
 by riches, and that with regard to superiors as well as in- 
 feriors, strangers as well as acquaintance. 
 
 There is, indeed, an answer to these arguments, drawn 
 from the influence of general rules. It may be pretended, 
 that being accustom'd to expect succour and protection 
 IVom the rich and powerful, and to esteem them upon that 
 account, we extend the same sentiments to those, who re- 
 semble them in their fortune, but from whom we can never 
 hope for any advantage. The general rule still prevails, and 
 by giving a bent to the imagination draws along the passion, 
 in the same manner as if its proper object were real and 
 existent. 
 
 But that this principle does not here take place, will 
 easily appear, if we consider, that in order to establish a 
 general rule, and extend it beyond its proper bounds, there 
 is requir'd a certain uniformity in our experience, and a 
 great superiority of those instances, which are conformable 
 to the rule, above the contrary. But here the case is quite 
 otherwise. Of a hundred men of credit and fortune I meet 
 with, there is not, perhaps, one from whom I can expect ad- 
 vantage ; so that 'tis impossible any custom can ever prevail 
 in the present case. 
 
 Upon the whole, there remains nothing, which can give
 
 160 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Pabt IL 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of love 
 Bnd hatred. 
 
 US an esteem for power and riches, and a contempt for 
 meanness and poverty, except the principle of sympathy, by 
 which we enter into the sentiments of the rich and poor, and 
 partake of their pleasure and uneasiness. Riches give satis- 
 faction to their possessor ; and this satisfaction is convey'd 
 to the beholder by the imagination, which produces an idea 
 resembling the original impression in force and vivacity. 
 This agreeable idea or impression is connected with love, 
 which is an agreeable passion. It proceeds from a thinking 
 conscious being, which is the very object of love. From 
 this relation of impressions, and identity of ideas, the pas- 
 sion arises, according to my hypothesis. 
 
 The best method of reconciling us to this opinion is to 
 take a general survey of the universe, and observe the force 
 of sympathy thro' the whole animal creation, and the easy 
 communication of sentiments from one thinking being to 
 another. In all creatures, that prey not upon others, and 
 are not agitated with violent passions, there appears a re- 
 markable desire of company, which associates them together, 
 without any advantages they can ever propose to reap from 
 their union. This is still more conspicuous in man, as being 
 the creature of the universe, who has the most ardent desire 
 of society, and is fitted for it by the most advantages. We 
 can form no wish, which has not a reference to society. A 
 perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can 
 suffer. Every pleasure languishes when enjoy 'd a-part from 
 company, and every pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. 
 Whatever other passions we may be actuated by ; pride, 
 ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge or lust ; the soul or 
 animating principle of them all is sympathy ; nor wou'd they 
 have any force, were we to abstract entirely from the thoughts 
 and sentiments of others. Let all the powers and elements 
 of nature conspire to serve and obey one man : Let the sun 
 rise and set at his command : The sea and rivers roll as he 
 pleases, and the earth furnish spontaneously whatever may 
 be useful or agreeable to him : He will still be miserable, 
 till you give him some one person at least, with whom he 
 may share his happiness, and whose esteem and friendship 
 he may enjoy. 
 
 This conclusion from a general view of human nature, we 
 may confirm by particular instances, wherein the force of 
 sympathy is very remarkabla. Most kinds of beauty are
 
 Sect. V. OF THE PASSIONS. 151 
 
 deriv'd from this origin ; and tho' our first object be some SECT, 
 
 senseless inanimate piece of matter, 'tis seldom we rest ._ / ^ 
 
 there, and carry not our view to its influence on sensible Of our es- 
 
 and rational creatures. A man, who shews us any house or teem for 
 
 , , . . , the rich 
 
 building, takes particular care among other thnigs to point and power- 
 out the convenience of the apartments, the advantages of ^^1- 
 their situation, and the little room lost in the stairs, anti- 
 chambers and passages ; and indeed 'tis evident, the chief 
 part of the beauty consists in these particulars. The obser- 
 vation of convenience gives pleasure, since convenience is a 
 beauty. But after what manner does it give pleasure ? 'Tis 
 •certain our own interest is not in the least concern'd ; and as 
 this is a beauty of interest, not of form, so to speak, it must 
 delight us merely by communication, and by our sympa- 
 thizing with the proprietor of the lodging. We enter into 
 his interest by the force of imagination, and feel the same 
 satisfaction, that the objects naturally occasion in him. 
 
 This observation extends to tables, chairs, scritoires, 
 chimneys, coaches, sadles, ploughs, and indeed to every 
 work of art ; it being an universal rule, that their beauty is 
 chiefly deriv'd from their utility, and from their fitness for 
 that purpose, to which they are destin'd. But this is an 
 advantage, that concerns only the owner, nor is there any 
 thing but sympathy, which can interest the spectator. 
 
 'Tis evident, that nothing renders a field more agreeable 
 than its fertility, and that scarce any advantages of ornament 
 or situation will be able to equal this beauty. 'Tis the same 
 case with particular trees and plants, as with the field on 
 which they grow. I know not but a plain, overgrown with 
 furze and broom, may be, in itself, as beautiful as a hill 
 cover'd with vines or olive-trees ; tho' it will never appear 
 so to one, who is acquainted with the value of each. But 
 this is a beauty merely of imagination, and has no founda- 
 tion in what appears to the senses. Fertility and value have 
 a plain reference to use ; and that to riches, joy, and plenty; 
 in which tho' we have no hope of partaking, yet we enter 
 into them by the vivacity of the fancy, and share them, in 
 some measure, with the proprietor. 
 
 There is no rule in painting more reasonable than that of 
 ballancing the figures, and placing them with the greatest 
 exactness on their proper center of gravity, A figure, which 
 is not justly ballanc'd, is disagreeable ; and that because it
 
 152 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Pari II. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of lovo 
 and hatred. 
 
 conveys the ideas of its fall, of harm, and of pain : Which 
 ideas are painful, when by sympathy they acquire any degree 
 of force and vivacity. 
 
 Add to this, that the principal part of personal beauty is 
 an air of health and vigour, and such a construction of 
 members as promises strength and activity. This idea of 
 beauty cannot be accounted for but by sympathy. 
 
 In general we may remark, that the minds of men are 
 mirrors to one another, not only because they reflect each 
 other's emotions, but also because those rays of passions, 
 sentiments and opinions may be often reverberated, and may 
 decay away by insensible degrees. Thus the pleasure, which 
 the rich man receives from his possessions, being tin-own 
 upon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem ; which 
 sentiments again, being perceiv'd and sympathiz'd with, 
 encrease the pleasure of the possessor ; and being once more 
 reflected, become a new foundation for pleasure and esteem 
 in the beholder. There is certainly an original satisfaction 
 in riches deriv'd from that power, which they bestow, of en- 
 joying all the pleasures of life ; and as this is their very 
 nature and essence, it must be the first source of all the 
 passions, which arise from them. One of the most con- 
 siderable of these passions is that of love or esteem in others, 
 which therefore proceeds from a sympathy with the pleasure 
 of the possessor. But the possessor has also a secondary 
 satisfaction in riches arising from the love and esteem he 
 acquires b}-- them, and this satisfaction is nothing but a 
 second reflexion of that original pleasure, which proceeded 
 from himself. This secondary satisfaction or vanity becomes 
 one of the principal recommendations of riches, and is the 
 chief reason, why we either desu'e them for ourselves, or 
 esteem them in others. Here then is a third rebound of the 
 original pleasure ; after which 'tis difiicult to distinguish 
 the images and reflexions, by reason of their faintness and 
 confusion. 
 
 Sect. VI. — Of Benevolence and Anger. 
 
 Ideas may be compar'd to the extension and solidity of 
 matter, and impressions, especially reflective ones, to colours, 
 tastes, smells and other sensible qualities. Ideas never 
 admit of a total union, but are endowed with a kind of
 
 Sect. VI. OF THE PASSIONS. 153 
 
 impenetrability, by which they exclude each other, and are SECT. 
 
 capable of forming a compound by their conjunction, not by ^_ 
 
 their mixture. On the other hand, impressions and passions ofbenevo- 
 are susceptible of an entire union ; and like colours, may be l*^"*^*^ '^"'^^ 
 blended so perfectly together, that each of them may lose 
 itself, and contribute only to vary that uniform impression, 
 which arises from the whole. Some of the most curious 
 phsenomena of the human mind are deriv'd from this pro- 
 perty of the passions. 
 
 In examining- those ingredients, which are capable of 
 uniting with love and hatred, I begin to be sensible, in some 
 measure, of a misfortune, that has attended every system of 
 philosophy, with which the world has been yet acquainted. 
 'Tis commonly found, that in accounting for the operations 
 of nature by any particular hypothesis ; among a number of 
 experiments, that quadrate exactly with the principles we 
 wou'd endeavour to establish ; there is always some phse- 
 nomenon, which is more stubborn, and will not so easily 
 bend to our purpose. We need not be surpriz'd, that this 
 shou'd happen in natural philosophy. The essence and 
 composition of external bodies are so obscure, that we 
 must necessarily, in our reasonings, or rather conjectures 
 concerning them, involve ourselves in contradictions and 
 absurdities. But as the perceptions of the mind are per- 
 fectly known, and I have ns'd all imaginable caution in 
 forming conclusions concerning them, I have always hop'd 
 to keep clear of those contradictions, which have attended 
 every other system. Accordingly the difficulty, which I 
 have at present in my eye, is no-wise contrary to my system; 
 but only departs a little from that simplicity, which has been 
 hitherto its principal force and beauty. 
 
 The passions of love and hatred are always foUow'd by, or 
 rather conjoin'd with benevolence and anger. 'Tis this con- 
 junction, which chiefly distinguishes these affections from 
 pride and humility. For pride and humility are pure emo- 
 tions in the soul, unattended with any desire, and not imme- 
 diately exciting us to action. But love and hatred are not 
 compleated within themselves, nor rest in that emotion, 
 which they produce, but carry the mind to something farther. 
 Love is always foUow'd by a desire of the happiness of the 
 person belov'd, and an aversion to his misery : As hatred 
 produces a desire of the misery and an aversion to the
 
 154 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part IL 
 
 PART happiness of the person hated. So remarkable a difference 
 
 , : betwixt these two sets of passions of pride and humiHty, love 
 
 Of love and hatred, which in so many other particulars correspond 
 Muihatred. ^q each other, merits our attention.' 
 
 The conjunction of this desire and aversion with love and 
 hatred may be accounted for by two different hypotheses. 
 The first is, that love and hatred have not only a cause, which 
 excites them, viz. pleasure and pain; and an object, to which 
 they are directed, viz. a person or thinking being ; but like- 
 wise an end, which they endeavour to attain, viz. the happi- 
 ness or misery of the person belov'd or hated ; all which 
 views, mixing together, make only one passion. According 
 to this system, love is nothing but the desire of happiness 
 to another person, and hatred that of misery. The desire 
 and aversion constitute the very nature of love and hatred. 
 They are not only inseparable but the same. 
 
 But this is evidently contrary to experience. For tho' 'tis 
 certain we never love any person without desiring his happi- 
 ness, nor hate any without wishing his misery, yet these 
 desires arise only upon the ideas of the happiness or misery 
 of our friend or enemy being presented by the imagination, 
 and are not absolutely essential to love and hatred. They 
 are the most obvious and natural sentiments of these affec- 
 tions, but not the only ones. The passions may expresa 
 themselves in a hundred ways, and may subsist a con- 
 siderable time, without our reflecting on the happiness or 
 misery of their objects ; which clearly proves, that these 
 desires are not the same with love and hatred, nor make 
 any essential part of them. 
 
 We may, therefore, infer, that benevolence and anger are 
 passions different from love and hatred, and only conjoin'd 
 with them, by the original constitution of the mind. As 
 nature has given to the body certain appetites and inclina- 
 tions, which she encreases, diminishes, or changes according 
 to the situation of the fluids or solids ; she has proceeded in 
 the same manner with the mind. According as we are 
 possess'd with love or hatred, the correspondent desire of the 
 happiness or misery of the person, who is the object of these 
 passions, arises in the mind, and varies with each variation 
 of these opposite passions. This order of things, ab- 
 stractedly considcr'd, is not necessary. Love and hatred 
 
 [• Introd. Sect. 41.— Ed.]
 
 Sect. VIL OF THE PASSIONS. 155 
 
 might have been unattended with any such desires, or their SECT. 
 particular connexion might have been entirely revers'd. If , ^ ^- 
 nature had so pleas'd, love might have had the same effect of benevo. 
 as hatred, and hatred as love. I see no contradiction in lenee and 
 supposing a desire of producing misery annex'd to love, and "^^^' 
 of happiness to hatred. If the sensation of the passion and 
 desire be opposite, nature cou'd have alter'd the sensation 
 without altering the tendency of the desire, and by that 
 means made them compatible with each other. 
 
 Sect. VII. — Of Compassion. 
 
 But tho' the desire of the happiness or misery of others, 
 according to the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbitrary 
 and original instinct implanted in our nature, we find it may 
 be counterfeited on many occasions, and may arise from 
 secondary principles. Pity is a concern for, and malice a joy 
 in the misery of others, without any friendship or enmity to 
 occasion this concern or joy.* We pity even strangers, and 
 such as are perfectly indifferent to us : And if our ill-will 
 to another proceed froin any harm or injury, it is not, pro- 
 perly speaking, malice, but revenge. But if we examine 
 these affections of pity and malice, we shall find them to be 
 secondary ones, arising from original affections, which are 
 varied by some particular turn of thought and imagination. 
 
 'Twill be easy to explain the passion of pity, from the 
 precedent reasoning concerning sympathy. We have a lively 
 idea of every thing related to us. All human creatures are 
 related to us by resemblance. Their persons, therefore, 
 their interests, their passions, their pains and pleasures must 
 strike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an emotion 
 similar to the original one ; since a lively idea is easily con- 
 verted into an impression. If this be true in general, it 
 must be more so of afffiction and sorrow. These have always 
 a stronger and more lasting influence than any pleasure or 
 enjoyment. 
 
 A spectator of a tragedy passes thro' a long train of grief, 
 terror, indignation, and other affections, which the poet 
 represents in the persons he introduces. As many tragedies 
 end happily, and no excellent one can be compos'd without 
 some reverses of fortune, the spectator mast sympathize with 
 aU these changes, and receive the fictitious joy as well as 
 
 [' Introd. Sect. 43.— Ei).]
 
 150 A TREATIS]-: OF HUMAN NATUIIE. Part II. 
 
 PART every other i)assion. Unless, therefore, it be asserted, that 
 
 V ^L-^ every distinct passion is coinnmnicated by a distinct original 
 
 Of love quality, and is not deriv'd from the general principle of 
 find hatred, sympathy above- explained, it must be allow'd, that all of 
 theui arise from that principle. To except any one in 
 particular must appear highly unreasonable. As they are 
 all first present in the mind of one person, and afterwards 
 appear in the mind of another ; and as the manner of their 
 appearance, first as an idea, then as an impression, is in 
 every case the sar.;?, the transition must arise from the same 
 principle. I am at least sure, that this method of reasoning 
 wou'd be consider'd as certain, either in natural philosophy 
 or common life. 
 
 Add to this, that pity depends, in a great measure, on 
 the contiguity, and even sight of the object ; which is a 
 proof, that 'tis deriv'd from the imagination. Not to men- 
 tion that women and children are most subject to l>ity, as 
 being most guided by that faculty. The same infirmity, 
 which makes them faint at the sight of a naked sword, tho' 
 in the hands of their best friend, makes them pity extremely 
 those, whom they find in any grief or affliction. Those 
 philosophers, who derive this passion from J. know not what 
 subtile reflections on the instability of fortune, and our 
 being liable to the same miseries we behold, wall find this 
 observation contrary to them among a great many others, 
 •which it were easy to produce. 
 
 There remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable 
 phsenomenon of this passion ; which is, that the commu- 
 nicated passion of sympathy sometimes acquires strength 
 from the weakness of its original, and even arises by a tran- 
 sition from affections, which have no existence. Thus when 
 a. person obtains any honourable office, or inherits a great 
 fortune, we are always the more rejoic'd for his j^rosperity, 
 the less sense he seems to have of it, and the greater 
 equanimity and indifference he shews in its enjoyment. In 
 like manner a man, who is not dejected by misfortunes, is 
 the more lamented on account of his patience ; and if that 
 virtue extends so far as utterly to remove all sense of un- 
 easiness, it still farther encreases our compassion. When a 
 person of merit falls into what is vulgarly esteem'd a great 
 misfortune, we form a notion of his condition ; and carrying 
 our fancy from the cause to the usual effect, first conceive a
 
 Sbct. Vn. OF THE PASSIONS. 157 
 
 lively idea of his sorrow, and then feel an impression of it, SECT. 
 
 entirely over-looking that greatness of mind, which elevates , ^^\ _ 
 
 him above such emotions, or only considering it so far as to of com- 
 encrease our admiration, love and tenderness for him. We passion, 
 find from experience, that such a degree of passion is usually 
 connected with such a misfortune ; and tho' there be an 
 exception in the present case, yet the imagination is affected 
 by the general rule, and makes us conceive a lively idea of 
 the passion, or rather feel the passion itself, in the same 
 manner, as if the person were really actuated by it. From 
 the same principles we blush for the conduct of those, who 
 behave themselves foolishly before us ; and that tho' they 
 shew no sense of shame, nor seem in the least conscious of 
 their folly. All this proceeds from sympathy ; but 'tis of a 
 partial kind, and views its objects only on one side, without 
 considering the other, which has a contrary effect, and wou'd 
 entirely destroy that emotion, which arises from the first 
 appearance. 
 
 We have also instances, wherein an indifference and in- 
 sensibility under misfortune encreases our concern for the 
 misfortunate, even tho' the indifference proceed not from 
 any virtue and magnanimity. 'Tis an aggravation of a 
 murder, that it was committed upon persons asleep and in 
 perfect security ; as historians readily observe of any infant 
 prince, who is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he 
 is more worthy of compassion the less sensible he is of his 
 miserable condition. As we ourselves are here acquainted 
 with the wretched situation of the person, it gives us a 
 lively idea and sensation of sorrow, which is the passion 
 that generally attends it ; and this idea becomes still more 
 lively, and the sensation more violent by a contrast with that 
 security and indifference, which we observe in the person 
 himself. A contrast of any kind never fails to affect the 
 imagination, especially when presented by the subject ; and 
 'tis on the imagination that pity entirely depends.* 
 
 ' To prevent all ambiguity, I mustob- cularly wlien it is oppos'd to the undor- 
 
 eerve, that where I oppose the imagina- standing, I understand tlie same faculty, 
 
 tion to the memory, 1 mean in general excluding only our demonstrative aud 
 
 the faculty that presents our fainter probable reasonings.' 
 ideas. In all other places, and parti- 
 
 [' Cf. Vol. I. Part III. Sect 9, note.— En.]
 
 1S8 A TEEATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part it 
 
 PaKT 
 II. Sect. VIII. — Of Malice and Envy. 
 
 Of love and We must now proceed to account for the passion oi mallet, 
 hatred. which imitates the effects of hatred, as pity does those of 
 love ; and gives us a joy in the sufferings and miseries of 
 others, without any offence or injury on their part. 
 
 So little are men govern'd by reason in their sentiments 
 and opinions, that they always judge more of objects by com- 
 parison than from their intrinsic worth and value. When the 
 mind considers, or is accustom'd to, any degree of perfection, 
 whatever falls short of it, tho' really esteemable, has not- 
 withstanding the same efi'ect upon the passions, as what is 
 defective and ill. This is an original quality of the soul, and 
 similar to what we have every day experience of in our 
 bodies. Let a man heat one hand and cool the other ; the 
 same water will, at the same time, seem both hot and cold, 
 according to the disposition of the different organs. A small 
 degree of any quality, succeeding a greater, produces the 
 same sensation, as if less than it really is, and even some- 
 times as the opposite quality. Any gentle pain, that follows 
 a violent one, seems as nothing, or rather becomes a pleasure; 
 as on the other hand a violent pain, succeeding a gentle one, 
 is doubly grievous and uneasy. 
 
 This no one can doubt of with regard to our passions 
 and sensations. But there may arise some difficulty with 
 regard to our ideas and objects. When an object augments 
 or diminishes to the eye or imagination from a comparison 
 with others, the image and idea of the object are still the 
 same, and are equally extended in the retina, and in the 
 brain or organ of perception. The eyes refract the rays of 
 light, and the optic nerves convey the images to the brain in 
 the very same manner, whether a great or small object has 
 preceded ; nor does even the imagination alter the dimensions 
 of its object on account of a comparison with others. The 
 question then is, how from the same impression and the same 
 idea we can form such different judgments concerning the 
 same object, and at one time admire its bulk, and at another 
 despise its littleness. This variation in our judgments must 
 certainly proceed from a variation in some perception ; but 
 as the variation lies not in the immediate impression or idea 
 of the object, it must lie in some other impression, that ac- 
 companies it.
 
 Sect. Vm. OF TIIE PASSIONS. 159 
 
 In order to explain this matter, T shall just touch, upon two SECT. 
 principles, one of which shall be more fully explain'd in the , y _^ 
 progress of this treatise ; the other has been already ac- of maiica 
 counted for. I believe it may safely be establish'd for a ^^'-^ '^'^^y- 
 general maxim, that no object is presented to the senses, nor 
 image form'd in the fancy, but what is accompany'd with 
 some emotion or movement of spirits proportion'd to it ; and 
 however custom may make us insensible of this sensation, 
 and cause us to confound it with the object or idea, 'twill be 
 easy, by careful and exact experiments, to separate and dis- 
 tinguish them. For to instance only in the cases of ex- 
 tension and number ; 'tis evident, that any very bulky object, 
 such as the ocean, an extended plain, a vast chain of moun- 
 tains, a wide forest; or any very numerous collection of objects, 
 such as an army, a fleet, a crowd, excite in the mind a sen- 
 sible emotion ; and that the admiration, which arises on the 
 appearance of such objects, is one of the most lively pleasures, 
 which human nature is capable of enjoying. Now as this 
 admiration encreases or diminishes by the encrease or dimin- 
 ution of the objects, we may conclude, according to our fore- 
 going ' principles, that 'tis a compound effect, proceeding 
 from the conjunction of the several effects, which arise from 
 each part of the cause. Every part, then, of extension, and 
 every unite of number has a separate emotion attending it, 
 when conceiv'd by the mind ; and tho' that emotion be not 
 always agreeable, yet by its conjunction with others, and by 
 its agitating the spirits to a just pitch, it contributes to the 
 production of admiration, which is always agreeable. If 
 this be allow'd with respect to extension and number, we 
 can make no difficulty with respect to virtue and vice, wit 
 and folly, riches and poverty, happiness and misery, and 
 other objects of that kind, which are always attended with 
 an evident emotion. 
 
 The second principle I shall take notice of is that of our 
 adherence to general rules ; which has such a mighty influence 
 on the actions and understanding, and is able to impose on 
 the very senses. When an object is found by experience to be 
 always accompany'd with another ; wdienever the first object 
 appears, tho' chang'd in very material circumstances ; we 
 naturally fly to the conception of the second, and form an 
 idea of it in as lively and strong a manner, as if we had 
 
 » Book I. Part III. Sec-t. If).
 
 160 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part II. 
 
 PART infer'd its existence by the justest and most authentic con- 
 
 ^^- ^ ckision of our understanding. Nothing can undeceive us. 
 
 Of love and "ot evcu our senses, which, instead of correcting this false 
 
 haired. judgment, are often perverted by it, and seem to authorize 
 
 its errors. 
 
 The concUision T draw from these two principles, join'd 
 to the influence of comparison above-mention'd, is very short 
 and decisive. Every object is attended with some emotion 
 proportion'd to it ; a great object with a great emotion, a 
 small object with a small emotion. A great o6jec^, therefore, 
 succeeding a small one makes a great emotion succeed a small 
 one. Now a great emotion succeeding a small one becomes 
 still greater, and rises beyond its ordinary proportion. But 
 as there is a certain degree of an emotion, which commonly 
 attends every magnitude of an object; when the emotion 
 encreases, we naturally imagine that the object has likewise 
 encreas'd. The effect conveys our view to its usual cause, 
 a certain degree of emotion to a certain magnitude of the 
 object; nor do we consider, that comparison may change 
 the emotion without changing any thing in the object. 
 Those, who are acquainted with the metaphysical part of 
 optics, and know how we transfer the judgments and con- 
 clusions of the understanding to the senses, will easily con- 
 ceive this whole operation. 
 
 But leaving this new discovery of an impression, that 
 secretly attends every idea ; we must at least allow of that 
 principle, from whence the discovery arose, that objects appear 
 greater or less hy a, comparison with others. We have so many 
 instances of this, that it is impossible we can dispute its 
 veracity ; and 'tis from this j)rinciple I derive the passions 
 of malice and envy. 
 
 'Tis evident we must receive a greater or less satisfaction 
 or uneasiness from reflecting on our own condition and 
 circumstances, in proportion as they appear more or less 
 fortunate or unhappy, in proportion to the degrees of riches, 
 and power, and merit, and reputation, which we think our- 
 selves possest of. Now as we seldom judge of objects from 
 their intrinsic value, but form our notions of them from a 
 comparison with other objects ; it follows, that according as 
 we observe a greater or less share of happiness or misery in 
 others, we must make an estimate of our own, and feel a 
 consequent pain or pleasure. The misery of another gives
 
 Sect. VIII. OF THE PASSIONS. 161 
 
 us a more lively idea of our happiness, and his happiness of SECT. 
 
 our misery. The former, therefore, produces delight; and ^__. 
 
 the latter uneasiness. Of malice 
 
 Here then is a kind of pity reverst, or contrary sensations ^^^ ^^"^y- 
 arising in the beholder, from those which are felt by the 
 person, whom he considers. In general we may observe, 
 that in all kinds of comparison an object makes us always 
 receive from another, to which it is compar'd, a sensation 
 contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and immediate 
 survey. A small object makes a great one appear still greater. 
 A great object makes a little one appear less. Deformity of 
 itself produces uneasiness ; but makes us receive new pleasure 
 by its contrast with a beautiful object, whose beauty is 
 augmented by it ; as on the other hand, beauty, which of 
 itself produces pleasure, makes us receive a new pain by 
 the contrast with any thing ugly, whose deformity it aug- 
 ments. The case, therefore, must be the same with happiness 
 and misery. The direct survey of another's pleasure naturally 
 gives us pleasure, and therefore produces pain when com- 
 par'd with our own. His pain, consider'd in itself, is painful 
 to us, but augments the idea of our own happiness, and gives 
 us pleasure. 
 
 Nor will it appear strange, that we may feel a reverst 
 sensation from the happiness and misery of others ; since 
 we find the same comparison may give us a kind of malice 
 against ourselves, and make us rejoice for our pains, and 
 grieve for our pleasures. Thus the prospect of past pain is 
 agreeable, when we are satisfied with our present condition ; 
 as on the other hand our past pleasures give us uneasiness, 
 when we enjoy nothing at present equal to them. The com- 
 parison being the same, as when we reflect on the sentiments 
 of others, must be attended with the same effects. 
 
 Nay a person may extend this malice against himself, even 
 to his present fortune, and carry it so far as designedly to 
 seek affliction, and encrease his pains and sorrows. This 
 may happen upon two occasions. First, Upon the distress 
 and misfortune of a friend, or person dear to him. Secondly, 
 Upon the feeling any remorses for a crime, of which he has 
 been guilty. 'Tis from the principle of comparison that both 
 these irregular appetites for evil arise. A person, who in- 
 dulges himself in any pleasure, while his friend lies under 
 affliction, feels the reflected uneasiness from his frienfl 
 
 VOL. II. M
 
 102 
 
 A TREATISE OF IIL^MAN NATUTIE. 
 
 Part IL 
 
 PAET 
 11. 
 
 more sensibly by a comparison with the original pleasure, 
 
 _ which he himself enjoys. This contrast, indeed, ought also to 
 
 Of love and inliven the present pleasure. But as grief is here suppos'd to 
 liatred. ^q the predominant passion, every addition falls to that side, 
 and is swallow'd up in it, without operating in the least upon 
 the contrary affection. 'Tis the same case with those pen- 
 ances, which men inflict on themselves for their past sins 
 and failings. When a criminal reflects on the punishment 
 he deserves, the idea of it is magnify'd by a comparison with 
 his present ease and satisfaction; which forces him, in a 
 manner, to seek uneasiness, in order to avoid so disagreeable 
 fi contrast. 
 
 This reasoning will account for the origin of envy as well 
 as of malice. The only difference betwixt these passions lies 
 in this, that envy is excited by some present enjoyment of 
 another, which by comparison diminishes our idea of our 
 own : Whereas malice is the unprovok'd desire of producing 
 evil to another, in order to reap a pleasure from the com- 
 parison. The enjoyment, which is the object of envy, is 
 commonly superior to our own. A superiority naturally 
 seems to overshade us, and presents a disagreeable com- 
 parison. But even in the casf^ of an inferiority, we still 
 desire a greater distance, in order to augment still more the 
 idea of ourself. When this distance diminishes, the com- 
 parison is less to our advantage ; and consequently gives us 
 less pleasure, and is even disagreeable. Hence arises that 
 species of envy, which men feel, when they perceive their 
 inferiors approaching or overtaking them in the pursuit of 
 glory or happiness. In this envy we may see the effects of 
 comparison twice repeated. A man, who compares himself 
 to his inferior, receives a pleasure from the comparison : And 
 when the inferiority decreases by the elevation of the in- 
 ferior, what shou'd only have been a decrease of pleasure, 
 becomes a real pain, by a new comparison with its preceding 
 condition. 
 
 'Tis worthy of observation concerning that envy, which 
 arises from a superiority in others, that 'tis not the great 
 disproportion betwixt ourselves and another, which produces 
 it ; but on the contrary, our proximity. A common soldier 
 bears no such envy to his general as to his sergeant or cor- 
 poral ; nor does an eminent writer meet with so great jealousy 
 in common liacknev scriblers, as in authors, that more nearly
 
 Sect. VIH. OF THE PASSIONS. im 
 
 approach him. It may, indeed, be thought, that the greater SECT. 
 the disproportion is, the greater must be the uneasiness from ^ . , > 
 the comparison. But we may consider on the other hand, of malice 
 that the great disproportion cuts off the relation, and either ^^^ ^°^T- 
 keeps us from comparing ourselves with what is remote from 
 us, or diminishes the effects of the comparison. Resemblance 
 and proximity always produce a relation of ideas ; and where 
 you destroy these ties, however other accidents may bring 
 two ideas together ; as they have no bond or connecting- 
 quality to join them in the imagination ; 'tis impossible they 
 can remain long united, or have any considerable influence 
 on each other. 
 
 I have observ'd in considering the nature of ambition, that 
 the great feel a double pleasure in authority from the com- 
 parison of their own condition with that of their slaves ; and 
 this comparison has a double influence, because 'tis natural, 
 and presented by the subject. When the fancy, in the com- 
 parison of objects, passes not easily from the one object to 
 the other, the action of the mind is, in a great measure, broke, 
 and the fancy, in considering the second object, begins, as it 
 were, upon a new footing. The impression, which attends 
 every object, seems not greater in that case by succeeding a 
 less of the same kind ; but these two impressions are distinct, 
 and produce their distinct effects, without any communica- 
 tion together. The want of relation in the ideas breaks the 
 relation of the impressions, and by such a separation pre- 
 vents their mutual operation and influence. 
 
 To confirm this we may observe, that the proximity in the 
 degree of merit is not alone sufficient to give rise to envy, 
 but must be assisted by other relations. A poet is not apt 
 to envy a philosopher, or a poet of a different kind, of a dif- 
 ferent nation, or of a different age. All these differences 
 prevent or weaken the comparison, and consequently the 
 passion. 
 
 This too is the reason, why all objects appear great or little, 
 merely by a comparison with those of the same species. A 
 mountain neither magnifies nor diminishes a horse in our 
 eyes ; but when a Flemish and a Welsh horse are seen to- 
 gether, the one appears greater and the other less, than when 
 view'd apart. 
 
 From the same principle we may account for that remark 
 of historians, that any party in a civil war always choose to 
 
 -v 2
 
 TCI A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. PAirr IT 
 
 PART call ill a foreign enemy at any hazard rather than submit 
 
 ^ to their fellow-citizens. Guicciardin applies this remark to 
 
 Of love and the wars in Italy, where the relations betwixt the different 
 hatred. states are, properly speaking, nothing but of name, language, 
 and contiguity. Yet even these relations, when join'd with 
 superiority, by making the comparison more natural, make it 
 likewise more grievous, and cause men to search for some 
 other superiority, which may be attended with no relation, 
 and by that means may have a less sensible influence on the 
 imagination. The mind quickly perceives its several advan- 
 tages and disadvantages ; and finding its situation to be most 
 uneasy, where superiority is conjoin'd with other relations, 
 seeks its repose as much as possible, by their separation, and 
 by breaking that association of ideas, which renders the 
 comparison so much more natural and efficacious. When it 
 cannot break the association, it feels a stronger desire to re- 
 move the superiority ; and this is the reason why travellers 
 are commonly so lavish of their praises to the Chinese and 
 Persians, at the same time, that they depreciate those neigh- 
 bouring nations, which may stand upon a foot of rivalship 
 with their native countrj'. 
 
 These examples from history and common experience are 
 rich and curious ; but we may find parallel ones in the arts, 
 which are no less remarkable. Shou'd an author compose a 
 treatise, of which one part was serious and profound, another 
 light and humorous, every one wou'd condemn so strange a 
 mixture, and wou'd accuse him of the neglect of all rules of 
 art and criticism. These rules of art are founded on the 
 qualities of human nature ; and the quality of human nature, 
 which requires a consistency in every performance, is that 
 which renders the mind incapable of passing in a moment 
 from one passion and disposition to a quite different one. 
 Yet this makes us not blame Mr. Prior for joining his Ahna 
 and his Solomon in the same volume ; tho' that admirable 
 poet has succeeded perfectly well in the gaiety of the one, as 
 well as in the melancholy of the other. Even supposing the 
 reader shou'd peruse these two compositions without any in- 
 terval, he wou'd feel little or no difficulty in the change of 
 passions : Why, but because he considers these performances 
 as entirely different, and by this break in the ideas, breaks 
 the progress of the affections, and hinders the one from in- 
 fiuencin^ or contradictinir the other?
 
 Sect. IX. OF THE PASSIONS. 165 
 
 An heroic and burlesque design, united in one picture, SECT. 
 
 wou'd be monstrous ; tlio' we place two pictures of so oppo- ^ _. 
 
 site a character in the same chamber, and even close by each Of malice 
 other, without any scruple or difficulty. ^" ^°^* 
 
 In a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by com- 
 parison, or by the passions they separately produce, unless 
 they be united together by some relation, which may cause 
 an easy transition of the ideas, and consequently of the 
 emotions or impressions, attending the ideas ; and may pre- 
 serve the one impression in the passage of the imagination 
 to the object of the other. This principle is very remarkable, 
 because it is analoerous to what we have observ'd both con- 
 cerning the understanding and the passions. Suppose two 
 objects to be presented to me, which are not connected by 
 any kind of relation. Suppose that each of these objects 
 separately produces a passion ; and that these two passions 
 are in themselves contrary : We find from experience, that 
 the want of relation in the objects or ideas hinders the 
 natural contrariety of the passions, and that the break in 
 the transition of the thought removes the affections from 
 each other, and prevents their opposition. 'Tis the same 
 case with comparison; and from both these phsenomena we 
 may safely conclude, that the relation of ideas must forward 
 the transition of impressions ; since its absence alone is able 
 to prevent it, and to separate what naturally shou'd have 
 operated upon each other. When the absence of an object 
 or quality removes any usual or natural effect, we may cer- 
 tainly conclude that its presence contributes to the production 
 of the effect. 
 
 Sect. IX. — Of the Mixture of Benevolence and Anger ivith 
 Compassion and Malice. 
 
 Thus we have endeavour'd to account for pity and malice. 
 Both these affections arise from the imagination, according 
 to the light, in which it places its object. When our fancy 
 considers directly the sentiments of others, and enters deep 
 into them, it makes us sensible of all the passions it surveys, 
 but in a particular manner of grief or sorrow. On the 
 contrary, when we compare the sentiments of others to our 
 own, we feel a sensation directly opposite to the original one, 
 viz. a joy froin the grief of others, and a grief from their joy.
 
 IGG 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part IT. 
 
 PAET 
 11. 
 
 Of love,' 
 hiitred. 
 
 lid 
 
 But these are only tlie first fouudations of the affections of 
 pity and malice. Other passions are afterwards confounded 
 with them. There is always a mixture of love or tenderness 
 with pity, and of hatred or anger with malice. But it must 
 be confess'd, that this mixture seems at first sight to be con- 
 tradictory to my system. For as pity is an uneasiness, and 
 malice a joy, arising from the misery of others, pity shou'd 
 naturally, as in all other cases, produce hatred ; and malice, 
 love.' This contradiction I endeavour to reconcile, after the 
 following manner. 
 
 In order to cause a transition of passions, there is re- 
 quir'd a double relation of impressions and ideas, nor is one 
 relation sufficient to produce this effect. But that we may 
 understand the full force of this double relation, we must 
 consider, that 'tis not the present sensation alone or momen- 
 tary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of any 
 passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the begin- 
 ning to the end. One impression may be related to another, 
 not only when their sensations are resembling, as we have all 
 along suppos'd in the preceding cases ; but also when their 
 impulses or directions are similar and correspondent. This 
 cannot take place with regard to pride and humility; because 
 these are only pure sensations, without any direction or ten- 
 dency to action. We are, therefore, to look for instances of 
 this peculiar relation of impressions only in such affections, 
 as are attended with a certain appetite or desire ; such as 
 those of love and hatred. 
 
 Benevolence or the appetite, which attends love, is a desire 
 of the happiness of the person belov'd, and an aversion to 
 his misery ; as anger or the appetite, which attends hatred, 
 is a desire of the misery of the person hated, and an aversion 
 to his happiness. A desire, therefore, of the happiness of 
 another, and aversion to his misery, are similar to benevo- 
 lence ; and a desire of his misery and aversion to his happi- 
 ness are correspondent to anger. Now pity is a desire of 
 happiness to another, and aversion to his misery ; as malice 
 is the contrary appetite. Pity, then, is related to benevo- 
 lence ; and malice to anger : And as benevolence has been 
 already found to be connected with love, by a natural and 
 original quality, and anger with hatred ; 'tis by this chain 
 
 [' Introd. Sect. 43.— Ed.]
 
 Sect. IX. OF THE PASSIONS. 167 
 
 the passions of pity and malice are connected with love and SECT, 
 hatred.i ^JJl— ^ 
 
 This hypothesis is founded on sufficient experience. A ofthe 
 man, who from any motives has entertain 'd a resolution of mixture of 
 
 UCllCVO" 
 
 performing an action, naturally runs into every other view or lence, &c. 
 motive, which may fortify that resolution, and give it autho- 
 rity and influence on the mind. To confirm us in any design, 
 we search for motives drawn from interest, from honour, from 
 duty. What wonder, then, that pity and benevolence, malice 
 and anger, being the same desires arising from different 
 principles, shou'd so totally mix together as to be undis- 
 tinguishable ? As to the connexion betwixt benevolence and 
 love, anger and hatred, being original and primary, it admits 
 of no difficulty. 
 
 We may add to this another experiment, viz. that benevo- 
 lence and anger, and consequently love and hatred, arise 
 when our happiness or misery have any dependance on the 
 happiness or misery of another person, without any farther 
 relation. I doubt not but this experiment will appear so sin- 
 gular as to excuse us for stopping a moment to consider it. 
 
 Suppose, that two persons of the same trade shou'd seek 
 employment in a town, that is not able to maintain both, 
 'tis plain the success of one is perfectly incompatible with 
 that of the other, and that whatever is for the interest of 
 either is contrary to that of his rival, and so vice versa. Sup- 
 pose again, that two merchants, tho' living in different parts 
 of the world, shou'd enter into co-partnership together, the 
 advantage or loss of one becomes immediately the advantage 
 or loss of his partner, and the sa.me fortune necessarily 
 attends both. Now 'tis evident, that in the first case, hatred 
 always follows upon the contrariety of interests ; as in the 
 second, love arises from their union. Let us consider to 
 what principle we can ascribe these passions. 
 
 'Tis plain they arise not from the double relations of im- 
 pressions and ideas, if we regard only the present sensation. 
 For taking the first case of rivalship ; tho' the pleasure and 
 advantage of an antagonist necessarily causes my pain and 
 loss, yet to counter-ballance this, his pain and loss causes my 
 pleasure and advantage ; and supposing him to be unsuccess- 
 ful, I may by this means receive from him a superior degree 
 
 [' Introd. Sect. 43.— £d.]
 
 168 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part II. 
 
 PART of satisfaction. In the same manner the success of a partner 
 
 . ^ — . rejoices me, but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal 
 
 Of love and proportion; and 'tis easy to imagine, that the latter senti- 
 iitred. ment may in many cases preponderate. But whether the 
 fortune of a rival or partner be good or bad, I always hate 
 the former and love the latter. 
 
 This love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation or 
 connexion betwixt us ; in the same manner as I love a brother 
 or countryman. A rival has almost as close a relation to 
 me as a partner. For as the pleasure of the latter causes 
 my pleasure, and his pain my pain ; so the pleasure of the 
 former causes my pain, and his pain my pleasure. The con- 
 nexion, then, of cause and effect is the same in both cases ; 
 and if in the one case, the cause and effect has a farther re- 
 lation of resemblance, they have that of contrariety in the 
 other; which, being also a species of resemblance, leaves 
 the matter pretty equal. 
 
 The only explication, then, we can give of this phsenome- 
 non is deriv'd from that principle of a parallel direction 
 above-mention'd. Our concern for our own interest gives 
 us a pleasure in the pleasure, and a pain in the pain of a 
 partner, after the same manner as by sympathy we feel a 
 sensation correspondent to those, which appear in any per- 
 son, who is present with us. On the other hand, the same 
 concern for our interest makes us feel a pain in the pleasure, 
 and a pleasure in the pain of a rival ; and in short the same 
 contrariety of sentiments as arises from comparison and 
 malice. Since, therefore, a parallel direction of the affections, 
 IDroceeding from interest, can give rise to benevolence or 
 anger, no wonder the same parallel direction, deriv'd from 
 sympathy and from comparison, shou'd have the same effect. 
 In general we may observe, that 'tis impossible to do good 
 to others, from whatever motive, without feeling some touches 
 of kindness and good-will towards 'em ; as the injuries we do, 
 not only cause hatred in the person, who suffers them, but 
 even in ourselves. These phsenomena, indeed, may in part 
 be accounted for from other principles. 
 
 But here there occurs a considerable objection, which 'twill 
 be necessary to examine before we proceed any farther. I 
 have endeavour'd to prove, that power and riches, or poverty 
 and meanness ; which give rise to love or hatred, without 
 producing any original pleasure or uneasiness ; operate upon
 
 Sect. IX. OF THE TASSIONS. 169 
 
 US by means of a secondary sensation deriv'd from a sym- SECT. 
 pathy with that pain or satisfaction, which they produce in ^^- _ 
 the person, who possesses them. From a sympathy with his of the 
 pleasure there arises love ; from that with his uneasiness, mixture of 
 hatred. But 'tis a maxim, which I have just now establish'd, ipn^o &c. 
 and which is absolutely necessary to the explication of the 
 phsenomena of pity and malice, " That 'tis not the present 
 " sensation or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines 
 " the character of any passion, but the general bent or ten- 
 "dency of it from the beginning to the end." For this 
 reason, pity or a sympathy with pain produces love, and that 
 because it interests us in the fortunes of others, good or bad, 
 and gives us a secondary sensation corres]3ondent to the 
 primary: in which it has the same influence with love and 
 benevolence. Since then this rule holds good in one case, 
 why does it not prevail throughout, and why does sympathy 
 in uneasiness ever produce any passion beside good-will and 
 kindness ? Is it becoming a philosopher to alter his method of 
 reasoning, and run from one principle to its contrary, accord- 
 ing to the particular phsenomenon, which he wou'd explain? 
 
 I have mention'd two different causes, from which a tran- 
 sition of passion may arise, viz. a double relation of ideas and 
 impressions, and what is similar to it, a conformity in the 
 tendency and direction of any two desires, which arise from 
 different principles. Now I assert, that when a sympathy 
 with uneasiness is weak, it produces hatred or contempt by 
 the former cause ; when strong, it produces love or tender- 
 ness by the latter. This is the solution of the foregoing 
 difficulty, which seems so urgent; and this is a principle 
 founded on such evident arguments, that we ought to have 
 establish'd it, even tho' it were not necessary to the ex- 
 plication of any phsenomenon. 
 
 'Tis certain, that sympathy is not always limited to the 
 present moment, but that we often feel by communication 
 the pains and pleasures of others, which are not in being, and 
 which we only anticipate by the force of imagination. For 
 supposing I sav.^ a person perfectly unknown to me, who, 
 while asleep in the fields, was in danger of being trod under 
 foot by horses, I shou'd immediately run to his assistance ; 
 and in this I shou'd be actuated by the same principle of 
 sympathy, which makes me concern'd for the present sorrows 
 of a stranger. The bare mention of this is sufficient. Sym-
 
 170 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part IL 
 
 PART path J being nothing but a lively idea converted into an 
 
 ,-: — . impression, 'tis evident, that, in considering the future pos- 
 
 Of love and siblo or probable condition of any person, we may enter into 
 it with so vivid a conception as to make it our own concern; 
 and by that means be sensible of pains and pleasures, which 
 neither belong to ourselves, nor at the present instant have 
 any real existence. 
 
 But however we may look forward to the future in sym- 
 pathizing with any person, the extending of our sympathy 
 depends in a great measure upon our sense of his present 
 condition. 'Tis a great effort of imagination, to form such 
 lively ideas even of the present sentiments of others as to 
 feel these very sentiments ; but 'tis impossible we cou'd 
 extend this sympathy to the future, without being aided 
 by some circumstance in the present, which strikes upon 
 us in a lively manner. When the present misery of another 
 has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the con- 
 ception is not confin'd merely to its immediate object, but 
 diffuses its influence over all the related ideas, and gives 
 me a lively notion of all the circumstances of that person, 
 whether past, present, or future; possible, probable or certain. 
 By means of this lively notion I am interested in them ; 
 take part with them ; and feel a sympathetic motion in my 
 breast, conformable to whatever I imagine in his. If I di- 
 minish the vivacity of the first conception, I diminish that 
 of the related ideas ; as pipes can convey no more water 
 than what arises at the fountain. By this diminution I 
 destroy the future prospect, which is necessary to interest 
 me perfectly in the fortunes of another. I may feel the 
 present impression, but carry my sympathy no farther, and 
 never transfuse the force of the first conception into my 
 ideas of the related objects. If it be another's misery, which 
 is presented in this feeble manner, I receive it by communi- 
 cation, and am afl'ected with all the passions related to it : 
 But as I am not so much interested as to concern myself in 
 his good fortune, as well as his bad, I iiever feel the ex- 
 tensive sympathy, nor the passions related to it. 
 
 Now in order to know what passions are related to these 
 different kinds of sympathy, we must considei% that benevo- 
 lence is an original pleasure arising from the pleasure of the 
 person belov'd, and a pain proceeding from his pain : From 
 which corresjiondence of impressions there arises a sub-»
 
 Sect. IX. OF THE PASSION'S. 171 
 
 sequent desire of his pleasure, and aversion to liis pain. ^ In SECT. 
 order, then, to make a passion run parallel with benevolence, ._ / ^ 
 'tis requisite yve should feel these double impressions, corre- of the 
 spondent to those of the person, whom we consider ; nor is mixture of 
 any one of them alone sufficient for that purpose. When we lence, &c. 
 sympathize only with one impression, and that a painful one, 
 this sympathy is related to anger and to hatred, upon account 
 of the uneasiness it conveys to us. But as the extensive or 
 limited sympathy depends upon the force of the first sym- 
 pathy ; it follows, that the passion of love or hatred depends 
 upon the same principle. A strong- impression, when com- 
 municated, gives a double tendency of the passions ; which 
 is related to benevolence and love by a similarity of di- 
 rection; however painful the first impression might have 
 been. A weak impression, that is painful, is related to anger 
 and hatred by the resemblance of sensations. Benevolence, 
 therefore, arises from a great degree of misery, or any de- 
 gree strongly sympathiz'd with : Hatred or contempt from 
 a small degree, or one weakly sympathiz'd with ; which is the 
 principle I intended to prove and explain. 
 
 Nor have we only our reason to trust to for this principle, 
 but also experience. A certain degree of poverty produces 
 contempt ; but a degree beyond causes compassion and good- 
 will. We may under- value a peasant or servant ; but when 
 the misery of a beggar appears very great, or is painted in 
 very lively colours, we sympathize with him in his afflictions, 
 and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and benevolence. 
 The same object causes contrary passions according to its 
 different degrees. The passions, therefore, must depend 
 upon principles, that operate in such certain degrees, ac- 
 cording to my hypothesis. The encrease of the sympathy 
 has evidently the same effect as the encrease of the misery. 
 
 A barren and desolate country always seems ugly and dis- 
 agreeable, and commonly inspires us with contempt for the 
 inhabitants. This deformity, however, proceeds in a great 
 measure from a sympathy with the inhabitants, as has been 
 already observ'd ; but it is only a weak one, and reaches no 
 farther than the immediate sensation, which is disagreeable. 
 The view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent sentiments ; 
 because we there enter so deep into the interests of the 
 
 [' Introd. Sect. 42.— Ed.]
 
 172 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part IL 
 
 PART miserable inliabitants, as to wish for their prosperity, as well 
 >-- / -■ ^ as feel their adversity. 
 
 Of lore and But tho' the force of the impression generally produces pity 
 hatred. ^^^ benevolence, 'tis certain, that being carry'd too far it 
 ceases to have that effect. This, perhaps, may be worth our 
 notice. When the uneasiness is either small in itself, or re- 
 mote from us, it engages not the imagination, nor is able 
 to convey an equal concern for the future and contingent 
 good, as for the present and real evil. Upon its acquiring 
 greater force, we become so interested in the concerns of the 
 person, as to be sensible both of his good and bad fortune ; 
 and from that compleat sympathy there arises pity and bene- 
 volence. But 'twill easily be imagin'd, that where the present 
 evil strikes with more than ordinary force, it may entirely en- 
 gage our attention, and prevent that double sympathy, above- 
 mentioned. Thus we find, that tho' every one, but especially 
 women, are apt to contract a kindness for criminals, who go 
 to the scaffold, and readily imagine them to be uncommonly 
 handsome and well-shap'd ; yet one, who is present at the 
 cruel execution of the rack, feels no such tender emotions ; 
 but is in a manner overcome with horror, and has no leisure 
 to temper this uneasy sensation by any opposite sympathy. 
 
 But the instance, which makes the most clearly for my 
 hypothesis, is that wherein by a change of the objects we 
 separate the double sympathy even from a midling degree of 
 the passion ; in which case we find, that pity, instead of 
 producing love and tenderness as usual, always gives rise to 
 the contrary affection. When we observe a person in mis- 
 fortunes, we are affected with pity and love : but the author 
 of that misfortune becomes the object of our strongest hatred, 
 and is the more detested in proportion to the degree of our 
 compassion. Now for what reason shou'd the same passion 
 of pity produce love to the person, who suffers the misfortune, 
 and hatred to the person, who causes it ; unless it be because 
 in the latter case the author bears a relation only to the 
 misfortune ; whereas in considering the sufferer we carry our 
 view on every side, and wish for his prosperity, as well as 
 are sensible of his af&iction ? 
 
 I shall just observe, before I leave the present subject, 
 that this phaenomenon of the double sympathy, and its ten- 
 dency to cause love, may contribute to the production of the 
 kindness, which we naturally bear our relations and ac-
 
 Sect. X. OF THE PASSIONS. 173 
 
 quaintance. Custom and relation make us enter deeply into SKCT. 
 tlie sentiments of others ; and whatever fortune we suppose l-^- 
 to attend them, is render'd present to us by the imagination, q^ ^i^^ 
 and operates as if originally our own. We rejoice in their mixture of 
 pleasures, and grieve for their sorrows, merely from the force i °^J**je 
 of sympathy. Nothing that concerns them is indifferent to 
 us ; and as this correspondence of sentiments is the natural 
 attendant of love, it readily produces that affection. 
 
 Sect. X. — Of Respect and Oo^itempt. 
 
 There now remains only to explain the passions of respect 
 and contempt, along with the amorous affection, in order to 
 understand all the passions which have any mixture of love 
 or hatred. Let us begin with respect and contempt. 
 
 In considering the qualities and circumstances of others, 
 we may either regard them as they really are in themselves ; 
 or may make a comparison betwixt them and our own quali- 
 ties and circumstances ; or may Join these two methods of 
 consideration. The good qualities of others, from the first 
 point of view, produce love ; from the second, humility ; and 
 from the third, respect ; which is a mixture of these two 
 passions. Their bad qualities, after the same manner, cause 
 either hatred, or pride, or contempt, according to the light 
 in which we survey them. 
 
 That there is a mixture of pride in contempt, and of 
 humility in respect, is, I think, too evident, from their very 
 feeling or appearance, to require any particular proof. That 
 this mixture arises from a tacit comparison of the person 
 contemn'd or respected with ourselves is no less evident. 
 The same man may cause either respect, love, or contempt by 
 his condition and talents, according as the person, who con- 
 siders him, from his inferior becomes his equal or superior. 
 In changing the point of view, tho' the object may remain 
 the same, its proportion to ourselves entirely alters ; which 
 is the cause of an alteration in the passions. These passions, 
 therefore, arise from our observing the proportion ; that is, 
 from a comparison. 
 
 I have already observ'd, that the mind has a much stronger 
 propensity to pride than to humility, and have endeavour'd, 
 from the principles of human nature, to assign a cause for 
 this phsenomenon. Whether my reasoning be received or
 
 174 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Taut IL 
 
 PAEr not, the plisenomenon is undisputed, and appears in many 
 v__t,l_^ instances. Among the rest, 'tis the reason why there is a 
 Of love and miuch greater mixture of pride in contempt, than of humility 
 hatred. jj-^ respect, and why we are more elevated with the view of 
 one below us, than mortify'd with the presence of one above 
 us. Contempt or scorn has so strong a tincture of pride, 
 that there scarce is any other passion discern able : Whereas 
 in esteem or respect, love makes a more considerable in- 
 gredient than humility. The passion of vanity is so prompt, 
 that it rouzes at the least call ; while humility requires a 
 stronger impulse to make it exert itself. 
 
 But here it may reasonably be ask'd, why this mixture 
 takes place only in some cases, and appears not on every 
 occasion. All those objects, which cause love, when plac'd 
 on another person, are the causes of pride, when transfer'd 
 to ourselves ; and consequently ought to be causes of humility, 
 as well as love, while they belong to others, and are only 
 compar'd to those, which we ourselves possess. In like 
 manner every quality, M'hich, by being directly consider'd, 
 produces hatred, ought always to give rise to pride by com- 
 parison, and by a mixture of these passions of hatred and 
 pride ought to excite contempt or scorn. The difficulty then 
 is, why any objects ever cause pure love or hatred, and pro- 
 duce not always the mixt passions of respect and contempt. 
 
 I have suppos'd all along, that the passions of love and 
 pride, and those of humility and hatred are similar in their 
 sensations, and that the two former are always agreeable, 
 and the two latter painful. But tho' this be universally true, 
 'tis observable, that the two agreeable, as well as the two 
 painful passions, have some differences, and even contrarie- 
 ties, which distinguish them. Nothing invigorates and 
 exalts the mind equally with pride and vanity ; tho' at the 
 same time love or tenderness is rather found to weaken and 
 infeeble it. The same difference is observable betwixt the 
 uneasy passions. Anger and hatred bestow a new force on 
 all our thoughts and actions ; while humility and shame de- 
 ject and discourage us. Of these qualities of the passions, 
 'twill be necessary to form a distinct idea. Let us remember, 
 that pride and hatred invigorate the soul ; and love and 
 humility infeeble it. 
 
 From this it follows, that tho' the conformity betwixt love 
 and hatred in the agreeableness of their sensation makes
 
 Sect. X. OF THE PASSIONS. 175 
 
 them always be excited by the same objects, yet this other SECT. 
 contrariety is the reason, why they are excited in very dif- __,_ ^ 
 ferent degrees. Genius and learning are pleasant and of respect 
 magnificent objects, and by both these circumstances are ^"^ ^^^' 
 adapted to pride and vanity ; but have a relation to love by 
 their pleasure only. Ignorance and simplicity are disagree- 
 able and mean, which in the same manner gives them a double 
 connexion with humanity, and a single one with hatred. 
 We may, therefore, consider it as certain, that tho' the same 
 object alwaj^s produces love and pride, humility and hatred, 
 according to its different situations, yet it seldom produces 
 either the two former or the two latter passions in the same 
 proportion. 
 
 'Tis here we must seek for a solution of the difficult}^ above- 
 mention'd, why any object ever excites pure love or hatred, 
 and does not always produce respect or contempt, by a mix- 
 ture of humility or pride. No quality in another gives rise 
 to humility by comparison, unless it wou'd have produc'd 
 pride by being plac'd in ourselves ; and vice versa no object 
 excites pride by comparison, unless it wou'd have produc'd 
 humility by the direct survey. This is evident, objects 
 always produce by comparison a sensation directly contrary 
 to their original one. Suppose, therefore, an object to be 
 presented, which is peculiarly fitted to produce love, but im- 
 perfectly to excite pride ; this object, belonging to another, 
 gives rise directly to a great degree of love, but to a small 
 one of humility by comparison and consequently that latter 
 passion is scarce felt in the compound, nor is able to convert 
 the love into respect. This is the case with good nature, 
 good humour, facility, generosity, beauty, and many other 
 qualities. These have a peculiar aptitude to produce love in 
 others ; but not so great a tendency to excite pride in our- 
 selves : For which reason the view of them, as belonging to 
 another person, produces pure love, with but a small mixture 
 of humility and r?spect. 'Tis easy to extend the same 
 reasoning to the opposite passions. 
 
 Before we leave this subject, it may not be amiss to account 
 for a pretty curious phsenomenon, viz. why we commonly keep 
 at a distance such as we contemn, and allow not our inferiors 
 to approach too near even in place and situation. It has 
 already been observ'd, that almost every kind of idea is at- 
 tended with some emotion, even the ideas of number and
 
 170 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Pakt 11. 
 
 PART extension, much more those of such objects as are esteem'd 
 _J^1_ of consequence in life, and fix our attention. 'Tis not with 
 f love and entire indifference we can survey either a rich man or a poor 
 itred. one, but must feel some faint touches, at least, of respect in 
 the former case, and of contempt in the latter. These two 
 passions are contrary to each other ; but in order to make 
 this contrariety be felt, the objects must be some way related ; 
 otherwise the affections are totally separate and distinct, and 
 never encounter. The relation takes place wherever the per- 
 sons become contiguous ; which is a general reason why we are 
 uneasy at seeing such disproportioned objects, as a rich man 
 and a poor one, a nobleman and a porter, in that situation. 
 
 This uneasiness, which is common to every spectator, must 
 be more sensible to the superior ; and that because the near 
 approach of the inferior is regarded as a piece of ill-breeding, 
 and shews that he is not sensible of the disproportion, and is 
 no way affected by it. A sense of superiority in another 
 breeds in all men an inclination to keep themselves at a dis- 
 tance from him, and determines them to redouble the marks 
 of respect and reverence, when they are oblig'd to approach 
 him ; and where they do not observe that conduct, 'tis a proof 
 they are not sensible of his superiority. From hence too it 
 proceeds, that any great difference in the degrees of any 
 quality is call'd a distance by a common m.etaphor, which, 
 however trivial it may appear, is founded on natural prin- 
 ciples of the imagination. A great difference inclines us to 
 produce a distance. The ideas of distance and difference are, 
 therefore, connected together. Connected ideas are readily 
 taken for each other ; and this is in general the source of the 
 metaphor, as we shall have occasion to observe afterwards. 
 
 Sect. XI. — Of the Amorous Passion, or Love hetivixt the Sexes. 
 
 Of all the compound passions, which proceed from a mix- 
 ture of love and hatred with other affections, no one better 
 deserves our attention, than that love, which arises betwixt 
 the sexes, as well on account of its force and violence, as 
 those curious principles of philosophy, for which it affords us 
 an uncontestable argument. 'Tis plain, that this affection, 
 in its most natural state, is deriv'd from the conjunction of 
 three different impressions or passions, -yiz. The pleasing sensa- 
 tion arising from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation ;
 
 Sect. XI. OF THE PASSIONS. 177 
 
 and a generous kindness or good-will. The origin of kind- SECT, 
 ness from beauty may be explain'd from the foregoing reason- . "^y 
 
 ing. The question is how the bodily appetite is excited by it. of the 
 
 The appetite of generation, when confin'd to a certain amorous 
 degree, is evidently of the pleasant kind, and has a strong ^^,_ ' 
 connexion with all the agreeable emotions. Joy, mirth, 
 vanity, and kindness are all incentives to this desire ; as well 
 as music, dancing, wine, and good cheer. On the other 
 hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility are destructive 
 of it. From this quality 'tis easily conceiv'd why it shou'd 
 be connected with the sense of beauty. 
 
 But there is another principle that contributes to the same 
 effect. I have observ'd that the parallel direction of the 
 desires is a real relation, and no less than a resemblance in 
 their sensation, produces a connexion among them. That 
 we may fully comprehend the extent of this relation, we 
 must consider, that any principal desire may be attended 
 with subordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to 
 which if other desires are parallel, they are by that means 
 related to the principal one. Thus hunger may oft be con- 
 sider'd as the primary inclination of the soul, and the desire 
 of approaching the meat as the secondary one; since 'tis 
 absolutely necessary to the satisfying that appetite. If an 
 object, therefore, by any separate qualities, inclines us to ap- 
 proach the meat, it naturally encreases our appetite ; as on 
 the contrary, whatever inclines us to set our victuals at a 
 distance, is contradictory to hunger, and diminishes our 
 inclination to them. Now 'tis plain that beauty has the first 
 effect, and deformity the second : Which is the reason why 
 the former gives us a keener appetite for our victuals, and 
 the latter is sufficient to disgust us at the most savoury dish, 
 that cookery has invented. All this is easily applicable to 
 the appetite for generation.- 
 
 From these two relations, viz. resemblance and a parallel 
 desire, there arises such a connexion betwixt the sense of 
 beauty, the bodily appetite, and benevolence, that they be- 
 come in a manner inseparable : And we find from experience, 
 that 'tis indifferent which of them advances first ; since any 
 of them is almost sure to be attended with the related 
 affections. One, who is inflam'd with lust, feels at least a 
 momentary kindness towards the object of it, and at the 
 same time fancies her more beautiful than ordinary ; as there 
 
 VOL. II. N
 
 178 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part n. 
 
 PART are many, wlio begin with kindness and esteem for the wit 
 , ^^- . and merit of the person, and advance from that to the other 
 Of love and passions. But the most common species of love is that 
 hatred. which first arises from beauty, and afterwards diffuses itself 
 into kindness and into the bodily appetite. Kindness or 
 esteem, and the appetite to generation, are too remote to 
 unite easily together. The one is, perhaps, the most refin'd 
 passion of the soul ; the other the most gross and vulgar. 
 The love of beauty is plac'd in a just medium betwixt them, 
 and partakes of both their natures : From whence it pro- 
 ceeds, that 'tis so singularly fitted to produce both. 
 
 This account of love is not peculiar to my system, but is 
 unavoidable on any hypothesis. The three affections, which 
 compose this passion, are evidently distinct, and has each of 
 them its distinct object. 'Tis certain, therefore, that 'tis 
 only by their relation they produce each other. But the re- 
 lation of passions is not alone sufiicient. 'Tis likewise neces- 
 sary, there shou'd be a relation of ideas. The beauty of 
 one person never inspires us with love for another. This 
 then is a sensible proof of the double relation of impressions 
 and ideas. From one instance so evident as this we may 
 form a judgment of the rest. 
 
 This may also serve in another view to illustrate what T 
 have insisted on concerning the origin of pride and humOity, 
 love and hatred. I have observ'd, that tho' self be the ob- 
 ject of the first set of passions, and some other person of the 
 second, yet these objects cannot alone be the causes of the 
 passions ; as having each of them a relation to two contrary 
 affections, which must from the very first moment destroy 
 each other. Here then is the situation of the mind, as I 
 have already describ'd it. It has certain organs naturally 
 fitted to produce a passion ; that passion, when produc'd, 
 naturally turns the view to a certain object. But this not 
 being sufficient to produce the passion, there is requir'd some 
 other emotion, which by a double relation of impressions and 
 ideas' may set these principles in action, and bestow on them 
 their first impulse. This situation is still more remarkable 
 with regard to the appetite of generation. Sex is not only the 
 object, but also the cause of the appetite. We not only turn 
 our view to it, when actuated by that appetite ; but the re- 
 flecting on it suffices to excite the appetite. But as this 
 
 [' Introd. Sect. 33.— Ed.]
 
 Si;cT. Xll. OF THE PASSIONS. 179 
 
 cause loses its force by too great frequency, 'tis necessary it SECT. 
 
 bhou'd be quicken'd by some new impulse ; and that impulse ^. ^_ 
 
 we find to arise from the beauty of the person ; that is, from Of the 
 
 a double relation of impressions and ideas. Since this double amorous 
 
 -111 T • J • I p^'SSlOHj 
 
 relation is necessary where an affection has both a distinct &c. 
 cause, and object, how much more so, where it has only a 
 distinct object, without any determinate cause ? 
 
 Sect. XII. — Of the Love and Hatred of Animals. 
 
 But to pass from the passions of love and hatred, and 
 from their mixtures and compositions, as they appear in 
 man, to the same affections, as they display themselves in 
 brutes ; we may observe, not only that love and hatred are 
 common to the whole sensitive creation, but likewise that 
 their causes, as above-explain'd, are of so simple a nature, 
 that they may easily be suppos'd to operate on mere animals. 
 There is no force of reflection or penetration requir'd. 
 Every thing is conducted by springs and principles, which 
 are not peculiar to man, or any one species of animals. The 
 conclusion from this is obvious in favour of the foregoing 
 system. 
 
 Love in animals has not for its only object animals of 
 the same species, but extends itself farther, and compre- 
 hends almost every sensible and thinking being. A dog 
 naturally loves a man above his own species, and very com- 
 monly meets with a return of affection. 
 
 As animals are but little susceptible either of the pleasures 
 or pains of the imagination, they can judge of objects onl}'^ 
 by the sensible good or evil, which they produce, and from 
 that must regulate their affections towards them. Accord 
 ingly we find, that by benefits or injuries we produce their 
 love or hatred ; and that by feeding and cherishing any 
 animal, we quickly acquire his affections; as by beating and 
 abusing him we never fail to draw on us his enmity and ill- 
 will. 
 
 Love in beasts is not caus'd so much by relation, as in 
 our species ; and that because their thoughts are not so 
 active as to trace relations, except in very obvious instances. 
 Yet 'tis easy to remark, that on some occasions it has a con- 
 siderable influence upon them. Thus acquaintance, which 
 has the same effect as relation, always produces love in 
 
 N 2
 
 180 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Paet H. 
 
 PAllT animals either to men or to each other. For the same 
 
 ^ ^- _. reason any likeness among them is the source of affection. 
 
 Of love and An OX confin'd to a park with horses, will naturally join 
 
 hatred, their company, if I may so speak, but always leaves it to 
 
 enjoy that of his own species, where he has the choice of 
 
 both. 
 
 The affection of parents to their young- proceeds from a 
 peculiar instinct in animals, as well as in our species. 
 
 'Tis evident, that sympathy, or the communication of 
 passions, takes place among animals, no less than among 
 men. Fear, anger, courage and other affections are fre- 
 quently communicated from one animal to another, without 
 their knowledge of that cause, which produc'd the original 
 passion. Grief likewise is receiv'd by sympathy ; and pro- 
 duces almost all the same consequences, and excites the 
 same emotions as in our species. The bowlings and lamen- 
 tations of a dog produce a sensible concern in his fellows. 
 And 'tis remarkable, that tho' almost all animals use in play 
 the same member, and nearly the same action as in fighting; 
 a lion, a tyger, a cat their paws ; an ox his horns ; a dog 
 his teeth ; a horse his heels : Yet they most carefully avoid 
 harming their companion, even tho' they have nothing to 
 fear from his resentment ; which is an evident proof of the 
 sense brutes have of each other's pain and pleasure. 
 
 Every one has observ'd how much more dogs are ani- 
 mated when they hunt in a pack, than when they pursue 
 their game apart; and 'tis evident this can proceed from 
 nothing but from sympathy. 'Tis also well known to 
 hunters, that this effect follows in a greater degree, and 
 even in too great a degree, where two packs, that are 
 strangers to each other, are join'd together. We might, 
 perhaps, be at a loss to explain this phsenomenon, if we had 
 not experience of a similar in ourselves. 
 
 Envy and malice are passions very remarkable in animals. 
 They are perhaps more common than pity ; as requiring less 
 effort of thou«rht and imagination.
 
 ISl 
 
 PART III. 
 
 OP THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS. 
 
 Sect. I. — Of Liberty and Necessity. 
 
 We come now to explain the direct passions, or the im- SECT, 
 pressions, which arise immediately from good or evil, from ^- 
 pain or pleasure. Of this kind are, desire and aversion, grief of liberty 
 and joy, hope and fear. and neces- 
 
 Of all the immediate effects of pain and pleasure, there is ^^^^' 
 none more remarkable than the will ; and tho', properly 
 speaking, it be not comprehended among the passions, yet as 
 the full understanding of its nature and properties, is neces- 
 sary to the explanation of them, we shall here make it the 
 subject of our enquiry. I desire it may be observ'd, that by 
 the will, I mean nothing but the internal impression we feel 
 and are conscious of, when we knowingly give rise to any 
 new motion of our body. Or new perception of our mind. This 
 impression, like the preceding ones of pride and humility, 
 love and hatred, 'tis impossible to define, and needless to 
 describe any farther ; for which reason we shall cut off all 
 those definitions and distinctions, with which philosophers 
 are wont to perplex rather than clear up this question ; and 
 entering at first upon the subject, shall examine that long 
 disputed question concerning liberty and necessity ; which 
 occurs so naturally in treating of the will. 
 
 'Tis universally acknowledg'd, that the operations of ex- 
 ternal bodies are necessary, and that in the communication 
 of their motion, in their attraction, and mutual cohesion, 
 there are not the least traces of indifference or liberty. 
 Every object is determin'd by an absolute fate to a certain 
 degree and direction of its motion, and can no more deparb 
 from that precise line, in which it moves, than it can convert 
 itself into an angel, or spirit, or any superior substance. 
 The actions, therefore, of matter are to be regarded as
 
 182 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATUIIE. Paut III. 
 
 PART instances of necessary actions ; and whatever is in this re- 
 
 ■ ^^^- . spect on the same footing with matter, must be acknow- 
 
 Of the will ledg'd to be necessary. That we may know whether this be 
 
 pasLioS!^^ the case with the actions of the mind, we shall begin with 
 
 examining matter, and considering on what the ideas of a 
 
 necessity in its operations are founded, and why we conclude 
 
 one body or action to be the infallible cause of another. 
 
 It has been observ'd already, that in no single instance 
 the ultimate connexion of any objects is discoverable, either 
 by our senses or reason, and that we can never penetrate so 
 far into the essence and construction of bodies, as to perceive 
 the principle, on which their mutual influence depends. 'Tis 
 their constant union alone, with which we are acquainted ; 
 and 'tis from the constant union the necessity arises. If 
 objects had not an uniform and regular conjunction with 
 each other, we shou'd never arrive at any idea of cause 
 and effect ; and even after all, the necessity, which enters 
 into that idea, is nothing but a determination of the mind to 
 pass from one object to its usual attendant, and infer the 
 existence of one from that of the other. Here then are 
 two particulars, which we are to consider as essential to 
 necessity, viz. the constant union and the inference of the 
 mind; and wherever we discover these we must acknowledge 
 a necessity. As the actions of matter have no necessity, but 
 what is deriv'd from these circumstances, and it is not by 
 any insight into the essence of bodies we discover their con- 
 nexion, the absence of this insight, while the union and 
 inference remain, will never, in any case, remove the ne- 
 cessity. 'Tis the observation of the union, which produces 
 the inference ; for which reason it might be thought suf- 
 ficient, if we prove a constant union in the actions of the 
 mind, in order to establish the inference, along with the 
 necessity of these actions. But that I may bestow a greater 
 force on my reasoning, I shall examine these particulars 
 apart, and shall first prove from experience, that our actions 
 have a constant union with our motives, tempers, and 
 circumstances, before I consider the inferences w^e draw 
 from it. 
 
 To this end a very slight and general view of the common 
 course of human affairs will be sufficient. There is no light, 
 in which we can take them, that does not confirm this 
 principle. Whether we consider mankind according to the
 
 Sect. I. OF THE PASSIONS. 183 
 
 difference of sexes, ages, governments, conditions, or methods SECT, 
 of education ; the same uniformity and regular operation , 
 of natural principles are discernible. Like causes still pro- of liberty 
 duce like effects ; in the same manner as in the mutual '\°d neces- 
 action of the elements and powers of nature. 
 
 There are different trees, which regularly produce fruit, 
 whose relish is different from each other; and this regu- 
 larity will be admitted as an instance of necessity and causes 
 in external bodies. But are the products of Guienne and of 
 Champagne more regularly different than the sentiments, 
 actions, and passions of the two sexes, of which the one 
 are distinguish'd by their force and maturity, the other by 
 their delicacy and softness ? 
 
 Are the changes of our body from infancy to old age more 
 regular and certain than those of our mind and conduct ? 
 And wou'd a man be more ridiculous, who wou'd expect that 
 an infant of four years old will raise a weight of three 
 hundred pound, than one, who from a person of the same 
 age, wou'd look for a philosophical reasoning, or a prudent 
 and well-concerted action ? 
 
 We must certainly allow, that the cohesion of the parts of 
 matter arises from natural and necessary principles, what- 
 ever difficulty we may find in explaining them : And for a 
 like reason we must allow, that human society is founded on 
 like principles ; and our reason in the latter case, is better 
 than even that in the former ; because we not only observe, 
 that men always seek society, but can also explain the 
 principles, on which this universal propensity is founded. 
 For is it more certain, that two flat pieces of marble will 
 unite together, than that two young savages of different 
 sexes will copulate ? Do the children arise from this copu- 
 lation more uniformly, than does the parents' care for their 
 safety and preservation? And after they have arriv'd at 
 years of discretion by the care of their parents, are the in- 
 conveniencies attending their separation more certain than 
 their foresight of these inconveniencies, and their care of 
 avoiding them by a close union and confederacy ? 
 
 The skin, pores, muscles, and nerves of a day-labourer are 
 different from those of a man of quality: So are his senti- 
 ments, actions and manners. The different stations of life 
 influence the whole fabric, external and internal ; and these 
 different stations arise necessarily, because uniformly, from
 
 184 A TREATISE OF UmiAN NATURE. Part HI. 
 
 PAKT the necessary and nniform principles of human nature. 
 
 . _ ^^- ^ Men cannot live without society, and cannot be associated 
 
 Of the will without government. Government makes a distinction of 
 
 and irtct property, and establishes the dift'erent ranks of men. This 
 
 passions. pi.o(juces industry, traffic, manufactures, law-suits, war, 
 
 leagues, alliances, voyages, travels, cities, fleets, ports, and 
 
 all those other actions and objects, which cause such a 
 
 diversity, and at the same time maintain such an uniformity 
 
 in human life. 
 
 Shou'd a traveller, returning from a far country, tell us, 
 that he had seen a climate in the fiftieth degree of northern 
 latitude, where all the fruits ripen and come to perfection in 
 the winter, and decay in the summer, after the same manner 
 as in England they are produc'd and decay in the contrary 
 seasons, he wou'd find few so credulous as to believe him. I 
 am aj)t to think a traveller wou'd meet with as little credit, 
 who shou'd inform us of people exactly of the same character 
 with those in Plato^s republic on the one hand, or those in 
 Hohhes's Leviathan on the other. There is a general course 
 of nature in human actions, as well as in the operations 
 of the sun and the climate. There are also characters 
 peculiar to different nations and particular persons, as well 
 as common to mankind. The knowledge of these characters 
 is founded on the observation of an uniformity in the 
 actions, that flow from them ; and this uniformity forms the 
 very essence of necessity. 
 
 I can imagine only one way of eluding this argument, 
 which is by denying that uniformity of human actions, on 
 which it is founded. As long as actions have a constant 
 union and connexion Avith the situation and temper of the 
 agent, however we may in words refuse to acknowledge the 
 necessity, we really allow the thing. Now some may, 
 perhaps, find a pretext to deny this regular union and con- 
 nexion. For what is more capricious than human actions? 
 What more inconstant than the desires of man ? And 
 what creature departs more widely, not only from right 
 reason, but from his own character and disposition? An 
 hour, a moment is sufficient to make him change from one 
 extreme to another, and overturn what cost the greatest 
 pain and labour to establish. Necessity is regular and 
 certain. Human conduct is irregular and uncertain. The 
 one, therefore, proceeds not from the other.
 
 Sect. I. OF THE PASSIONS. 185 
 
 To this I reply, that in judging of the actions of men we 
 must proceed upon the same maxims, as when we reason 
 concerning external objects. When any phsenomena are Of liberty 
 constantly and invariably conjoin'd together, they acquire gn„ 
 such a connexion in the imagination, that it passes from 
 one to the other, without any doubt or hesitation. But 
 below this there are many inferior degrees of evidence and 
 probability, nor does one single contrariety of experiment 
 entirely destroy all our reasoning. The mind ballances the 
 contrary experiments, and deducting the inferior from the 
 superior, proceeds with that degree of assurance or evidence, 
 which remains. Even when these contrary experiments are 
 entirely equal, we remove not the notion of causes and 
 necessity ; but supposing that the usual contrariety proceeds 
 from the operation of contrary and conceal'd causes, we 
 conclude, that the chance or indifference lies only in our 
 judgment on account of our impei-fect knowledge, not in the 
 things themselves, which are in every case equally necessary, 
 tho' to appearance not equally constant or certain.' No 
 union can be more constant and certain, than that of some 
 actions with some motives and characters ; and if in other 
 cases the union is uncertain, 'tis no more than what happens 
 in the operations of body, nor can we conclude any thing 
 from the one irregularity, which will not follow equally from 
 the other. 
 
 'Tis commonly allow'd that mad-men have no liberty. 
 But were we to judge by their actions, these have less 
 regularity and constancy than the actions of wise-men, and 
 consequently are farther remov'd from necessity. Our way 
 of thinking in this particular is, therefore, absolutely in- 
 consistent; but is a natural consequence of these confus'd 
 ideas and undefin'd terms, which we so commonly make 
 use of in cur reasonings, especially on the present subject 
 
 We must now shew, that as the union betwixt motives 
 and actions has the same constancy, as that in any natural 
 operations, so its influence on the understanding is also the 
 same, in determining us to infer the existence of one from 
 that of another. If this shall appear, there is no known 
 circumstance, that enters into the connexion and jDroduction 
 of the actions of matter, that is nob to be found in all the 
 operations of the mind ; and consequently we cannot, without 
 
 [' Introd. Sect. 56 ; cf. also Introd. to Vol. I. Sect. 6, 336.— Ed.]
 
 186 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATUEE. Taet UI. 
 
 a manifest absurdity, attribute necessity to the one, and 
 refuse it to the other. 
 
 There is no philosopher, whose judgment is so riveted to 
 this fantastical system of liberty, as not to acknowledge the 
 force of moral evidence, and both in speculation and practice 
 proceed upon it, as upon a reasonable foundation. Now 
 moral evidence is nothing but a conclusion concerning the 
 actions of men, deriv'd from the consideration of their 
 motives, temper and situation. Thus when we see certain 
 characters or figures describ'd upon paper, we infer that the 
 person, who produc'd them, wou'd aflfirm such facts, the 
 death of Ccesar, the success of Augustus, the cruelty of Nero ; 
 and remembering many other concuiTent testimonies we 
 conclude, that those facts were once really existent, and 
 that so many men, without any interest, wou'd never con- 
 spire to deceive us ; especially since they must, in the 
 attempt, expose themselves to the derision of all their con- 
 temporaries, when these facts were asserted to be recent and 
 universally known. The same kind of reasoning runs thro' 
 politics, war, commerce, oeconomy, and indeed mixes itself 
 so entirely in human life, that 'tis impossible to act or 
 subsist a moment without having recourse to it. A prince, 
 who imposes a tax upon his subjects, expects their com- 
 pliance. A general, who conducts an army, makes account 
 of a certain degree of courage. A merchant looks for 
 fidelity and skill in his factor or super-cargo. A man, who 
 gives orders for his dinner, doubts not of the obedience of 
 his servants. In short, as nothing more nearly interests us 
 than our own actions and those of others, the greatest part 
 of our reasonings is employ 'd in judgments concerning them. 
 Now I assert, that whoever reasons after this manner, does 
 ipso facto believe the actions of the will to arise from 
 necessity, and that he knows not what he means, when 
 he denies it. 
 
 All those objects, of which we call the one cause and the 
 other effect, consider'd in themselves, are as distinct and 
 separate from each other, as any two things in nature, nor 
 can we ever, by the most accurate survey of them, infer 
 the existence of the one from that of the other. 'Tis only 
 from experience and the observation of their constant union, 
 that we are able to form this inference; and even after 
 all, the inference is nothing but the efi'ects of custom on
 
 Sect. L OF THE PASSIONS, 187 
 
 the imagination. We must not here be content with SECT, 
 saying, that the idea of cause and effect arises from objects v. — '^__^ 
 constantly united ; but must affirm, that 'tis the very Of liberty 
 same with the idea of these objects, and that the necessary ^^^ '^'^'^^^' 
 connexion is not discover'd by a conclusion of the under- 
 standing, but is merely a perception of the mind. Wherever, 
 therefore, we observe the same union, and wherever the 
 union operates in the same manner upon the belief and 
 opinion, we have the idea of causes and necessity, tho' 
 perhaps we may avoid those expressions. Motion in one 
 body in all past instances, that have fallen under our ob- 
 servation, is follow'd upon impulse by motion in another. 
 'Tis impossible for the mind to penetrate farther. From 
 this constant union it forms the idea of cause and effect, 
 and by its influence feels the necessity. As there is the 
 same constancy, and the same influence in what we call 
 moral evidence, I ask no more. What remains can only be 
 a dispute of words. 
 
 And indeed, when we consider how aptly natural and 
 moral evidence cement together, and form only one chain 
 of argument betwixt them, we shall make no scruple to 
 allow, that they are of the same nature, and deriv'd from 
 the same principles. A prisoner, who has neither money 
 nor interest, discovers the impossibility of his escape, as well 
 from the obstinacy of the gaoler, as from the walls and bars 
 with which he is surrounded ; and in all attempts for his 
 freedom chuses rather to work upon the stone and iron 
 of the one, than upon the inflexible nature of the other. 
 The same prisoner, when conducted to the scaffold, fore- 
 sees his death as certainly from the constancy and fidelity 
 of his guards as from the operation of the ax or wheel. 
 His mind runs along a certain train of ideas : The refusal 
 of the soldiers to consent to his escape, the action of the 
 executioner ; the separation of the head and body ; bleeding, 
 convulsive motions, and death. Here is a connected chain 
 of natural causes and voluntary actions ; but the mind 
 feels no difference betwixt them in passing from one link to 
 another ; nor is less certain of the future event than if it 
 were connected with the present impressions of the memory 
 and senses by a train of causes cemented together by what 
 we are pleas'd to call a physical necessity. The same ex- 
 perienc'd union has the same effect on the mind, whether
 
 passions. 
 
 188 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part HI 
 
 PART the united objects be motives, volitions and actions ; or 
 ■ _ . " ^ figure and motion. We may change the names of things ; 
 Of the will but their nature and their operation on the understanding 
 and direct never change. 
 
 I dare be positive no one will ever endeavour to refute 
 these reasonings othervs^ise than by altering my definitions, 
 and assigning a different meaning to the terms of cause, and 
 effect, and necessity, and liberty, and chance. According to 
 my definitions, necessity makes an essential part of causa- 
 tion ; and consequently liberty, by removing necessity, re- 
 moves also causes, and is the very same thing w^ith chance. 
 As chance is commonly thought to imply a contradiction, 
 and is at least directly contrary to experience, there are 
 always the same arguments against liberty or free-will. If 
 any one alters the definitions, I cannot pretend to argue 
 with him, 'till I know the meaning he assigns to these 
 terms. 
 
 Sect. II. — The same Subject continu'd. 
 
 I believe we may assign the three following reasons for 
 the prevalence of the doctrine of liberty, however absurd it 
 may be in one sense, and unintelligible in any other. First, 
 After we have perform 'd any action ; tlio' we confess we 
 were influenc'd by particular views and motives ; 'tis diffi- 
 cult for us to perswade ourselves we were govern'd by 
 necessity, and that 'twas utterly impossible for us to have 
 acted otherwise ; the idea of necessity seeming to imply 
 something of force, and riolence, and constraint, of which 
 we are not sensible. Few are capable of distinguishing 
 betwixt the liberty of spontaneity, as it is call'd in the 
 schools, and the liberty of indifference ; betwixt that which 
 is oppos'd to violence, and that which means a negation of 
 necessity and causes. The first is even the most common 
 sense of the word ; and as 'tis only that species of liberty, 
 which it concerns us to preserve, our thoughts have been 
 principally tumi'd towards it, and have almost universally 
 confounded it with the other. 
 
 Secondly, There is a false sensation or experience even of 
 the liberty of indifference ; which is regarded as an argu- 
 ment for its real existence. The necessity of any action, 
 whether of matter or of the mind, is not properly a quality 
 in the agent, but in any thinking or intelligent being, who
 
 Sect. II. OF THE PASSIONS. 189 
 
 may consider the action, and consists in the determination SECT, 
 of his thought to infer its existence from some preceding _ ^^' ■ 
 objects : • As liberty or chance, on the other hand, is nothing The same 
 but the want of that determination, and a certain loose- subject 
 ness, which we leel m passing or not passmg irom the idea 
 of one to that of the other. Now we may observe, that tho' 
 in reflecting on human actions we seldom feel such a 
 looseness or mdifference, yet it very commonly happens, 
 that in performing the actions themselves we are sensible of 
 something like it : And as all related or resembling objects 
 are readily taken for each other, this has been employ'd as a 
 demonstrative or even an intuitive proof of human liberty. 
 We feel that our actions are subject to our will on most 
 occasions, and imagine we feel that the will itself is subject 
 to nothing ; because when by a denial of it we are provok'd 
 to try, we feel that it moves easily every way, and produces 
 an image of itself even on that side, on which it did not 
 settle. This image or faint motion, we perswade ourselves, 
 cou'd have been compleated into the thing itself; because, 
 shou'd that be deny'd, we find, upon a second trial, that it 
 can. But these efibrts are all in vain ; and whatever capri- 
 cious and irregular actions we may perform ; as the desire 
 of showing our liberty is the sole motive of our actions ; we 
 can never free ourselves from the bonds of necessity. We 
 may imagine we feel a liberty within ourselves ; but a spec- 
 tator can commonly infer our actions from our motives and 
 character ; and even where he cannot, he concludes in 
 general, that he might, were he perfectly acquainted with 
 every circumstance of our situation and temper, and the 
 most secret springs of our complexion and disposition. Now 
 this is the very essence of necessity, according to the fore- 
 gfoing doctrine. 
 
 A third reason why the doctrine of liberty has generally 
 been better receiv'd in the world, than its antagonist, pro- 
 ceeds from religion, which has been very unnecessarily in- 
 terested in this question. There is no method of reasoning 
 more common, and yet none nore blameable, than in 
 philosophical debates to endeavour to refute any hyjDothesis 
 by a pretext of its dangerous consequences to religion and 
 morality. When any opinion leads us into absurdities, 'tis 
 certainly false; but 'tis not certain an opinion is false, 
 [' Introd. Sect. 56.— Ed.]
 
 190 A TREATISE OF IIIIMAN NATURE. Part ILL 
 
 PART because 'tis of dangerous consequence. Such topics, there- 
 
 _ , • , fore, ought entirely to be foreborn, as serving nothing to the 
 
 Of the will discovery of truth, but only to make the person of an anta- 
 
 and direct p-onist odious. This I observe in ereneral , without pretendinsf 
 
 passions. o ' i o 
 
 to draw any advantage from it. I submit mj^self frankly to 
 
 an examination of this kind, and dare venture to affirm, that 
 
 the doctrine of necessity, according to my explication of it, 
 
 is not only innocent, but even advantageous to religion and 
 
 morality. 
 
 I define necessity two ways, conformable to the two defini- 
 tions of cause, of which it makes an essential part. I place 
 it either in the constant union and conjunction of like 
 objects, or in the inference of the mind from the one to the 
 other. Now necessity, in both these senses, has universally, 
 tho' tacitely, in the schools, in the pulpit, and in common 
 life, been allow'd to belong to the will of man, and no one 
 has ever pretended to deny, that we can draw inferences 
 concerning human actions, and that those inferences are 
 founded on the experienc'd union of like actions with like 
 motives and circumstances. The only particular in which 
 any one can differ from me, is either, that perhaps he will 
 refuse to call this necessity. But as long as the meaning is 
 understood, I hope the word can do no harm. Or that he 
 will maintain there is something else in the operations of 
 matter. Now whether it be so or not is of no consequence 
 to religion, whatever it may be to natural philosophy. I 
 may be mistaken in asserting, that we have no idea of any 
 other connexion in the actions of body, and shall be glad to 
 be farther instructed on that head : But sure I am, I ascribe 
 nothing to the actions of the mind, but what must readily 
 be allow'd of. Let no one, therefore, put an invidious con- 
 struction on my words, by saying simply, that I assert the 
 necessity of human actions, and place them on the same 
 footing with the operations of senseless matter. I do not 
 ascribe to the will that unintelligible necessity, which is 
 suppos'd to lie in matter. But T ascribe to matter, that 
 intelligible quality, call it necessity or not, which the most 
 rigorous orthodoxy does or must allow to belong to the will. 
 I change, therefore, nothing in the receiv'd systems, with 
 regard to the will, but only with regard to material objects. 
 
 Nay I shall go farther, and assert, that this kind of neces- 
 sity is so essential to religion and morality, that without
 
 Sect. II. OF THE PASSIONS. 191 
 
 it there must ensue an absolute subversion of both, and that SECT, 
 every other supposition is entirely destructive to all laws ■^- 
 both divine and human. 'Tis indeed certain, that as all The same 
 human laws are founded on rewards and punishments, 'tis subject 
 suppos'd as a fundamental principle, that these motives have ^^"^^^^^ • 
 an influence on the mind, and both produce the good and 
 prevent the evil actions. We may give to this influence 
 what name we please ; but as 'tis usually conjoin'd with the 
 action, common sense requires it shou'd be esteem'd a cause, 
 and be look'd upon as an instance of that necessity, which 1 
 wou'd establish. 
 
 This reasoning is equally solid, when apply'd to divine 
 laws, so far as the deity is consider'd as a legislator, and is 
 suppos'd to inflict punishment and bestow rewards with a 
 design to produce obedience. But I also maintain, that 
 even where he acts not in his magisterial capacity, but is 
 regarded as the avenger of crimes merely on account of their 
 odiousness and deformity, not only 'tis impossible, without 
 the necessary connexion of cause and effect in human 
 actions, that punishments cou'd be inflicted compatible with 
 justice and moral equity ; but also that it cou'd ever enter 
 into the thoughts of any reasonable being to inflict them. 
 The constant and universal object of hatred or anger is a 
 person or creature endow'd with thought and consciousness ; 
 and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that 
 passion, 'tis only by their relation to the person or connexion 
 with him. But according to the doctrine of liberty or 
 chance, this connexion is reduc'd to nothing, nor are men 
 more accountable for those actions, which are design'd and 
 premeditated, than for such as are the most casual and acci- 
 dental. Actions are by their very nature temporary and 
 perishing ; and where they proceed not from some cause in 
 the characters and disposition of the person, who perform'd 
 them, they infix not tbemselves upon him, and can neither 
 redound to his honour, if good, nor infamy, if evil. The 
 action itself may be blameable ; it may be contrary to all 
 the rules of morality and religion : But the person is not 
 responsible for it ; and as it proceeded from nothing in him, 
 that is durable or constant, and leaves nothing of that 
 nature behind it, 'tis impossible he can, upon its account, 
 become the object of punishment or vengeance. According 
 to the hypothesis of liberty, therefore, a man is as pure and
 
 192 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part IH. 
 
 PART untainted, after having committed the most horrid crimes, 
 as at the first moment of his birth, nor is his character any 
 
 passions. 
 
 Of the will wa}' concern'd in his actions ; since they are not deriv'd 
 f°!:^ ^^1*^^^ from it, and the wickedness of the one can never be us'd as 
 a proof of the depravity of the other. 'Tis only upon the 
 principles of necessity, that a person acquires any merit or 
 demerit fi'om his actions, however the common opinion may 
 incline to the contrary. 
 
 But so inconsistent are men with themselves, that tho' 
 they often assert, that necessity utterly destroys all merit 
 and demerit either towards mankind or superior powers, yet 
 they continue still to reason upon these very principles of 
 necessity in all their judgments concerning this matter. 
 Men are not blam'd for such evil actions as they perform 
 ignorantly and casually, whatever may be their consequences. 
 Why ? but because the cause of these actions are only mo- 
 mentary, and terminate in them alone. Men are less blam*d 
 for such evil actions as they perform hastily and unpreme- 
 ditatedly, than for such as proceed from thought and deliber- 
 ation. For what reason ? but because a hasty temper, tho' 
 a constant cause in the mind, operates only by intervals, 
 and infects not the whole character. Again, repentance 
 wipes off every crime, especially if attended with an evident 
 reformation of life and manners. How is this to be ac- 
 counted for, but by asserting that actions render a person 
 criminal, merely as they are proofs of criminal passions or 
 principles in the mind ; and when by any alteration of these 
 principles they cease to be just proofs, they likewise cease to 
 be criminal? But according to the doctrine of liberty or 
 chance they never were just proofs, and consequently never 
 were criminal. 
 
 Here then I turn to my adversary, and desire him to free 
 his own system from these odious consequences before he 
 charge them upon others. Or if he rather chuses, that this 
 question should be decided by fair arguments before philo- 
 sophers, than by declamations before the people, let him 
 return to what I have advanc'd to prove that liberty and 
 chance are synonimous ; and concerning the nature of moral 
 evidence and the regularity of human actions. Upon a re- 
 view of these reasonings, I cannot doubt of an entire victory ; 
 and therefore having prov'd, that all actions of the will have 
 particular causes, I proceed to explain what these causes 
 are, and how they operate.
 
 Sect, UI. OF THE PASSIONS. 193 
 
 Sect. III. — Of the Influencing Motives of the Will. 
 
 Nothing is more usual in philosophy, and even in common SECT. 
 
 life, than to talk of the combat of passion and reason, to . ^ ' ^^ 
 
 give the preference to reason, and assert that men are only ofthein- 
 
 so far virtuous as they conform themselves to its dictates, fl^ienciug 
 
 • t • iT!Ti 1J.1' niotives of 
 
 Every rational creature, 'tis said, is oblig d to regulate his the will. 
 actions by reason ; and if any other motive or princij)le 
 challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to oppose it, 
 'till it be entirely subdu'd, or at least brought to a confor- 
 mity with that superior principle. On this method of 
 thinking the greatest part of moral philosophy, ancient and 
 modern, seems to be founded ; nor is there an ampler field, 
 as well for metaphysical arguments, as popular declamations, 
 than this supjjos'd pre-eminence of reason above passion. 
 The eternity, invariableness, and divine origin of the former 
 have been display'd to the best advantage : The blindness, 
 unconstancy, and deceitfulness of the latter have been as 
 strongly insisted on. In order to shew the fallacy of all this 
 philosophy, I shall endeavour to prove first, that reason alone 
 can never be a motive to any action of the will ; and secondly, 
 that it can never oppose passion in the direction of the will.' 
 The understanding exerts itself after two different ways, as 
 it judges from demonstration or probability ; as it regards 
 the abstract relations of our ideas, or those relations of ob- 
 jects, of which experience only gives us information. I be- 
 lieve it scarce will be asserted, that the first species of rea- 
 soning alone is ever the cause of any action. As it's proper 
 province is the world of ideas, and as the will always places 
 us in that of realities, demonstration and volition seem, upon 
 that account, to be totally remov'd, from each other. Mathe- 
 matics, indeed, are useful in all mechanical operations, and 
 arithmetic in almost every art and profession : But 'tis not 
 of themselves they have any influence. Mechanics are the 
 art of regulating the motions of bodies to some designed end 
 orjpurpose ; and the reason why we employ arithmetic in fixing 
 the proportions of numbers, is only that we may discover 
 the proportions of their influence and operation. A merchant 
 is desirous of knowing the sum total of his accounts with 
 any person : Why ? but that he may learn what sum will 
 
 [' Introd. g 44.— Ed.] 
 VOL. II.
 
 194 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part III 
 
 PART have the same effects in paying his debt, and going to market, 
 , as all the particular articles taken together. Abstract or 
 demonstrative reasoning, therefore, never influences any of 
 our actions, but only as it directs our judgment concerning 
 causes and effects ; which leads us to the second operation of 
 the understanding. 
 
 'Tis obvious, that when we have the prospect of pain or 
 pleasure from any object, we feel a consequent emotion of 
 aversion or propensity, and are carry'd to avoid or embrace 
 what will give us this uneasiness or satisfaction. 'Tis also 
 obvious, that this emotion rests not here, but making us cast 
 our view on every side, comprehends whatever objects are 
 connected with its original one by the relation of cause and 
 effect- Here then reasoning takes place to discover this re- 
 lation ; and according as our reasoning varies, our actions 
 receive a subsequent variation. But 'tis evident in this 
 case, that the impulse arises not from reason, but is only 
 directed by it. 'Tis from the prospect of pain or pleasure 
 that the aversion or propensity arises towards any object : 
 And these emotions extend themselves to the causes and 
 effects of that object, as they are pointed out to us by reason 
 and experience. It can never in the least concern us to 
 know, that such objects are causes, and such others effects, 
 if both the causes and effects be indifferent to us. Where 
 the objects themselves do not affect us, their connexion can 
 never give them any influence ; and 'tis plain, that as reason 
 is nothing but the discovery of this connexion, it cannot be 
 by its means that the objects are able to affect us. 
 
 Since reason alone can never produce any action, or give 
 rise to volition, I infer, that the same faculty is as incapable 
 of preventing volition, or of disputing the preference with 
 any passion or emotion. This consequence is necessary. 
 'Tis impossible reason cou'd have the latter effect of pre- 
 venting volition, but by giving an impulse in a contrary 
 direction to our passion ; and that impulse, had it operated 
 alone, wou'd have been able to produce volition. Nothing 
 can oppose or retard the impulse of passion, but a contrary 
 impulse ; and if this contrary impulse ever arises from 
 reason, that latter faculty must have an original influence on 
 the will, and must be able to cause, as well as hinder any 
 act of volition. But if reason has no original influence, 'tis 
 impossible it can wiilistand any principle, which has such an
 
 Sect. HI. OF THE PASSIONS. in.'i 
 
 efficacy, or ever keep the mind in suspence a moment. Thus SECT. 
 it appears, that the principle, which opposes our passion, ._ ^\^' _. 
 cannot be the same with reason, and is only call'd so in an of the in- 
 improper sense. We speak not strictly and philosophically fluuncing 
 when we talk of the combat of passion and of reason. ^1,^ will. 
 Beason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, 
 and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and 
 obey them. As this opinion may appear somewhat extra- 
 ordinary, it may not be improper to confirm it by some other 
 considerations.' 
 
 A passion is an original existence, or, if you will, modifi- 
 cation of existence, and contains not any representative 
 quality, which renders it a copy of any other existence or 
 modification. When I am angry, T am actually possest with 
 the passion, and in that emotion have no more a reference 
 to any other object, than when I am thirsty, or sick, or more 
 than five foot high. 'Tis impossible, therefore, that this 
 passion can be oppos'd by, or be contradictory to truth and 
 reason ; since this contradiction consists in the disagree- 
 ment of ideas, consider'd as copies, with those objects, which 
 they represent. 
 
 What may at first occur on this head, is, that as nothing 
 can be contrary to truth or reason, except what has a re- 
 ference to it, and as the judgments of our understanding 
 only have this reference, it must follow, that passions can be 
 contrary to reason only so far as they are accompany'd with 
 some judgment or opinion. According to this principle, 
 which is so obvious and natural, 'tis only in two senses, that 
 any affection can be call'd unreasonable. First, When a 
 passion, such as hope or fear, grief or joy, despair or security, 
 is founded on the supposition of the existence of objects, 
 which really do not exist. Secondly, When in exerting any 
 passion in action, we chuse means insufficient for the design'd 
 end, and deceive ourselves in our judgment of causes and 
 effects. Where a passion is neither founded on false suppo- 
 sitions, nor chuses means insufficient for the end, the under- 
 standing can neither justify nor condemn it. 'Tis not con- 
 trary to reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world 
 to the scratching of my finger. 'Tis not contrary to reason 
 for me to chuse my total ruin, to prevent the least uneasi- 
 
 [' Introd. § 44.— Ed.] 
 o 2
 
 190 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part HI. 
 
 PART ness of an Indian or person wholly miknown to me. 'Tis as 
 ^^^- , little contrary to reason to prefer even my own acknowledg'd 
 Of the will lesser good to my greater, and have a more ardent affection 
 and direct for the former than the latter. A trivial good may, from 
 certain circumstances, produce a desire superior to what 
 arises from the greatest and most valuable enjoyment ; nor 
 is there anything more extraordinary in this, than in me- 
 chanics to see one pound weight raise up a hundred by the 
 advantage of its situation. In short, a passion must be 
 accompany'd with some false judgment, in order to its being 
 unreasonable ; and even then 'tis not the passion, properly 
 speaking, which is unreasonable, but the judgment. 
 
 The consequences are evident. Since a passion can never, 
 in any sense, be call'd unreasonable, but when founded on a 
 false supposition, or when it chuses means insufficient for 
 the design'd end, 'tis impossible, that reason and passion can 
 ever oppose each other, or dispute for the government of the 
 will and actions. The moment we perceive the falshood of 
 any supposition, or the insufficiency of any means, our passions 
 yield to our reason without any opposition. I may desire 
 any fruit as of an excellent relish ; but whenever you con- 
 vince me of my mistake, my longing ceases. I may will the 
 performance of certain actions as means of obtaining any 
 desir'd good ; but as my willing of these actions is only 
 secondary, and founded on the supposition, that they are 
 causes of the propos'd effect ; as soon as I discover the fals- 
 hood of that supposition, tliey must become indifferent to 
 me. 
 
 'Tis natural for one, that does not examine objects with a 
 strict philosoj)hic eye, to imagine, that those actions of the 
 mind are entirely the same, which produce not a different 
 sensation, and are not immediately distinguishable to the 
 feeling and perception. Keason, for instance, exerts itself 
 without producing any sensible emotion ; and except in the 
 more sublime disquisitions of philosophy, or in the frivolous 
 subtilties of the schools, scarce ever conveys any pleasure or 
 uneasiness. Hence it proceeds, that every action of the 
 mind, which operates with the same calmness and tranquillity, 
 is confounded with reason by all those, who judge of things 
 from the first view and appearance. Now 'tis certain, there 
 are certain calm desires and tendencies, which, tho' they be 
 real passions, produce little emotion in the mind, and are
 
 SEcr. m. OF THE PASSIONS. 197 
 
 more known by their effects tlian by the immediate feeling SECT. 
 
 or sensation. These desires are of two kinds ; either certain , ^ j , 
 
 instincts originally imjjlanted in our natures, such as bene- Of the in- 
 
 volence and resentment, the love of life, and kindness to Auencmg 
 
 1-11 1 • T 1 • J. motives of 
 
 children ; or the general appetite to good, and aversion to the will, 
 evil, consider'd merely as such.' When any of these passions 
 are calm, and cause no disorder in the soul, they are very 
 readily taken for the determinations of reason, and are sup- 
 pos'd to proceed from the same faculty, with that, which 
 judges of truth and falshood. Their nature and principles 
 have been suppos'd the same, because their sensations are 
 not evidently different. 
 
 Beside these calm passions, which often determine the 
 will, there are certain violent emotions of the same kind, 
 which have likewise a great influence on that faculty. When 
 I receive any injury from another, I often feel a violent pas- 
 sion of resentment, which makes me desire his evil and 
 punishment, independent of all considerations of pleasure 
 and advantage to myself. When I am immediately threaten'd 
 with any grievous ill, my fears, apprehensions, and aversions 
 rise to a great height, and produce a sensible emotion. 
 
 The common error of metaphysicians has lain in ascribing 
 the direction of the will entirely to one of these principles, 
 and supposing the other to have no influence. Men often 
 act knowingly against their interest : For which reason the 
 view of the greatest possible good does not always influence 
 them. Men often counter-act a violent passion in prosecution 
 of their interests and designs : 'Tis not therefore the present 
 uneasiness alone, which determines them.^ In general we 
 may observe, that both these principles operate on the will ; 
 and where they are contrary, that either of them prevails, 
 according to the general character or present disj)osition of 
 the person. What we call strength of mind, implies the 
 prevalence of the calm passions above the violent ; tho' we 
 may easily observe, there is no man so constantly possess'd of 
 this virtue, as never on any occasion to yield to the sollici- 
 tations of passion and desire. From these variations of 
 temper proceeds the great difficulty of deciding concerning 
 the actions and resolutions of men, where there is any con- 
 trariety of motives and passions. 
 
 [' Introd. § 46. and note.- En.] 
 
 [- Cf. Locke, Essay, Book II. cap. 21, § 31 ; and Introd. to this vol. g 3— Ed.]
 
 108 A TliEATlSE OF HUMAN NATURE. Pakt IU. 
 
 PAT^I 
 III. 
 
 Sect. IY. — Of the Causes of the Violent Passions.^ 
 
 Of the will 
 
 and direct There IS not in philosophy a subject of more nice specu- 
 passions. lation than this of the different causes and effects of the calm 
 and violent passions. 'Tis evident passions influence not the 
 will in proportion to their violence, or the disorder they 
 occasion in the temper ; but on the contrary, that v^hen a 
 passion has once become a settled principle of action, and is 
 the predominant inclination of the soul, it commonly pro- 
 duces no longer any sensible agitation. As repeated custom 
 and its own force have made every thing yield to it, it directs 
 the actions and conduct without that opposition and emotion, 
 which so naturally attend every momentary gust of passion. 
 We must, therefore, distinguish betwixt a calm and a weak 
 passion ; betwixt a violent and a strong one. But notwith- 
 standing this, 'tis certain, that when we wou'd govern a man, 
 and push him to any action, 'twill commonly be better policy 
 to work upon the violent than the calm passions, and rather 
 take him by his inclination, than what is vulgarly call'd his 
 reason. We ought to place the object in such particular 
 situations as are proper to encrease the violence of the 
 passion. For we may observe, that all depends upon the 
 situation of the object, and that a variation in this particular 
 will be able to change the calm and the violent passions into 
 each other. Both these kinds of passions pursue good, and 
 avoid evil ; and both of them are encreas'd or diminish'd by 
 the encrease or diminution of the erood or evil. But herein 
 lies the difference betwixt them : The same good, when near, 
 will cause a violent passion, which, when remote, produces only 
 a calm one.^ As this subject belongs very properly to the 
 present question concerning the will, we shall here examine 
 it to the bottom, and shall consider some of those circum- 
 stances and situations of objects, which render a passion 
 either calm or violent. 
 
 'Tis a remarkable property of human nature, that any 
 emotion, which attends a passion, is easily converted into it, 
 the' in their natures they be originally different from, and 
 even contrary to each other. 'Tis true ; in order to make a 
 perfect union among passions, there is always requir'd a 
 double relation of impressions and ideas ; nor is one relation 
 
 [' Intrtd. 11. -Eu.] [- Introd. § 45.-Ed.]
 
 SixT. IV. OF THE PASSIONS. 109 
 
 sufficient for tliat purpose. But the' tliis be confirm'd by SECT 
 undoubted experience, we must understand it with its proj^er , • _^ 
 limitations, and must regard the double relation, as requisite of the 
 only to make one passion produce another. When tw^o '■aust.s of 
 passions are already produc'd by their separate causes, and passions. 
 are both present in the mind, they readily mingle and unite, 
 tho' they have but one relation, and sometimes without any. 
 The predominant passion swallows up the inferior, and con- 
 verts it into itself. The spirits, when once excited, easily 
 receive a change in their direction; and 'tis natural to 
 imagine this change will come from the prevailing affection. 
 The connection is in many respects closer betwixt any two 
 passions, than betwixt any passion and indifference. 
 
 When a person is once heartily in love, the little faults 
 and caprice of his mistress, the jealousies and quarrels, to 
 which that commerce is so subject; however unpleasant and 
 related to anger and hatred ; are yet found to give additional 
 force to the prevailing passion. 'Tis a common artifice of 
 politicians, when they wou'd affect any person very much by 
 a matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, first to 
 excite his curiosity ; delay as long as possible the satisfying 
 it; and by that means raise his anxiety and impatience to 
 the utmost, before they give him a full insight into the 
 business. They know that his curiosity will precipitate him 
 into the passion they desire to raise, and assist the object in 
 its influence on the mind. A soldier advancing to the battle, 
 is naturally insj)ir'd with courage and confidence, when he 
 thinks on his friends and fellow-soldiers ; and is struck with 
 fear and terror, when he reflects on the enemy. Whatever 
 new emotion, therefore, proceeds from the former naturally 
 encreases the courage ; as the same emotion, proceeding from 
 the latter, augments the fear ; by the relation of ideas, and 
 the conversion of the inferior emotion into the predominant. 
 Hence it is that in martial discipline, the uniformity and 
 lustre of our habit, the regularity of our figures and motions, 
 with all the pomp and majesty of war, encourage ourselves 
 and allies ; while the same objects in the enemy strike terror 
 into us, tho' agreeable and beautiful in themselves. 
 
 Since passions, however independent, are naturally trans- 
 fus'd into each other, if they are both present at the same 
 time ; it follows, that when good or evil is plac'd in such a 
 situation, as to cause any particular emotion, beside its direct
 
 200 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Tart HI. 
 
 PART passion of desire or aversion, that latter passion must acquire 
 
 ._ ^j . new force and violence. 
 
 Of the will This happens, among other cases, whenever any object 
 and direct excites Contrary passions. For 'tis observable that an oppo- 
 sition oi passions commonly causes a new emotion m the 
 spirits, and produces more disorder, than the concurrence of 
 any two affections of equal force. This new emotion is 
 easily converted into the predominant passion, and encreases 
 its violence, beyond the pitch it wou'd have arriv'd at had it 
 met with no opposition. Hence we naturally desire what is 
 forbid, and take a pleasure in performing actions, merely 
 because they are unlawful. The notion of duty, when opj)osite 
 to the passions, is seldom able to overcome them ; and when 
 it fails of that effect, is apt rather to encrease them, by pro- 
 ducing an opposition in our motives and principles. 
 
 The same effect follows whether the opposition arises 
 from internal motives or external obstacles. The passion 
 commonly acquires new force and violence in both cases. 
 The efforts, which the mind makes to surmount the obstacle, 
 excite the spirits and inliven the passion. 
 
 Uncertainty has the same influence as opposition. The 
 agitation of the thought ; the quick turns it makes fi'om one 
 view to another ; the variety of passions, which succeed 
 each other, according to the different views : All these pro- 
 duce an agitation in the mind, and transfuse themselves 
 into the predominant passion. 
 
 There is not in my opinion any other natural cause, why 
 security diminishes the passions, than because it removes 
 that uncertainty, which encreases them. The mind, when 
 left to itself, immediately languishes ; and in order to pre- 
 serve its ardour, must be every moment supported by a new 
 flow of passion. For the same reason, despair, tho' contrary 
 to security, has a like influence. 
 
 'Tis certain nothing more powerfully animates any affec- 
 tion, than to conceal some part of its object by throwing 
 it into a kind of shade, which at the same time that it shews 
 enough to pre-possess us in favour of the object, leaves still 
 some work for the imagination. Besides that obscurity is 
 always attended with a kind of uncertainty; the effort, 
 which the fancy makes to compleat the idea, rouzes the 
 spirits, and gives an additional force to the passion. 
 
 As df'spair and security, tho' contrary to each other, pro-
 
 Sect. V. OF THE PASSIONS. 201 
 
 duco the same effects ; so absence is observ'd to have con- SECT. 
 trary effects, and in different circumstances either encreases _ — ,J — - 
 or diminishes our affections. The Due cle la Eochefoucault Of the 
 has very well observ'd, that absence destroys weak passions, JUg'*,®,^^j]f,j, 
 but encreases strong ; as the wind extinguishes a candle, puBsionb. 
 but blows up a fire. Long absence naturally weakens our 
 idea, and diminishes the passion : But where the idea is so 
 strong and lively as to support itself, the uneasiness, arising 
 from absence, encreases the passion, and gives it new force 
 and violence. 
 
 Sect. V. — Of the Effects of Custom. 
 
 But nothing has a greater effect both to encrease and 
 diminish our passions, to convert pleasure into pain, and 
 pain into pleasure, than custom and repetition. Custom has 
 two original effects upon the mind, in bestowing a facility 
 in the performance of any action or the conception of any 
 object ; and afterwards a tendency or inclination towards it ; 
 and from these we may account for all its other effects, how- 
 ever extraordinary. 
 
 When the soul applies itself to the performance of any 
 action, or the conception of any object, to which it is not 
 accustom'd, there is a certain unpliableness in the faculties, 
 and a difficulty of the spirits' moving in their new direction. 
 As this difficulty excites the spirits, 'tis the source of wonder, 
 surprise, and of all the emotions, which arise from novelty ; 
 and is in itself very agreeable, like every thing, which in- 
 livens the mind to a moderate degree. But tho' surprize be 
 agreeable in itself, yet as it puts the spirits in agitation, it not 
 only augments our agreeable affections, but also our painful, 
 according to the foregoing principle, that every emotion, which 
 •precedes or attends a 'passion, is easily converted into it. Hence 
 every thing, that is new, is most affecting, and gives us either 
 more pleasure or pain, than what, strictly speaking, naturally 
 belongs to it. When it often returns upon us, the novelty 
 wears off; the passions subside; the hurry of the spirits is 
 over ; and we survey the objects with greater tranquillity. 
 
 By degrees the repetition produces a facility, which is 
 another very powerful principle of the human mind, and an 
 infallible source of pleasure, where the facility goes not 
 biyond a certain degree. And here 'tis remarkable that the
 
 202 A TREATISE OF IIU.ALVN NATURE. IVviix III. 
 
 PART pleasure, which arises from a moderate facility, has not the 
 
 ^ — . same tendency with that which arises from novelty, to aug- 
 
 Of the will ment the painful, as well as the agreeable affections. The 
 passionr^ pleasure of facility does not so much consist in any ferment 
 of the spirits, as in their orderly motion ; which will some- 
 times be so powerful as even to convert pain into pleasure, 
 and give us a relish in time for what at first was most harsh 
 and disagreeable. 
 
 But again, as facility converts pain into pleasure, so it 
 of:eu converts pleasure into pain, when it is too great, and 
 renders the actions of the mind so faint and languid, that 
 they are no longer able to interest and support it. And 
 indeed, scarce any other objects become disagreeable thro' 
 custom ; but such as are naturally attended with some emo- 
 tion or affection, which is destroyed by the too frequent repe- 
 tition. One can consider the clouds, and heavens, and trees, 
 and stones, however frequently repeated, without ever feeling 
 any aversion. But when the fair sex, or music, or good 
 cheer, or an}'^ thing, that naturally ought to be agreeable, be- 
 comes indifferent, it easily produces the opposite affection. 
 
 But custom not only gives a facility to perform any action, 
 but likewise an inclination and tendency towards it, where it 
 is not entirely disagreeable, and can never be the object of 
 inclination. And this is the reason why custom encreases 
 all active, habits, but diminishes passive, according to the 
 observation of a late eminent philosopher.' The facility 
 takes off from the force of the passive habits by rendering 
 the motion of the spirits faint and languid. But as in the 
 active, the spirits are sufficiently supported of themselves, 
 the tendency of the mind gives them new force, and bends 
 them more strongly to the action. 
 
 Sect. VI. — Of the Influence of the Imagination on tne Passions. 
 
 'Tis remarkable, that the imagination and affections have 
 a close union together, and that nothing, which affects the 
 former, can be entirely indifferent to the latter. Wherever 
 our ideas of good or evil acquire a new vivacity, the passions 
 
 [' The reference apparently must be passive impressions grow weaker hy 
 
 to Butler (Analogy, i'art I. ch. 5: being repeated'), but he was still 
 
 ' Practical habits are formed and living when Hume wrote. — Ed,] 
 strtngthencd by repiated acts, but
 
 Sect. VI. OF THE PASSIONS. 203 
 
 become more violent ; and keep pace with tlie imagination ^1^^^* 
 
 in all its variations. Whether this proceeds from the prin- . ,_ — , 
 
 ciple above- mention'd, that any attendant emotion is easily Of the in- 
 converted into the predominant, I shall not determine. 'Tis t,i^g^°^ "j. 
 suificient for my present purpose, that we have many in- nation, &c. 
 stances to confirm this influence of the imagination upon 
 the passions. 
 
 Any pleasure, with which we are acquainted, affects us 
 more than any other, which we own to be superior, but of 
 whose nature we are wholly ignorant. Of the one we can 
 form a particular and determinate idea : The other Ave con- 
 ceive under the general notion of pleasure ; and 'tis certain, 
 that the more general and universal any of our ideas are, 
 the less influence they have upon the imagination. A 
 general idea, tho' it be nothing but a particular one consider'd 
 in a certain view,' is commonly more obscure ; and that be- 
 cause no particular idea, by which we represent a general 
 one, is ever fix'd or determinate, but may easily be chang'd 
 for other particular ones, which will serve equally in the 
 representation. 
 
 There is a noted passage in the history of Greece, which 
 may serve for our present purpose. Themistocles told the 
 Athenians, that he had form'd a design, which wou'd be 
 highly useful to the public, but which 'twas impossible for 
 him to communicate to them without ruining the execution, 
 since its success depended entirely on the secrecy with which 
 it shou'd be conducted. The Athenians, instead of granting 
 him full power to act as he thought fitting, order'd him to 
 communicate his design to Aristides, in whose prudence they 
 had an entire confidence, and whose opinion they were resolv'd 
 blindly to' submit to. The design of Themistocles was 
 secretly to set fire to the fleet of all the Ch'ecian common- 
 wealths, which was assembled in a neighbouring port, and 
 which being once destroy 'd, would give the Athenians the 
 empire of the sea without any rival. Aristides returned to 
 the assembly, and told them, that nothing cou'd be more 
 advantageous than the design of Themistocles ; but at the 
 same time that nothing cou'd be more unjust : Upon which 
 the people unanimously rejected the project. 
 
 A late celebrated ^ historian admires this passage of antient 
 history, as one of the most singular that is any where to be 
 
 [' Cf. Vol. i. Part 1, § 7, sub fin.— Ed.] - Mous. Bolliti.
 
 204 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Taut IH. 
 
 PART met with. Here^ says lie, they are not philosophers, to whom 
 ^. \ ' _. 'tis easy in their schools to establish the finest maxims and Tnost 
 Of the will sublime rules of Tnorality, who decide that interest ought never 
 iiinl dir.'ct to prevail above mstice. 'Tisawhole people interested in the 
 ^proposal, which is made to them, who consider it as of import- 
 ance to the public good, and who notwithstanding reject it 
 unanimously, and without hesitation, merely because it is con 
 trary to justice. For my part I see nothing so extraordinary 
 in this proceeding of the Athenians. The same reasons, 
 which render it so easy for philosophers to establish these 
 sublime maxims, tend, in part, to diminish the merit of such 
 a conduct in that people. Philosophers never ballance be- 
 tvvixt profit and honesty, because their decisions are general, 
 and neither their passions nor imaginations are interested in 
 the objects. And tho' in the present case the advantage 
 Avas immediate to the Athenians, yet as it was known only 
 under the general notion of advantage, without being con- 
 ceiv'd by any particular idea, it must have had a less con- 
 siderable influence on their imaginations, and have been a 
 less violent temptation, than if they had been acquainted 
 with all its circumstances : Otherwise 'tis difficult to con- 
 ceive, that a whole people, unjust and violent as men com- 
 monly are, shou'd so unanimously have adher'd to justice, 
 and rejected any considerable advantage. 
 
 Any satisfaction, which we lately enjoy'd, and of which 
 the memory is fresh and recent, operates on the will with 
 more violence, than another of which the traces are decay'd, 
 and almost obliterated. From whence does this proceed, but 
 that the memory in the first case assists the fancy, and gives 
 an additional force and vigour to its conceptions ? The 
 image of the past pleasure being strong and violent, bestows 
 these qualities on the idea of the future pleasure, which is 
 connected with it by the relation of resemblance. 
 
 A pleasure, which is suitable to the way of life, in which 
 we are engag'd, excites more our desires and appetites than 
 another, which is foreign to it. This phsenomenon may be 
 explain'd from the same principle. 
 
 Nothing is more capable of infusing any passion into the 
 mind, than eloquence, by which objects are represented in 
 their strongest and most lively colours. We may of our- 
 selves acknowledge, that such an object is valuable, and such 
 anf)ther odious; but 'till an orator excites the imagination.
 
 Sect. VII. OF THE I'ASSIONS. :i05 
 
 and gives force to these ideas, tliey may have but a feeble in- sect. 
 fluence either on the will or the affections. ^^- 
 
 But eloquence is not always necessary. The bare opinion of the in- 
 of another, especially when inforc'd with passion, will cause fluence of 
 an idea of good or evil to have an influence upon us, which nation"!!** 
 wou'd otherwise have been entirely neglected. This proceeds 
 from the principle of sympathy or communication ; and 
 sympathy, as I have already observ'd, is nothing but the 
 conversion of an idea into an impression by the force of 
 imagination. 
 
 'Tis remarkable, that lively passions commonly attend a 
 lively imagination. In this respect, as well as others, the 
 force of the passion depends as much on the temper of the 
 person, as the nature or situation of the object. 
 
 I have already observ'd, that belief is nothing but a lively 
 idea related to a present impression. This vivacity is a 
 requisite circumstance to the exciting all our passions, the 
 calm as well as the violent ; nor has a mere fiction of the 
 imagination any considerable influence upon either of them. 
 'Tis too weak to take any hold of the mind, or be attended 
 with emotion. 
 
 Sect. VII. — Of Contiguity and Distance in Space and Time. 
 
 There is an easy reason, why every thing contiguous to us, 
 either in space or time, shou'd be conceiv'd with a peculiar 
 force and vivacity, and excel every other object, in its in- 
 fluence on the imagination. Ourself is intimately present 
 to us, and whatever is related to self must partake of that 
 quality. But where an object is so far remov'd as to have 
 lost the advantage of this relation, why, as it is farther re- 
 mov'd, its idea becomes still fainter and more obscure, wou'd, 
 perhaps, require a more particular examination. 
 
 'Tis obvious, that the imagination can never totally forget 
 the points of space and time, in which we are existent ; but 
 receives such frequent advertisements of them from the pas- 
 sions and senses, that however it may turn its attention to 
 foreign and remote objects, it is necessitated every moment to 
 reflect on the present. 'Tis also remarkable, that in the con- 
 ception of those objects, which we regard as real and ex- 
 istent, we take them in their proper order and situation, and 
 never leap from one object to another, which is distant from
 
 passions. 
 
 20G A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Pari III. 
 
 PART it, witliout running over, at least in a cursory manner, all 
 
 , ' ^ those objects, which are interpos'd betwixt them. When we 
 
 Of the will reflect, therefore, on any object distant from ourselves, we 
 
 «"li*!!nr^ are oblig'd not only to reach it at first by passing thro' all 
 
 the intermediate space betwixt ourselves and the object, but 
 
 also to renew our progress every moment ; being every 
 
 moment recall'd to the consideration of ourselves and our 
 
 present situation. 'Tis easily conceiv'd, that this interrujD- 
 
 tion must weaken the idea by breaking the action of the 
 
 mind, and hindering the conception from being so intense 
 
 and continu'd, as when we reflect on a nearer object. The 
 
 fewer steps we make to arrive at the object, and the smoother 
 
 the road is, this diminution of vivacity is less sensibly felt, 
 
 but still may be observ'd more or less in proportion to the 
 
 degrees of distance and difficulty. 
 
 Here then we are to consider two kinds of objects, the 
 contiguous and remote ; of which the former, by means of 
 their relation to ourselves, approach an impression in force 
 and vivacity ; the latter by reason of the interruption in 
 our manner of conceiving them, appear in a weaker and 
 more imperfect light. This is their effect on the imagina- 
 tion. If my reasoning be just, they must have a propor- 
 tionable effect on the will and passions. Contiguous objects 
 must have an influence much superior to the distant and re- 
 mote. Accordingly we find in common life, that men are 
 principally concern'd about those objects, which are not 
 much remov'd either in space or time, enjoying the present, 
 and leaving what is afar off to the care of chance and for- 
 tune. Talk to a man of his condition thirty years hence, 
 and he will not regard you. Speak of what is to happen to- 
 morrow, and he will lend you attention. The breaking of a 
 mirror gives us more concern when at home, than the burning 
 of a house, when abroad, and some hundred leagues distant. 
 But farther ; tho' distance both in space and time has a 
 considerable effect on the imagination, and by that means 
 on the will and passions, yet the consequences of a removal 
 in space are much inferior to those of a removal in time. 
 Twenty years are certainly but a small distance of time in 
 comparison of what history and even the memory of some 
 may inform them of, and yet I doubt if a thousand leagues, 
 or even the greatest distance of place this globe can admit 
 of, will so remarkably weaken our ideas, and diminish our
 
 iiRCT. VII. OF THE PASSIONS. 207 
 
 passions. A West-India mercliant will tell you, that be SECT, 
 is not without concern about what passes in Jamaica ; tho' ._ ^ |^' , 
 few extend their views so far into futurity, as to dread very of conti- 
 remote accidents. gu'fy- aud 
 
 The caus'^ of this phsenomenon must evidently lie in the g'^c^g .^^^ 
 different properties of space and time. Without having re- time, 
 course to metaphysics, any one may easily observe, that 
 space or extension consists of a number of co-existent parts 
 dispos'd in a certain order, and capable of being at once 
 present to the sight or feeling. On the contrary, time or 
 succession, tho' it consists likewise of parts, never presents 
 to us more than one at once ; nor is it possible for any two 
 of them ever to be co-existent. These qualities of the ob- 
 jects have a suitable effect on the imagination. The parts 
 of extension being susceptible of an union to the senses, 
 acquire an union in the fancy ; and as the appearance of one 
 part excludes not another, the transition or passage of the 
 thought thro' the contiguous parts is by that means render'd 
 more smooth and easy. On the other hand, the incompati- 
 biUty of the parts of time in their real existence separates 
 them in the imagination, and makes it more difficult for that 
 faculty to trace any long succession or series of events. 
 Every part must appear single and alone, nor can regularly 
 have entrance into the fancy without banishing what is sup- 
 pos'd to have been immediately precedent. By this means 
 any distance in time causes a greater interruption in the 
 thought than an equal distance in space, and consequently 
 weakens more considerably the idea, and consequently the 
 passions ; which depend in a great measure, on the imagi- 
 nation, according to my system. 
 
 There is another phsenomenon of a like nature with the 
 foregoing, viz. the superior effects of the same distance in 
 futurity above that in the past. This difference with respect 
 to the will is easily accounted for. As none of our actions 
 can alter the past, 'tis not strange it shou'd never determine 
 the will. But with respect to the passions the question is 
 yet entire, and well worth the examining. 
 
 Besides the propensity to a gradual progression thro' the 
 points of space and time, we have another peculiarity in our 
 method of thinking, which concurs in producing this pligeno- 
 menon. We always follow the succession of time in placing 
 our ideas, and from the consideration of any object pass
 
 208 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part HI. 
 
 PART more easily to that, wliicli follows immediately after it, than 
 
 ._ / ^ to that which went before it. We may learn this, amon^ 
 
 Of the will other instances, from the order, which is always observ'd in 
 
 and direct historical narrations. Nothing but an absolute necessity 
 
 can oblige an historian to break the order of time, and in 
 
 his narration give the precedence to an event, which was in 
 
 reality posterior to another. 
 
 This will easily be apply'd to the question in hand, if we 
 reflect on what I have before observ'd, that the present 
 situation of the person is always that of the imagination, 
 and that 'tis from thence we proceed to the conception of 
 any distant object. When the object is past, the progres- 
 sion of the thought in passing to it from the present is con- 
 trary to nature, as proceeding from one point of time to that 
 which is preceding, and from that to another preceding, in 
 opposition to the nataral course of the succession. On the 
 other hand, when we turn our thought to a future object, 
 our fancy flows along the stream of time, and arrives at 
 the object by an order, which seems most natural, passing 
 always from one point of time to that which is immediately 
 posterior to it. This easy progression of ideas favours the 
 imagination, and makes it conceive its object in a stronger 
 and fuller light, than when we are continually oppos'd in 
 our passage, and are oblig'd to overcome the difficulties 
 arising from the natural propensity of the fancy. A small 
 degree of distance in the past has, therefore, a greater effect, 
 in interrupting and weakening the conception, than a much 
 greater in the future. From this effect of it on the imagi- 
 nation is deriv'd its influence on the will and passions. 
 
 There is another cause, which both contributes to the same 
 effect, and proceeds from the same quality of the fancy, by 
 which we are determin'd to trace the succession of time by 
 a similar succession of ideas. When from the present in- 
 stant we consider two points of time equally distant in the 
 future and in the past, 'tis evident, that, abstractedly con- 
 sider'd, their relation to the present is almost equal. For as 
 the future will sometiine be present, so the past was once pre- 
 sent. If we cou'd, therefore, remove this quality of the 
 imagination, an equal distance in the past and in the future, 
 wou'd have a similar influence. Nor is this only true, when 
 the fancy remains fix'd, and from the present instant surveys 
 the future and the past ; but also when it changes its situa-
 
 !5Rcr. Vri. OF THE PASSIONS. 209 
 
 tion, and pla(;es us in different periods of time. For as on SECT- 
 the one hand, in supposin<^ ourselves existent in a point of , . 
 
 time interposed betwixt the present instant and the future of conti- 
 object, we find the future object approach to us, and the past g?'t,y, and 
 retire, and become more distant : So on the other hand, in space and 
 supposing ourselves existent in a point of time interpos'd time, 
 betwixt the present and the past, the past approaches to us, 
 and the future becomes more distant. But from the pro- 
 perty of the fancy above-mention'd we rather chuse to fix 
 our thought on the point of time interpos'd betwixt the 
 present and the future, than on that betwixt the present and 
 the past. We advance, rather than retard our existence ; 
 and following what seems the natural succession of time, pro- 
 ceed from past to present, and from present to future. By 
 which means we conceive the future as flowing every moment 
 nearer us, and the past as retiring. An equal distance, 
 therefore, in the past and in the future, has not the same 
 eft'ect on the imagination ; and that because we consider the 
 one as continually encreasing, and the other as continually 
 diminishing. The fancy anticipates the course of things, 
 and surveys the object in that condition, to which it tends, 
 as well as in that, which is regarded as the present. 
 
 Sect. YIII. — The same Subject continu'd. 
 
 Thus we have accounted for three phsenomena, which 
 seem pretty remarkable. Why distance weakens the con- 
 ception and passion : Why distance in time has a greater 
 effect than that in space : And why distance in past time 
 has still a greater effect than that in future. We must now 
 consider three phtenomena, which seem to be, in a manner, 
 the reverse of these : Why a very great distance encreases 
 our esteem and admiration for an object : Why such a dis- 
 tance in time encreases it more than that in space : And a 
 distance in past time more than that in future. The 
 euriousness of the subject will, I hope, excuse my dwelling 
 on it for some time. 
 
 To begin with the first phsBuoraenon, why a great distance 
 encreases our esteem and admiration for an object; 'tis 
 evident that the mere view and contemplation of any great- 
 ness, whether successive or extended, enlarges the soul, and 
 gives it a sensible delight and pleasure. A wide plain, the 
 
 VOL. II. P
 
 210 A TREATISE OF HIBIAN NATURE. Part IH. 
 
 ocean, eternity, a succession of several ages ; all these are 
 entertaining objects, and excel every thing, however beauti- 
 ful, which accompanies not its beauty Avith a suitable great- 
 ness. Now when any very distant object is presented to tlxe 
 imagination, we naturally reflect on the interj)Os'd distance, 
 and by that means, conceiving something great and mag- 
 nificent, receive the usual satisfaction. But as the fancy 
 passes easily from one idea to another related to it, and 
 transports to the second all the passions excited by the first, 
 the admiration, which is directed to the distance, naturally 
 diffuses itself over the distant object. Accordingly we find, 
 that 'tis not necessary the object shou'd be actually distant 
 from us, in order to cause our admiration ; but that 'tis 
 sufficient, if, by the natural association of ideas, it conveys 
 our view to any considerable distance. A great traveller, 
 tho' in the same chamber, will pass for a very extraordinary 
 person ; as a Greek medal, even in our cabinet, is always 
 esteem'd a valuable curiosity. Here the object, by a natural 
 transition, conveys our view to the distance ; and the admi- 
 ration, which abases fi'om that distance, by another natural 
 transition, returns back to the object. 
 
 But tho' every great distance produces an admiration for 
 the distant object, a distance in time has a more considerable 
 effect than that in space. Antient busts and inscriptions 
 are more valu'd than Japan tables : And not to mention the 
 Greeks and Romans, 'tis certain we regard with more venera- 
 tion the old Chaldeans and Egyptians, than the modern 
 Chinese and Persians, and bestow more fruitless pains to 
 clear up the history and chronology of the former, than it 
 wou'd cost us to make a voyage, and be certainly inform 'd 
 of the character, learning and government of the latter. I 
 shall be oblig'd to make a digression in order to explain this 
 pha^nomenon. 
 
 'Tis a quality very observable in human nature, that any 
 opposition, which does not entirely discourage and intimidate 
 us, has rather a contrary effect, and inspires us with a more 
 than ordinary grandeur and magnanimity. In collecting 
 our force to overcome the opposition, we invigorate the soul, 
 and give it an elevation with which otherwise it wou'd never 
 have been acquainted. Compliance, by rendering our 
 strength useless, makes us insensible of it; but opposition 
 awakens and employs it.
 
 Sect. Vm. OF THE PASSIONS. 211 
 
 This is also true in the inverse. Opposition not only sect. 
 enlarges the soul ; but the soul, when full of courage and J^'^^^^- .^ 
 magnanimity, in a manner seeks opposition. Tj^^ ga^^^ 
 
 Spumantemque dari pecora inter inertia votis subject^ 
 
 Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem. continu d. 
 
 Whatever supports and fills the passions is agreeable to 
 us ; as on the contrary, what weakens and infeebles them is 
 uneasy. As opposition has the first effect, and facility the 
 second, no wonder the mind, in certain dispositions, desires 
 the former, and is averse to the latter. 
 
 These principles have an effect on the imagination as well 
 as on the passions. To be convinc'd of this we need only 
 consider the influence of heights and depths on that faciilt3\ 
 An}"- great elevation of place communicates a kind of pride 
 or sublimity of imagination, and gives a fancy'd superiority 
 over those that lie below ; and, vice versa, a sublime and 
 strong imagination conveys the idea of ascent and elevation. 
 Hence it proceeds, that we associate, in a manner, the idea 
 of whatever is good with that of height, and evil with low- 
 ness. Heaven is suppos'd to be above, and hell below. A 
 noble genius is call'd an elevate and sublime one. Atque 
 tidam spernit humum fugiente penna. On the contrary, a 
 vulgar and trivial conception is stil'd indifferently low or 
 mean. Prosperity is denominated ascent, and adversity 
 descent. Kings and princes are suppos'd to be plac'd at the 
 top of human affairs ; as peasants and day-labourers are 
 said to be in the lowest stations. These methods of think- 
 ing, and of expressing ourselves, are not of so little con- 
 sequence as they may appear at first sight. 
 
 'Tis evident to common sense, as well as philosophy, that 
 there is no natural nor essential difference betwixt high and 
 low, and that this distinction arises only from the gravitation 
 of matter, which produces a motion from the one to the 
 other. The very same direction, which in this part of the 
 globe is call'd ascent, is denominated descent in our antipodes ; 
 which can proceed from nothing but the contrary tendency 
 of bodies. Now 'tis certain, that the tendency of bodies, 
 continually operating upon our senses, must produce, from 
 custom, a like tendency in the fancy, and that when we 
 consider any object situated in an ascent, the idea of its 
 weight gives us a propensity to transport it from the place, 
 in which it is situated, to the place immediately below it,
 
 patsioiis 
 
 212 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Pakt III, 
 
 PART and so on, 'till we come to the ground, wliicli equally stops 
 ._ / . . the body and our imagination. For a like reason we feel a 
 Of the will difficulty in mounting, and pass not without a kind of re- 
 and direct luctance fro-m the inferior to that which is situated above 
 it ; as if our ideas acquired a kind of gravity from their 
 objects. As a proof of this, do we not find, that the facility, 
 which is so much study'd in music and poetry, is call'd the 
 fall or cadency of the harmony or period ; the idea of facility 
 communicating to us that of descent, in the same manner as 
 descent produces a facility ? 
 
 Since the imagination, therefore, in running from low to 
 high, finds an opposition in its internal qualities and princi- 
 ples, and since the soul, when elevated with joy and courage, 
 in a manner seeks opposition, and throws itself with alacrity 
 into any scene of thought or action, where its courage meets 
 with matter to nourish and employ it ; it follows, that every- 
 thing, which invigorates and inlivens the soul, whether by 
 touching the passions or imagination, naturally conveys to 
 the fancy this inclination for ascent, and determines it to 
 run against the natural stream of its thoughts and con- 
 ceptions. This aspiring progress of the imagination suits 
 the present disposition of the mind ; and the difficulty, 
 instead of extinguishing its vigour and alacrity, has the 
 contrary effect, of sustaining and encreasing it. Vn-tue, 
 genius, power, and riches are for this reason associated with 
 height and sublimity ; as poverty, slavery, and folly are 
 conjoin'd with descent and lowness. Were the case the 
 same with us as Milton represents it to be with the angels, 
 to whom descent is adverse, and who cannot sink without 
 labour and com/pidsion, this order of things wou'd be entirely 
 inverted ; as appears hence, that the very nature of ascent 
 and descent is deriv'd from the difficulty and propensity, 
 and consequently every one of their effects proceeds from 
 that origin. 
 
 All this is easily apply'd to the present question, why a 
 considerable distance in time produces a greater veneration 
 for the distant objects than a like removal in space. The 
 imagination moves with more difficulty in passing from one 
 portion of time to another, than in a transition thro' the 
 parts of space ; and that because space or extension appears 
 united to our senses, while time or succession is always 
 broken and divkled. This difficulty, when join'd with a
 
 Sect. VIII. OF THE PASSIONS. 213 
 
 small distance, interrupts and weakens the fancy : But has SP:CT. 
 a contrary effect in a great removal. The mind, elevated by , ^ 
 
 the vastness of its object, is still farther elevated by the The same 
 diflficulty of the conception ; and being oblig'd every moment siihi.ect^ 
 to renew its efforts in the transition from one part of time to 
 another, feels a more vigorous and sublime disposition, than 
 in a transition thro' the parts of space, where the ideas flow 
 along with easiness and facility. In this disposition, the 
 imagination, passing, as is usual, from the consideration of 
 the distance to the view of the distant objects, gives us a 
 proportionable veneration for it : and this is the reason why 
 all the relicts of antiquity are so precious in our eyes, and 
 appear more valuable than what is brought even from the 
 remotest parts of the world. 
 
 The third pheenomenon I have remark'd will be a full con- 
 firmation of this. 'Tis not every removal in time, which has the 
 effect of producing veneration and esteem. We are not apt 
 to imagine our posterity will excel us, or equal our ancestors. 
 Tliis phaenomenon is the more remai'kable, because any dis- 
 tance in futurity weakens not our ideas so much as an equal 
 removal in the past. Tho' a removal in the past, when very 
 great, encreases our passions beyond a like removal in the 
 future, yet a small removal has a greater influence in dimin- 
 ishing them. 
 
 In our common way of thinking we are plac'd in a kind 
 of middle station betwixt the past and future ; and as our 
 imagination finds a kind of difficulty in running along the 
 former, and a facility in following the course of the latter, 
 the difficulty conveys the notion of ascent, and the facility 
 of the contrary. Hence we imagine our ancestors to be, in 
 a manner, mounted above us, and our posterity to lie below 
 us. Our fancy arrives not at the one without effort, but 
 easily reaches the other : Which effort weakens the conception, 
 where the distance is small ; but enlarges and elevates the 
 imagination, when attended with a suitable object. As on 
 the other hand, the facility assists the fancy in a small re- 
 moval, but takes off from its force when it contemplates any 
 considerable distance. 
 
 It may not be improper, before we leave this subject of 
 the will, to resume, in a few Avords, all that has been said 
 concerning it, in order to set the whole more distinctly before 
 the eyes of the reader. What y^c commonly understand by
 
 214 A TREATISE UF HUMAN NATUIIE. Pakt III. 
 
 PART passion is a violent and sensible emotion of mind, when any 
 . _ , ' . ■ good or evil is presented, or any object, which, by the original 
 Of the will formation of our faculties, is fitted to excite an appetite. By 
 and direct reason we mean affections of the very same kind with the 
 
 passions. „ i i i i i i 
 
 former ; but such as operate more calmly, and cause no dis- 
 order in the temper : Which tranquillity leads us into a mis- 
 take concerning them, and causes us to regard them as con- 
 clusions only of our intellectual faculties. Both the causes 
 and effects of these violent and calui passions are pretty vari- 
 able, and depend, in a great measure, on the peculiar temper 
 and disposition of every individual. Generally speaking, the 
 violent passions have a more powerful influence on the will ; 
 tho' 'tis often found, that the calm ones, when corroborated 
 by reflection, and seconded by resolution, are able to controul 
 them in their most furious movements. What makes this 
 whole affair more uncertain, is, that a calm passion may 
 easily be chang'd into a violent one, either by a change of 
 temper, or of the circnmstances and situation of the object, 
 as by the borrowing of force from any attendant passion, by 
 custom, or by exciting the imagination. Upon the Avhole, 
 this struggle of passion and of reason, as it is call'd, diver- 
 sifies human life, and makes men so different not only from 
 each other, but also from themselves in different times. Phi- 
 losophy can only account for a few of the greater and more 
 sensible events of this war ; but must leave all the smaller 
 and more delicate revolutions, as dependent on principles too 
 fine and minute for her comprehension. 
 
 Sect. IX. — Of the Direct Passions.^ 
 
 'Tis easy to observe, that the passions, both direct and in- 
 direct, are founded on pain and pleasure, and that in order 
 to produce an affection of any kind, 'tis only requisite to pre- 
 sent some good or evil. Upon the removal of pain and plea- 
 sure. tlierp immediately follows a "«'emoval of love and hatred, 
 pride and humility, desire and aversion, and of most of our 
 reflective or secondary impressions. 
 
 The impressions, which arise from good and evil most 
 naturally, and with the least preparation, are the direct pas- 
 sions of desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear, 
 along with volition. The mind by an original instinct tends 
 
 [" Iiilrod. sect. 30. — Ej).]
 
 (Sect. li OF TIIE PASSIONS. 216 
 
 to unite itself with the good, and to avoid the evil, tho' they SECT. 
 be conceiv'd merely in idea, and be consider'd as to exist in .,_ "^ ' . 
 any future period of time. Of the 
 
 But sujjposing that there is an immediate impression of direct 
 pain or pleasure, and that arising from an object related to 
 ourselves or others, this does not prevent the propensity or 
 aversion, w^ith the consequent emotions, but by concurring 
 veith certain dormant principles of the human mind, excites 
 the new impressions of pride or humility, love or hatred. 
 That propensity, which unites us to the object, or separates 
 us from it, still continues to operate, but in conjunction with 
 the indirect passions, which arise from a double relation of 
 impressions and ideas.' 
 
 These indirect passions, being always agreeable or un- 
 easy, give in their turn additional force to the direct passions, 
 and encrease our desire and aversion to the object. Thus a 
 suit of fine cloaths produces pleasure from their beauty ; and 
 this pleasure produces the direct passions, or the impressions 
 of volition and desire. Again, when these cloaths are con- 
 sider'd as belonging to ourself, the double relation conveys 
 to us the sentiment of pride, which is an indirect passion ; 
 and the pleasure, which attends that passion, returns back to 
 the direct affections, and gives new force to our desire or 
 volition, joy or hope. 
 
 "When good is certain or probable, it produces joy. When 
 evil is in the same situation there arises geief or sorkow. 
 
 When either good or evil is uncertain, it gives rise to pear 
 or HOPE, according to the degrees of uncertainty on the one 
 side or the other. 
 
 Desire arises from good consider'd simply, and aversion 
 is deriv'd from evil. The will exerts itself, when either the 
 good or the absence of the evil may be attain'd by any action 
 of the mind or body. 
 
 Beside good and evil, or in other words, pain and plea- 
 sure, the direct passions frequently arise from a natural im- 
 pulse or instinct, which is perfectly unaccountable.'* Of this 
 kind is the desire of punishment to our enemies, and of hap- 
 piness to our friends ; hunger, lust, and a few other bodily 
 appetites. These passions, properly speaking, produce good 
 and evil, and proceed not from them, like the other affec- 
 tions. 
 
 [' Intrud sect. 30.- Eu.] [' Introa. sect. 31.- Eu.]
 
 and direct 
 
 passions, 
 
 21G A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Paet III. 
 
 PART None of the direct affections seem to merit our particular 
 
 III • 
 
 __,J - attention, except hope and fear, which we shall here endea- 
 
 Of the will vour to accouut for. 'Tis evident that the very same event, 
 which by its certainty wou'd produce grief or joy, gives 
 always rise to fear or hope, when only probable and uncer- 
 tain. In order, therefore, to understand the reason why this 
 circumstance makes such a considerable difference, we must 
 reflect on what I have already advanc'd in the preceding 
 book concerning the nature of probability. 
 
 Probability arises from an opposition of contrary chances 
 or causes, by which the mind is not allow'd to fix on either 
 side, but is incessantly tost from one to another, and at one 
 moment is determin'd to consider an object as existent, and 
 at another moment as the contrary. The imagination or 
 understanding, call it Avhich you please, fluctuates betwixt 
 the opposite views ; and tho' perhaps it may be oftner turn'd 
 to the one side than the other, 'tis impossible for it, by 
 reason of the opposition of causes or chances, to rest on 
 either. The "pro and con of the question alternately prevail ; 
 and the mind, surveying the object in its opposite principles, 
 finds such a contrariety as utterly destroys all certainty and 
 establish'd opinion. 
 
 Suppose, then, that the object, concerning whose reality 
 we are doubtful, is an object either of desire or aversion, 'tis 
 evident, that, according as the mind turns itself either to 
 the one side or the other, it must feel a momentary impression 
 of joy or sorrow. An object, whose existence we desire, gives 
 satisfaction, when we reflect on those causes, which produce 
 it ; and for the same reason excites grief or uneasiness from 
 the opposite consideration : So that as the understanding, in 
 all probable questions, is divided betwixt the contrary points 
 of view, the affections must in the same manner be divided 
 betwixt opposite emotions. 
 
 Now if we consider the human mind, we shall find, that 
 with regard to the passions, 'tis not of the nature of a wind- 
 instrument of music, which in running over all the notes 
 immediately loses the sound after the breath ceases ; but 
 rather resembles a string-instrument, where after each stroke 
 tlu! vibrations still retain some sound, which gradually and 
 insensibly decays. The imagination is extreme quick and 
 agile ; but the passions are slow and restive : For which 
 reason, when any object is presented, that aflbrds a variety
 
 Skct. IX. OF THE PASSIONS. 217 
 
 of views to the one, and emotions to tlie other ; tho' the SKCT. 
 
 . IX 
 fancy may change its views with great celerity ; each stroke .^ ^__ 
 
 will not produce a clear and distinct note of passion, bnt the Of the 
 one passion will always be mixt and confounded with the d^'cct 
 other. According as the probability inclines to good or evil, 
 the passion of joy or sorrow predominates in the composition : 
 Because the nature of probability is to cast a superior num- 
 ber of views or chances on one side ; or, which is the same 
 thing, a superior number of returns of one passion ; or since 
 the dispers'd passions are collected into one, a superior 
 degree of that passion. That is, in other words, the grief 
 and joy being intermingled with each other, by means of the 
 contraxy views of the imagination, produce by their union 
 the passions of hope and fear. 
 
 Upon this head there may be started a very curious question 
 concerning that contrariety of passions, which is our present 
 subject. 'Tis observable, that where the objects of contrary 
 passions are presented at once, beside the encrease of the 
 predominant passion (which has been already explain'd, and 
 commonly arises at their first shock or rencounter) it some- 
 times happens, that both the passions exist successively, and 
 by short intervals ; sometimes, that the}^ destroy each other, 
 and neither of them takes place; and sometimes that both of 
 them remain united in the mind. It may, therefore, be ask'd, 
 by what theory we can explain these variations, and to what 
 general principle we can reduce them. 
 
 When the contrary passions arise from objects entirely 
 different, they take place alternately, the want of relation in 
 the ideas separating the impressions from each other, and 
 preventing their opposition. Thus when a man is afflicted 
 for the loss of a law-suit, and joyful for the birth of a son, the 
 mind running from the agreeable to the calamitous object, 
 with whatever celerity it may perform this motion, can 
 scarcely temper the one affection with the other, and remain 
 betwixt them in a state of indifference. 
 
 It more easily attains that calm situation, when the same 
 event is of a mixt nature, and contains something adverse 
 and something prosperous in its different circumstances. For 
 in that case, both the passions, mingling with each other by 
 means of the relation, become mutually destructive, and leave 
 the mind in perfect tranquillity'. 
 
 But suppose, in the third place, that the object is not a
 
 218 A TREATISE OF IIUIMAN NATURE. Paet III. 
 
 PART compound of good or evil, but is consider'd as probable or 
 V — ,_: — . improbable in any degree ; in that case I assert, that the 
 Of the will contrary passions will both of them be present at once in the 
 pussiouT'^ soul, and instead of destroying and tempering each other, 
 will subsist together, and produce a third impression or 
 affection by their union. Contrary passions are not capable 
 of destroying each other, except when their contrary move- 
 ments exactly rencounter, and are opposite in their direction, 
 as well as in the sensation they produce. This exact ren- 
 counter depends upon the relations of those ideas, from 
 which they are deriv'd, and is more or less perfect, according 
 to the degrees of the relation. In the case of probability the 
 contrary chances are so far related, that they determine 
 concerning the existence or non-existence of the same object. 
 But this relation is far from being perfect ; since some of the 
 chances lie on the side of existence, and others on that of 
 non-existence; which are objects altogether incompatible. 
 *Tis impossible by one steady view to survey the opposite 
 chances, and the events dependent on them ; but 'tis necessary, 
 that the imagination shou'd'run alternately from the one to 
 the other. Each view of the imagination produces its peculiar 
 passion, which decays away by degrees, and is follow'd by a 
 sensible vibration after the stroke. The incompatibility of 
 the views keeps the passions from shocking in a direct line, 
 if that expression may be allow'd ; and yet their relation is 
 sufficient to mingle their fainter emotions. 'Tis after this 
 manner that hope and fear arise from the different mixture 
 of these opposite j)assions of grief and joy, and from their 
 imperfect union and conjunction. 
 
 Upon the whole, contrary passions succeed each other 
 alternately, when they arise from different objects : They 
 mutually destroy each other, when they proceed from different 
 parts of the same : And they subsist both of them, and 
 mingle together, when they are deriv'd from the contrary 
 and incompatible chances or possibilities, on which any one 
 object depends. The influence of the relations of ideas is 
 phiinly seen in this whole affair. If the objects of the con- 
 trary passions be totally different, the passions are like two 
 opposite liquors in different bottles, which have no influence 
 on each other. If the objects be intimately connected, the 
 passions are like an alcali and n.n acid, which, being mingled, 
 destroy each other. If the relation be more imperfect, and
 
 Srct. IX. OF THE PASSIONS. 219 
 
 consists in the contradictory views of the same object, the 
 passions are like oil and vinegar, which, however mingled, 
 never perfectly unite and incorporate. 
 
 As the hypothesis concerning hope and fear carries its 
 own evidence along with it, we shall be the more concise in 
 our proofs. A few strong arguments are better than many 
 weak ones. 
 
 The passions of fear and hope may arise when the chances 
 are equal on both sides, and no superiority can be discovered 
 in the one above the other. Nay, in this situation the 
 passions are rather the strongest, as the mind has then the 
 least foundation to rest upon, and is toss'd with the greatest 
 uncertainty. Throw in a suj^erior degree of probability to 
 the side of grief, you immediately see that passion diffuse 
 itself over the composition, and tinctm-e it into fear. En- 
 crease the probability, and by that means the grief, the fear 
 prevails still more and more, till at last it runs insensibly, as 
 the joy continually diminishes, into pure grief. After you 
 have brought it to this situation, diminish the grief, after the 
 same manner that you encreas'd it ; by diminishing the pro- 
 bability on that side, and you'll see the passion clear every 
 moment, 'till it changes insensibly into hope ; which again 
 runs, after the same manner, by slow degrees, into joy, as 
 you encrease that part of the composition by the encrease of 
 the probability. Are not these as plain proofs, that the 
 passions of fear and hope are mixtures of grief and joy, as 
 in optics 'tis a proof, that a colour'd ray of the sun passing 
 thro' a prism, is a composition of two others, when, as you 
 diminish or encrease the quantity of either, you find it pre- 
 vail proportionably more or less in the composition "? I am 
 sure neither natural nor moral philosophy admits of stronger 
 proofs. 
 
 Probability is of two kinds, either when the object is 
 really m itself uncertain, and to be determin'd by chance ; 
 or when, tho' the object be already certain, yet 'tis uncertain 
 to our judgment, which finds a number of proofs on .each 
 side of the question. Both these kinds of probabilities 
 cause fear and hope ; which can only proceed from that 
 property, in which they agree, viz. the uncertainty and fluc- 
 tuation they bestow on the imagination by that contrariety 
 of views, which is common to both. 
 
 'Tis a probable good or evil, that commonly produces
 
 220 A TREATISE OF ITTOIAN NATURE. Part III. 
 
 PART lioije or fear ; because probability, being- a wavering and un- 
 
 . ._ / . . constant method of surveying an object, causes naturally a 
 
 Of the will like mixture and uncertainty of passion. But we may ob- 
 
 p'lssio'nr* serve, that wherever from other causes this mixture can be 
 
 produc'd, the passions of fear and hope will arise, even tho' 
 
 there be no probability ; which must be allow'd to be a 
 
 convincing proof of the present hypothesis. 
 
 We find that an evil, barely conceiv'd as possible, does 
 sometimes produce fear ; especially if the evil be very great. 
 A man cannot think of excessive pains and tortures without 
 trembling, if he be in the least danger of suffering them. 
 The smallness of the probability is compensated by the 
 greatness of the evil ; and the sensation is equally lively, as 
 if the evil were more probable. One view or glimpse of the 
 former, has the same effect as several of the latter. 
 
 But they are not only possible evils, that cause fear, but 
 3ven some allow'd to be impossible ; as when we tremble on 
 the brink of a iDrecij^ice, tho' we know ourselves to be in 
 perfect security and have it in our choice whether we will 
 advance a step farther. This proceeds from the immediate 
 presence of the evil, which influences the imagination in the 
 same manner as the certainty of it wou'd do ; but being en- 
 counter'd by the reflection on our security, is immediately 
 retracted, and causes the same kind of passion, as when from 
 a contrariety of chances contrary passions are produc'd. 
 
 Evils, that are certain, have sometimes the same effect in 
 producing fear, as the possible or impossible. Thus a man 
 in a strong prison well-guarded, without the least means of 
 escape, trembles at the thought of the rack to which he is 
 sentenc'd. This happens only when the certain evil is ter- 
 rible and confounding ; in which case the mind continually 
 rejects it with horror, while it continually presses in upon 
 the thought. The evil is there fix'd and establish'd, but the 
 mind cannot endure to fix upon it ; from which fluctuation 
 and uncertainty there arises a passion of much the same ap- 
 pearance with fear. 
 
 But 'tis not only where good or evil is uncertain, as to 
 its existence, but also as to its Jcind, that fear or hope arises. 
 Let one be told by a person, whose veracity he cannot doubt 
 of, that one of his sons is suddeidy kill'd, 'tis evident the 
 passion this event wou'd occasion, wou'd not settle into pure 
 grief, till he got certain information, which of his sons ira
 
 Skct. IX. OF THE PASSIONS. 221 
 
 had lost. Here there is an evil certain, but the kind of it SECT. 
 uncertain : Consequently the fear we feel on this occasion is ,_ / _ 
 without the least mixture of joy, and arises merely from the Of the 
 
 fluctuation of the fancy betwixt its obiects. And tho' each direct 
 
 " . passions. 
 
 side of the question produces here the same passion, yet that 
 passion cannot settle, but receives from the imagination a 
 tremulous and unsteady motion, resembling in its cause, as 
 well as in its sensation, the mixture and contention of grief 
 and joy. 
 
 From these principles we may account for a phsenomenon 
 in the passions, which at first sight seems very extraordinary, 
 viz. that surprize is apt to change into fear, and every thing 
 that is unexpected aflPrights us. The most obvious conclusion 
 from this is, that human nature is in general pusilanimous ; 
 since upon the sudden appearance of any object we imme- 
 diately conclude it to be an evil, and without waiting till we 
 can examine its nature, whether it be good or bad, are at 
 first affected with fear. This I say is the most obvious con- 
 clusion ; but upon farther examination we shall find that the 
 phenomenon is otherwise to be accounted for. The sudden- 
 ness and strangeness of an appearance naturally excite a 
 commotion in the mind, like every thing for which we are 
 not prepar'd, and to which we are not accustom'd. This 
 commotion, again, naturally produces a curiosity or inquisi- 
 tiveness, which being very violent, from the strong and 
 sudden impulse of the object, becomes uneasy, and resembles, 
 in its fluctuation and uncertainty, the sensation of fear or 
 the mix'd passions of grief and joy. This image of fear 
 naturall}^ converts into the thing itself, and gives us a real 
 apprehension of evil, as the mind always forms its judgments 
 more from its present disposition than from the nature of its 
 objects. 
 
 Thus all kinds of uncertainty have a strong connexion 
 with fear, even tho' they do not cause any opposition of 
 passions by the opposite views and considerations they pre- 
 sent to us. A person, who has left his friend in any malady, 
 will feel more anxiety upon his account, than if he were 
 present, tho' perhaps he is not only incapable of giving him. 
 assistance, but likewise of judging of the event of his sickness. 
 In this case, tho' the principal object of the passion, viz, the 
 life or death of his friend, be to him equally uncertain when 
 present as when absent ; yet there are a thousand little cir-
 
 |UISB10I!S. 
 
 2-22 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Taut Ul. 
 
 PART cumstances of his friend's situation and condition, the know- 
 ,_£^£_. ledge of which fixes the idea, and prevents that fluctuation and 
 Of the will uncertainty so near ally'd to fear. Uncertainty is, indeed, 
 and direct {^ one respect as near ally'd to hope as to fear, since it makes 
 an essential part in the composition of the former passion ; 
 but the reason, why it inclines not to that side, is, that un- 
 certainty alone is uneasy, and has a relation of impressions 
 to the uneasy passions. 
 
 'Tis thus our uncertainty concerning any minute circum- 
 stance relating to a person encreases our apprehensions 
 of his death or misfortune. Horace has remark'd this 
 
 phsenomenon. 
 
 Ut assidens implmnibus pullis avis 
 Serpentium a/lapsus timet, 
 
 Mac/is rdictis ; nan, tit adsit, azixili 
 Latura plus prcssaitibus. 
 
 But this principle of the connexion of fear with uncertainty 
 I carry farther, and observe that any doubt produces that 
 passion, even tho' it presents nothing to us on any side but 
 what is good and desireable. A virgin, on her bridal-night, 
 goes to bed full of fears and apprehensions, tho' she expects 
 nothing but pleasure of the highest kind, and what she has 
 long wish'd for. The newness and greatness of the event, 
 the confusion of wishes and joys, so embarrass the mind, 
 that it knows not on what passion to fix itself; from whence 
 arises a fluttering or unsettledness of the spirits, which 
 being, in some degree, uneasy, very naturally degenerates 
 into fear. 
 
 Thus we still find, that whatever causes any fluctuation or 
 mixture of passions, with any degree of uneasiness, always 
 produces fear, or at least a passion so like it, that they are 
 scarcely to be distinguish'd. 
 
 I have here confin'd myself to the examination of hope 
 and fear in their most simple and natural situation, without 
 considering all the variations they may receive from the 
 mixture of different views and reflections. Terror, consterna- 
 tion, astonishment, anxiety, and other passions of that kind, 
 are nothing but diS'erent species and degrees of fear. 'Tis 
 easy to imagine how a different situation of the object, or a 
 difierent turn of thought, may change even the sensation of 
 a passion ; and this may in general account for all the 
 particular sub-divisions of the other affections, as well as of
 
 passious. 
 
 Sect. IX. OF THE PASSIONS. 2■J:^ 
 
 fear. Love may shew itself in the shape of tenderness, friend- SECT. 
 ship, iniimacy, esteem, good-will, and in many other appear- . 
 ances ; which at the bottom are the same affections, and Of the 
 arise from the same causes, tho' with a small variation, ^^J^^}_ 
 which it is not necessary to give any particular account of. 
 'Tis for this reason I have all along- confin'd myself to the 
 principal passion. 
 
 The same care of avoiding prolixity is the reason why I 
 wave the examination of the will and direct passions, as they 
 appear in animals ; since nothing is more evident, than that 
 they are of the same nature, and excited by the same causes 
 as in human creatures. I leave this to the reader's own 
 observation ; desiring him at the same time to consider the 
 additional force this bestows on the present system. 
 
 Sect. X. — Of Curiosity, or the Love of Truth. 
 
 But methinks we have been not a little inattentive to run 
 over so many different parts of the human mind, and 
 examine so many passions, without taking once into the 
 consideration that love of truth, which was the first source 
 of all our enquiries. 'Twill therefore be proper, before we 
 leave this subject, to bestow a few reflections on that passion, 
 and shew its origin in human nature. 'Tis an affection of so 
 peculiar a kind, that 'twou'd have been impossible to have 
 treated of it under any of those heads, which we have 
 examin'd, without danger of obscurity and confusion. 
 
 Truth is of two kinds, consisting either in the discovery of 
 the proportions of ideas, consider'd as such, or in the con- 
 formity of our ideas of objects to their real existence. 'Tis 
 certain, that the former species of truth, is not desir'd merely 
 as truth, and that 'tis not the justness of our conclusions, 
 which alone gives the pleasure. For these conclusions are 
 equally just, when we discover the equality of two bodies by 
 a pair of compasses, as when we learn it by a mathematical 
 demonstration; and tho' in the one case the proofs be 
 demonstrative, and in the other only sensible, yet generally 
 speaking, the mind acquiesces with equal assurance in the 
 one as in the other. And in an arithmetical operation, 
 where both the truth and the assurance are of the same 
 nature, as in the most profound algebraical problem, the 
 pleasure is very inconsiderable, if rather it does not degone-
 
 2-24 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part III. 
 
 PART rate into pain : Which is an evident proof, that the satisfac- 
 . ^ . tion, which we sometimes receive from the discovery of 
 Of the will truth, proceeds not from it, merely as such, but only as 
 and direct endow'd with certain qualities. 
 
 The first and most considerable circumstance requisite to 
 render truth agreeable, is the genius and capacit}', which is 
 employ'd in its invention and discovery. What is easy and 
 obvious is never valu'd ; and even what is in itself difficult, 
 if we come to the knowledge of it without difficulty, and 
 without any stretch of thought or judgment, is but little 
 regarded. We love to trace the demonstrations of mathe- 
 maticians ; but shou'd receive small entertainment from a 
 person, wlio shou'd barely inform us of the proportions of 
 lines and angles, tho' we repos'd the utmost confidence both 
 in his judgment and veracity. In this case 'tis sufficient to 
 have ears to learn the truth. We never are oblig'd to fix 
 our attention or exert our geniu? ; which of all other 
 exercises of the mmd is the most pleasant and agreeable. 
 
 But tho' the exercise of genius be the principal source of 
 that satisfaction we receive from the sciences, yet I doubt, if 
 it be alone sufficient to give us any considerable enjoyment. 
 The truth we discover must also be of some importance. 
 'Tis easy to multiply algebraical problems to infinity, nor is 
 there any end in the discovery of the proportions of conic 
 sections ; tho' few mathematicians take any pleasure in these 
 researches, but turn their thoughts to what is more useful 
 and important. Now the question is, after what manner this 
 utility and importance operate upon us ? The difficulty on 
 this head arises from hence, that many philosophers have 
 consum'd their time, have destroy'd their health, and 
 neglected their fortune, in the search of such truths, as they 
 esteem'd important and useful to the world, tho' it appear'd 
 from their whole conduct and behaviour, that they were not 
 endow'd with any share of public spirit, nor had any concern 
 for the interests of mankind. Were they convinc'd, that 
 their discoveries were of no consequence, they wou'd entirely 
 lose all relish for their studies, and that tho' the con- 
 sequences be entirely indifferent to them ; which seems to 
 be a contradiction. 
 
 To remove this contradiction, we must consider, that there 
 are certain desires and inclinations, which go no farther 
 than the imagination, and are rather the faint shadows and
 
 Sect. X. OF THE PASSIONS. 225 
 
 images of passions, tlian any real affections. Tlius, suppose SECT. 
 a man, who takes a survey of the fortifications of any city ; . _ . . 
 considers their strength and advantages, natural or acquired ; of 
 observes the disposition and contrivance of the bastions, curiosity, 
 ramparts, mines, and other military w^orks ; 'tis plain, that of truth. 
 in proportion as all these are fitted to attain their ends, he 
 will receive a suitable pleasure and satisfaction. This 
 pleasure, as it arises from the utility, not the form of the 
 objects, can be no other than a sympathy with the inhabi- 
 tants, for whose security all this art is employ'd ; tho' 'tis 
 possible, that this person, as a stranger or an enemy, may in 
 his heart have no kindness for them, or may even entertain a 
 hatred against them. 
 
 It may indeed be objected, that such a remote sympathy is 
 a very slight foundation for a passion, "and that so much 
 industry and application, as we frequently observe in philoso- 
 phers, can never be deriv'd from so inconsiderable an original. 
 But here I return to what I have already remark'd, that the 
 pleasure of study consists chiefly in the action of the mind, 
 and the exercise of the genius and undei'standing in the dis- 
 covery or comprehension of any truth. If the importance 
 of the truth be requisite to compleat the pleasure, 'tis not on 
 account of any considerable addition, which of itself it brings 
 to our enjoyment, but only because 'tis, in some measure, 
 requisite to fix our attention. When we are careless and 
 inattentive, the same action of the understanding has no 
 effect upon us, nor is able to convey any of that satisfaction, 
 which arises from it, when we are in another disposition. 
 
 But beside the action of the mind, which is the principal 
 foundation of the pleasure, there is likewise requir'd a degree 
 of success in the attainment of the end, or the discovery of 
 that truth we examine. Upon this head I shall make a 
 general remark, which maybe useful on many occasions, viz. 
 that where the mind pursues any end with passion ; tho' that 
 passion be not deriv'd originally from the end, but merely 
 from the action and pursuit ; yet by the natural course of 
 the affections, we acquire a concern for the end itself, and 
 are uneasy under any disappointment Ave meet with in the 
 pursuit of it. This proceeds from the relation and parallel 
 direction of the passions above-mention'd. 
 
 To illustrate all this by a similar instance, I shall observe, 
 that there cannot be two passions more nearly resembling 
 
 VOL. II. Q
 
 22G 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 TARr in. 
 
 PART 
 III. 
 
 Of the will 
 and direct 
 passions. 
 
 each other, than those of hunting and philosophy, whatever 
 disproportion may at first sight appear betwixt them. 'Tis 
 evident, that the pleasure of hunting consists in the action 
 of the mind and body ; tlie motion, the attention, the diffi- 
 culty, and the uncertainty. 'Tis evident likewise, that these 
 actions must be attended with an idea of utility, in order to 
 their having any effect upon us. A man of the greatest 
 fortune, and the farthest removed from avarice, tho'he takes 
 a pleasure in hunting after partridges and pheasants, feels no 
 satisfaction in shooting crows and magpies ; and that because 
 he considers the first as fit for the table, and the other as 
 entirely useless. Here 'tis certain, that the utility or impor- 
 tance of itself causes no real passion, but is onl}^ requisite to 
 support the imagination ; and the same person, who over- 
 looks a ten times greater profit in any other subject, is 
 pleas'd to bring home half a dozen Avoodcocks or plovers, 
 after having employ 'd several hours in hunting after them. 
 To make the parallel betwixt hunting and philosophy more 
 compleat, we may observe, that tho' in both cases the end of 
 our action may in itself be despis'd, yet in the heat of the 
 action we acquire such an attention to this end, that we are 
 very uneasy under any disappointments, and are sorry when 
 we either miss our game, or fall into any error in our rea- 
 soning. 
 
 If we want another parallel to these affections, we may 
 consider the passion of gaming, which affords a pleasure 
 from the same principles as hunting and philosophy. It has 
 been remark'd, that the pleasure of gaming arises not from 
 interest alone; since many leave a sure gain for this enter- 
 tainment : Neither is it deriv'd from the game alone ; since 
 the same persons have no satisfaction, when they play for 
 nothing : But proceeds from both these causes united, tho' 
 separately they have no effect. 'Tis here, as in certain 
 chymical preparations, where the mixture of two clear and 
 transparent liquids produces a third, which is opaque and 
 colour'd. 
 
 The interest, which we have in any game, engages our 
 attention, without which we can have no enjoyment, either 
 in that or in any other action. Our attention being once 
 engag'd, the difficulty, variety, and sudden reverses of for- 
 tune, still farther interest us ; and 'tis from that concern our 
 satisfaction arises. Human life is so tiresome a scene, and
 
 Sect. X. OF THE PASSIONS. 227 
 
 men generally are of such indolent dispositions, that what- SECT. 
 ever amuses them, tho' by a passion mixt with pain, does in . . ' _- 
 the main give them a sensible pleasure. And this pleasure of 
 is here enereas'd by the nature of the objects, which being curiosity, 
 sensible, and of a narrow compass, are enter'd into with of truth, 
 facility, and are agreeable to the imagination. 
 
 The same theory, that accounts for the love of truth in 
 mathematics and algebra, may be extended to morals, poli- 
 tics, natural philosophy, and other studies, where we consi- 
 der not the abstract relations of ideas, but their real connex- 
 ions and existence. But beside the love of knowledge, which 
 displays itself in the sciences, there is a certain curiosity 
 implanted in human nature, which is a passion deriv'd from 
 a quite different principle. Some people have an insatiable 
 desire of knowing the actions and circumstances of their 
 neighbours, tho' their interest be no way concern'd in them, 
 and they must entirely depend on others for their informa- 
 tion ; in which case there is no room for study or application. 
 Let us search for the reason of this phsenomenon. 
 
 It has been prov'd at large, that the influence of belief is 
 at once to inliven and infix any idea in the imagination, and 
 prevent all kind of hesitation and uncertainty about it. 
 Both these circumstances are advantageous. By the vivacity 
 of the idea we interest the fancy, and produce, tho' in a 
 lesser degree, the same pleasure, which arises from a moder- 
 ate passion. As the vivacity of the idea gives pleasure, so 
 its certainty prevents uneasiness, by fixing one particular 
 idea in the mind, and keeping it from wavering in the choice 
 of its objects. 'Tis a quality of human nature, which is con- 
 spicuous on many occasions, and is common both to the 
 mind and body, that too sudden and violent a change is un- 
 pleasant to us, and that however any objects may in them- 
 selves be indifferent, yet their alteration gives uneasiness. 
 As 'tis the nature of doubt to cause a variation in the thought, 
 and transport us suddenly from one idea to another, it must 
 of consequence be the occasion of pain. This pain chiefly 
 takes place, where interest, relation, or the greatness and 
 novelty of any event interests us in it. 'Tis not every matter 
 of fact, of which we have a curiosity to be inform'd ; neither 
 are they such only as we have an interest to know. 'Tis 
 sufficient if the idea strikes on us with such force, and con- 
 cerns us so nearly, as to give us an uneasiness in its instabi- 
 
 q2
 
 228 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NAIURE. Part HI. 
 
 PART lity and inconstancy. A stranger, wlien he arrives first at 
 
 ^ , any town, may be entirely indifl'erent about knowing the 
 
 Of the will history and adventures of the inhabitants ; but as he becomes 
 
 and direct farther acquainted with them, and has liv'd any considerable 
 
 passions, ^jj^q among them, he acquires the same curiosity as the 
 
 natives. When we are reading the history of a nation, we 
 
 may have an ardent desire of clearing up any doubt or 
 
 difficulty, that occurs in it; but become careless in such 
 
 researches, when the ideas of these events are, in a great 
 
 measure, obliterated.
 
 A 
 
 TREATISE 
 
 OF 
 
 Human Nature : 
 
 BEING 
 
 An Attempt to introduce the experimental 
 Method of Keasoning 
 
 INTO 
 
 MORAL SUBJECTS. 
 
 DurcB semjjer virtutis amator, 
 
 Qucere qtdd est virtus, et posce exemplar Jionesti. 
 
 LUCAN. 
 
 WITH AN 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Wherein some Passages of the foregoing Volumes 
 are illustrated and explain'd. 
 
 Vol. III. 
 
 OF 
 
 MORALS, 
 
 LONDON, 
 
 Printed for Thomas Longman, at the Skip in 
 Pater-noster-lioiu, mdccxl.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 I think it proper to inform the public, that tho' this be a 
 third volume of the Treatise of Human Nature, yet 'tis in 
 some measure independent of the other two, and requires 
 not that the reader shou'd enter into all the abstract reason- 
 ings contain'd in them. I am hopeful it may be understood 
 by ordinary readers, with as little attention as is usually 
 given to any books of reasoning. It must only be observ'd, 
 that I continue to make use of the terms, impressions and 
 ideas, in the same sense as formerly ; and that by impressions 
 I mean our stronger perceptions, such as our sensations, 
 affections and sentiments ; and by ideas the fainter percep- 
 tions, or the copies of these in the memory and imagination.
 
 A TREATISE 
 
 HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 OF MOEALS. 
 
 PAET I. 
 
 OF VIRTUE AND YICE IN GENERAL. 
 
 Sect. I. — Moral Distinctions not derived from Reason. 
 
 There is an inconvenience which attends all abstruse rea- SECT. 
 soning-, that it may silence, without convincing an anta- ^- ^ 
 gonist, and requires the same intense study to make us j^orai dis- 
 sensible of its force, that was at first requisite for its inven- tinctions ^ 
 tion. When we leave our closet, and engage in the common ^^^^ ^"^ 
 affairs of life, its conclusions seem to vanish, like the phan- reason. 
 toms of the night on the appearance of the morning ; and 
 'tis difficult for us to retain even that conviction, which we 
 had attain'd with difficulty. This is still more conspicuous 
 in a long chain of reasoning, where we must preserve to the 
 end the evidence of the first propositions, and where we often 
 lose sight of all the most receiv'd maxims, either of philo- 
 sophy or common life. I am not, however, without hopes, 
 that the present system of philosophy will acquire new force 
 as it advances ; and that our reasonings concerning morals will
 
 23 i A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Pakt I. 
 
 PART corroborate wliatever lias been said concerning: the under- 
 I • • 
 
 . . , ' stanchng and the passions. Morality is a subject that interests 
 
 Of virtue US above all others : We fancy the peace of society to be at 
 
 and vice in ^take in every decision concerning it: and 'tis evident, that 
 general. •' o ' ? 
 
 this concern must make our speculations appear more real 
 
 and solid, than where the subject is, in a great measure, 
 indifferent to us. What affects us, we conclude can never 
 be a chimera ; and as our passion is engag'd on the one side 
 or the other, we naturally think that the question lies within 
 human comprehension ; which, in other cases of this nature, 
 we are apt to entertain some doubt of. Without this ad- 
 vantage I ntver should have ventur'd upon a third volume of 
 such abstruse philosophy, in an age, wherein the greatest 
 part of men seem agreed to convert reading into an amuse- 
 ment, and to reject every thing that requires any considerable 
 degree of attention to be comprehended. 
 I It has been observ'd, that nothing is ever present to the 
 I mind but its perceptions ; and that all the actions of seeing, 
 hearing, judging, loving, hating, and thinking, fall under this 
 denomination. The mind can never exert itself in any action, 
 which we may not comprehend under the term of perception ; 
 I an d consequently that term is no less applicable to those 
 judgments, by which we distinguish moral good and evil, 
 than to every other operation of the mind. » To approve of 
 one character, to condemn another, are only so many different 
 perceptions. 
 
 Now as pei'ceptions resolve themselves into two kinds, 
 viz. impressions and ideas, this distinction gives rise to a 
 question, with which we shall open up our present enquiry 
 concerning morals. Whether 'tis by means of our ideas or im- 
 pressions ive distinguish betwixt vice and virtue, and pronounce 
 an action blameable or praiseworthy ?^ This will immediately 
 cut off all loose discourses and declamations, and reduce us to 
 something precise and exact on the present subject. 
 
 Those who affirm that virtue is nothing but a conformity 
 to reason ; that there are eternal fitnesses and unfitnesses of 
 things, which are the same to every rational being that con- 
 siders them ; that the immutable measures of right and 
 wrong impose an obligation, not only on human creatures, 
 but also on the Deity himself: All these systems concur in 
 the opinion, that morality, like truth, is discern'd merely by 
 
 [' Introd. sect. 50.— Ed.]
 
 Sect. I. OF MORALS. 2.35 
 
 ideas, and by their juxta-position and comparison. In order, SECT, 
 therefore, to judge of these systems, we need only consider, ^ 
 
 reason. 
 
 whether it be possible, from reason alone, to distinguish Moral dis- 
 betwixt moral good and evil, or whether there must concur J^'^^'^^^gJ^^^^^.j 
 some other principles to enable us to make that distinction, from 
 
 If morality had naturally no influence on human passions 
 and actions, 'twere in vain to take such pains to inculcate 
 it ; and nothing wou'd be more fruitless than that multitude 
 of rules and precepts, with which all moralists abound. Phi- 
 losophy is commonly divided into speculative and practical ; 
 and as morality is always comprehended under the latter 
 division, 'tis supposed to influence our passions and actions, 
 and to go beyond the calm and indolent judgments of the 
 understanding. And this is confirm'd by common experience, 
 which informs us, that men are often govern'd by their duties, 
 and are deter'd from some actions by the opinion of injustice, 
 and impell'd to others by that of obligation. 
 
 Since morals, therefore, have an influence on the actions 
 and affections, it follows, that they cannot be deriv'd from 
 I reason ; and that because reason alone, as we have already 
 prov'd, can never have any such influence. Morals excite 
 passions, and produce or prevent actions. Reason of itself 
 is utterly impotent in this particular. The rules of morality, 
 therefore, are not conclusions of our reason. 
 
 No one, I believe, will deny the justness of this inference ; 
 nor is there any other means of evading it, than by denying 
 that principle, on which it is founded. As long as it is 
 allow'd, that reason has no influence on our passions and 
 actions, 'tis in vain to pretend, that morality is discover'd 
 only by a deduction of reason. An active principle can 
 never be founded on an inactive ; and if reason be inactive 
 in itself, it must remain so in all its shapes and appearances, 
 whether it exerts itself in natural or moral subjects, whether 
 it considers the powers of external bodies, or the actions of 
 rational beings. 
 
 It would be tedious to repeat all the arguments, by which 
 I have prov'd,' that reason is perfectly inert, and can never 
 either prevent or produce any action or affection. 'Twill be 
 easy to recollect what has been said upon that subject. I 
 shall only recal on this occasion one of these arguments, 
 
 [' Book II. Part III. Sect. 3.]
 
 236 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part I. 
 
 which I shall endeavour to render still more conclusive, and 
 more applicable to the present subject. 
 Of virtue ( Reason is the discovery of truth or falshood. Truth or 
 and vice in jfalshood consists in an agreement or disagreement either to 
 the real relations of ideas, or to real existence and matter of 
 fact. Whatever, therefore, is not susceptible of this agree- 
 ment or disagreement, is incapable of being true or false, 
 and can never be an object of our reason. Novr 'tis evident 
 our passions, volitions, and actions, are not susceptible of 
 any such agreement or disagreement ; being original facts 
 and realities, compleat in themselves, and implying no 
 reference to other passions, volitions, and actions. 'Tis 
 impossible, therefore, they can be pronounced either true or 
 false, and be either contrary or conformable to reason. 
 
 This argument is of double advantage to our present 
 purpose. For it proves directly, that actions do not derive 
 their merit from a conformity to reason, nor their blame 
 from a contrariety to it ; and it proves the same truth more 
 indirectly, by shewing us, that as reason can never im- 
 mediately prevent or produce any action by contradicting or 
 approving of it, it cannot be the source of moral good and 
 evil, which are found to have that influence. Actions may 
 be laudable or blameable ; but they cannot be reasonable or 
 unreasonable : Laudable or blameable, therefore, are not the 
 same with reasonable or unreasonable. The merit and 
 demerit of actions frequently contradict, and sometimes 
 controul our natural propensities. But reason has no such 
 influence. Moral distinctions, therefore, are not the offspring 
 of reason. Reason is wholly inactive, and can never be the 
 source of so active a principle as conscience, or a sense of 
 morals. 
 
 But perhaps it may be said, that tho' no will or action can 
 be immediately contradictory to reason, yet we may find such 
 a contradiction in some of the attendants of the action, that 
 is, in its causes or effects. The action may cause a judgment, 
 or may be obliquely caus'd by one, when the judgment con- 
 curs with a passion ; and by an abusive way of speaking, 
 which philosophy will scarce allow of, the same contrariety 
 may, upon that account, be ascrib'd to the action. How far 
 this truth or falshood may be the source of morals, 'twill 
 now be proper to consider. 
 
 It has been observ'd, that reason, in a strict and philoso-
 
 Sect. I, OF MOEALS. 237 
 
 phical sense, can have an influence on our conduct only after 
 two ways : Either when it excites a passion by informing us 
 of the existence of something which is a proper object of it ; 
 or when it discovers the connexion of causes and effects, so 
 as to afford us means of exerting any passion. These are 
 the only kinds of judgment, which can accompany our 
 actions, or can be said to produce them in any manner ; and 
 it must be allow'd, that these judgments may often be false 
 and erroneous. A person may be affected with passion, by 
 supposing a pain or pleasure to lie in an object, which has 
 no tendency to produce either of these sensations, or which 
 produces the contrary to what is imagin'd. A person may 
 also take false measures for the attaining his end, and may 
 retard, by his foolish conduct, instead of forwarding the 
 execution of any project. These false judgments may be 
 thought to affect the passions and actions, which are con- 
 nected with them, and may be said to render them un- 
 reasonable, in a figurative and improper way of speaking. 
 But tho' this be acknowledg'd, 'tis easy to observe, that these 
 errors are so far from being the source of all immorality, 
 that they are commonly very innocent, and draw no manner 
 of guilt upon the person who is so unfortunate as to fall into 
 them. They extend not beyond a mistake oi fact, which 
 moralists have not generally suppos'd criminal, as being per- 
 fectly involuntar}'. I am more to be lamented than blam'd^, 
 if I am mistaken with regard to the influence of objects in 
 producing pain or pleasure, or if I know not the proper 
 means of satisfying my desires. No one can ever regard 
 such errors as a defect in my moral character. A fruit, for 
 instance, that is really disagreeable, appears to me at a 
 distance, and thro' mistake 1 fancy it to be pleasant and 
 delicious. Here is one error. I choose certain means of 
 reaching this fruit, which are not proper for my end. Here 
 is a second error ; nor is there any third one, which can 
 ever possibly enter into our reasonings concerning actions. 
 I ask, therefore, if a man, in this situation, and guilty of 
 these two errors, is to be regarded as vicious and criminal, 
 however unavoidable they might have been? Or if it be 
 possible to imagine, that such errors are the sources of all 
 immorality ? 
 
 And here it may be proper to observe, that if moral dis- 
 tinctions be deriv'd from the truth or falshood of those
 
 238 
 
 A TREATISE OF IIUM.IN NATURE. 
 
 Part L 
 
 PAKT 
 1. 
 
 Of virtue 
 and vice in 
 general. 
 
 judgments, they must take place wherever we form the 
 judgments ; nor will there be any difference, whether the 
 question be concerning an apple or a kingdom, or whether 
 the error be avoidable or unavoidable. For as the very 
 essence of morality is suppos'd to consist in an agreement or 
 disagreement to reason, the other circumstances are entirely 
 arbitrary, and can never either bestow on any action the 
 character of virtuous or vicious, or deprive it of that character. 
 To which we may add, that this agreement or disagreement, 
 not admitting of degrees, all virtues and vices wou'd of 
 course be equal. 
 
 Sliou'd it be pretended, that tho' a mistake of fact be not 
 criminal, yet a mistake of right often is ; and that this may 
 be the source of immorality : I would answer, that 'tis 
 impossible such a mistake can ever be the original source of 
 immorality, since it supposes a real right and wrong ; that 
 is, a real distinction in morals, independent of these judg- 
 ments. A mistake, therefore, of right may become a species 
 of immorality ; but 'tis only a secondary one, and is founded 
 on some other, antecedent to it. 
 
 As to those judgments which are the effects of our actions 
 and which, when false, give occasion to pronounce the actions 
 contrary to truth and reason ; we may observe, that our 
 actions never cause any judgment, either true or false, in 
 ourselves, and that 'tis only on others they have such an 
 influence. 'Tis certain, that an action, on many occasions, 
 may give rise to false conclusions in others ; and that a 
 person, who thro' a window sees any lewd behaviour of mine 
 with my neighbour's wife, may be so simple as to imagine 
 she is certainly my own. In this respect my action re- 
 sembles somewhat a lye orfalshood ; only with this diffei-ence, 
 which is material, that I perform not the action with any 
 intention of giving rise to a false judgment in another, but 
 merely to satisfy my lust and passion. It causes, however, a 
 mistake and false judgment by accident ; and the falshood of 
 its effects may be ascribed, by some odd figurative way of 
 speaking, to the action itself. But still I can see no pretext 
 of reason for asserting, that the tendency to cause such an 
 error is the first spring or original source of all immorality.* 
 
 • One might tliiiik it -were entirely 
 Bupcrfluoiis to prove this, if a late 
 
 author,' -who has had the good fortune 
 to obtain some reputation, had not 
 
 p WoUdston, in the ' Ileligiou of Nature Delineated,' sect. 1. — Ed.]
 
 Sect. I. 
 
 OF MORALS. 
 
 239 
 
 Thus upon the whole, 'tis impossible, that the distinction SECT. 
 betwixt moral good and evil, can be made by reason ; since , _ ' . 
 that distinction has an influence upon our actions, of which Moral dis- 
 reason alone is incapable. Eeason and judgment may, tinctions 
 indeed, be the mediate cause of an action, by prompting, from 
 
 eevionsly affirmed, that such a fals- 
 hood is the foimdation of all guilt and 
 moral deformity. That we may dis- 
 cover the fallacy of his hypothesis, we 
 need only consider, that a false conchi- 
 sion is drawn from an action, only 
 by means of an obscurity of natural 
 principles, which makes a cause be 
 secretly interrupted in its operation, by 
 contrary causes, and renders the con- 
 nection betwixt two objects uncertain 
 and variable. Now, as a like uncer- 
 tainty and variety of causes take place, 
 even in natural objects, and produce a 
 like error in our judgment, if that 
 tendency to produce error were the very 
 essence of vice and immorality, it 
 shou'd follow, that even inanimate 
 objects might be vicious and immoral. 
 
 'Tis in vain to urge, that inanimate 
 objects act without liberty and choice. 
 For as liberty and choice are not neces- 
 sary to make an action produce in us 
 an erroneous conclusion, they can be, in 
 no respect, essential to morality ; and 
 I do not readily perceive, upon this 
 system, how they can ever come to be 
 regarded by it. If the tendency to 
 cause error be the origin of immorality, 
 that tendency and immorality wou'd in 
 every case be inseparable. 
 
 Add to this, that if I had used the 
 precaution of shutting the windows, 
 while I indulg'd myself in those liljer- 
 ties with my neighbour's wife, I should 
 have been guilty of no immorality ; 
 and that because my action, being per- 
 fectly conceal'd, wou'd have had no 
 tendency to produce any false conclusion. 
 
 For the same reason, a thief, who 
 steals in by a ladder at a window, and 
 takes all imaginable care to cause no 
 disturbance, is in no respect criminal. 
 For either he will not be perceiv'd, or if 
 he be, 'tis impossible he can produce 
 any error, nor wiU any one, from these 
 circumstances, take him to be other 
 than what he really is. 
 
 'Tis well known, that those who are 
 squint-sighted, do very readily cause 
 mistakes in others, and that we imagine 
 they salute or are talking to one per- 
 son, while tliey address themselves to 
 
 another. Are they therefore, upon 
 that account, immoral ? 
 
 Besides, we may easily observe, that 
 in all those arguments there is an 
 evident reasoning in a circle. A person 
 who takes possession of another s goods, 
 and uses them as his oww, in a manner 
 declares them to be his own ; and this 
 falshood is the source of the immorality 
 of injustice. But is property, or right, 
 or obligation, intelligible, without an 
 antecedent morality ? 
 
 A man that is ungrateful to his bene- 
 factor, in a manner affirms, that he 
 never received any favours from him. 
 But in what manner? Is it because 
 'tis his duty to be grateful ? But this 
 supposes, that there is some antecedent 
 rule of duty and morals. Is it because 
 human nature is generally grateful, 
 and makes us conclude, that a man who 
 does any harm never received any 
 favour from the person he harm'd ? 
 But human nature is not so generally 
 grateful, as to justify such a conclusion. 
 Or if it were, is an exception to a 
 general rule in every case criminal, for 
 no other reason than because it is an 
 exception ? 
 
 But what may suffice entirely to 
 destroy this whimsical system is, that 
 it leaves us under the same difficulty to 
 give a reason why truth is virtuous and 
 falshood vicious, as to account for the 
 merit or turpitude of any other action. 
 I shall allow, if you please, that all 
 immorality is derived from this supposed 
 falshood in action, provided you can 
 give me any plausible reason, why such a 
 falshood is immoral. If you consider 
 rightly of the matter, you will find 
 yourself in the same difficulty as at the 
 beginning. 
 
 This last argument is very conclu- 
 sive ; because, if there be not an evi- 
 dent merit or turpitude annex'd to this 
 species of truth or falshood, it c;in never 
 have any influence upon our actions. 
 For, who ever thought of forbearing 
 any action, because others might possi- 
 bly draw false conclusions from it? Or, 
 who ever perform'd any, that he might 
 give rise to true conclusions ?
 
 240 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part I, 
 
 PART or by directing a passion : But it is not pretended, tliat a 
 
 , judgment of this kind, either in its truth or falshood, is 
 
 Of virtue attended with virtue or vice. And as to the judgments, 
 
 and vice in -^vhich are caused by our judgments, they can still less 
 
 bestow those moral qualities on the actions, whicli are their 
 
 causes. 
 
 But to be more particular, and to shew, that those eternal 
 immutable fitnesses and unfitnesses of things cannot be 
 defended by sound philosophy, we may weigh the following 
 considerations. 
 
 If the thought and understanding were alone caj)able of 
 fixing the boundaries of right and wrong, the character of 
 vii'tuous and vicious either must lie in some relations of 
 objects, or must be a matter of fact, which is discovered by 
 our reasoning. This consequence is evident. As the opera- 
 tions of human understanding divide themselves into two 
 kinds, the comparing of ideas, and the inferring of matter of 
 fact ; were virtue discover'd by the understanding ; it must 
 be an object of one of these operations, nor is there any third 
 operation of the understanding, which can discover it. There 
 has been an opinion very industriously propagated by certain 
 philosophers, that morality is susceptible of demonstration ; 
 and tho' no one has ever been able to advance a single step 
 in those demonstrations ; yet 'tis taken for granted, that this 
 science may be brought to an equal certainty with geometry 
 or algebra. Upon this supposition, vice and virtue must 
 consist in some relations ; since 'tis allow'd on all hands, 
 that no matter of fact is capable of being demonstrated. Let 
 us, therefore, begin with examining this hypothesis, and 
 endeavour, if possible, to fix those moral qualities, which 
 have been so long the objects of our fruitless researches. 
 Point out distinctly the relations, which constitute morality 
 or obligation, that we may know wherein they consist, and 
 after w^hat manner we must judge of them. 
 
 If you assert, that vice and virtue consist in relations sus- 
 ceptible of certainty and demonstration, you must confine 
 yourself to those four relations, which alone admit of that 
 degree of evidence ; and in that case you run into absurdi- 
 ties, from which you will never be able to extricate yourself. 
 For as you make the very essence of morality to lie in the 
 relations, and as there is no one of these relations but what 
 is ap})licable, not only to an irrational, but also to an inani-
 
 Sect. I. OF MORALS. 241 
 
 mate object ; it follows, that even such objects must be suscop- SECT, 
 tible of merit or demerit. Besemhlance, contrariety, decjrees in , 
 
 quality, and proportions in quantity and number ; ' all these Moral dis- 
 relations belong as properly to matter, as to our actions, tinctions^ 
 passions, and volitions. 'Tis unquestionable, therefore, that fj-gm 
 morality lies not in any of these relations, nor the sense of reason. 
 it in their discovery .^ 
 
 Shou'd it be asserted, that the sense of morality consists 
 in the discovery of some relation, distinct from these, and 
 that our enumeration was not compleat, when we compre- 
 hended all demonstrable relations under four general heads : 
 To this I know not what to reply, till some one be so good 
 as to point out to me this new relation. 'Tis impossible to 
 refute a system, which has never yet been explain'd. In such 
 a manner of fighting in the dark, a man loses his blows in 
 the air, and often places them where the enemy is not 
 present. 
 
 I must, therefore, on this occasion, rest contented with 
 requiring the two following conditions of any one that wou'd 
 undertake to clear up this system. First, As moral good and 
 evil belong only to the actions of the mind, and are deriv'd 
 from our situation with regard to external objects, the rela- 
 tions from which these moral distinctions arise, must lie only 
 betwixt internal actions, and external objects, and must not 
 be applicable either to internal actions, compared among 
 themselves, or to external objects, when placed in opposition 
 to other external objects. For as morality is supposed to 
 attend certain relations, if these relations cou'd belong to 
 internal actions consider'd singly, it wou'd follow, that we 
 might be guilt}" of crimes in ourselves, and independent of 
 
 [' Introd. sect. 50. Cf. vol. i. partiii. I think, is plain .argument. Demonstra- 
 
 6ect. i. — Ed.] tive reason discovers only relations. 
 
 * As a proof, how confus'd oiir way of But that reason, according to this hypo- 
 thinking on this subject commonly is, thesis, discovers also vice and virtue, 
 we may observe, that those who assert. These moral qualities, therefore, must 
 that morality is demonstrable, do not be relations. When we blame any 
 say, tliat morality lies in the relations, action, in any situation, the whole com- 
 and that the relations are distinguish- plicated object, of action and situation, 
 able by reason. They only say, that must form certain relations, wherein 
 reason can discover such an action, in the essence of vice consists. Thishypo- 
 s\ich relations, to be virtuous, and such thesis is not other',<ase intelligible. For 
 another vicious. It seems they thought what does reason discover, when it 
 it sufficient, if they cou'd bring the pronovmces any action vicious ? Does 
 word, Relation, into the proposition, it discover a relation or a matter of 
 without troubling themselves whether fact? These questions are decisive, 
 it was to the purpose or not. Eut here, and must not be eluded. 
 
 VOL. II. R
 
 242 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Pakt I. 
 
 PART our situation, with respect to the universe : And in like 
 . manner, if these moral relations cou'd be apply'd to external 
 
 Of virtue objects, it wou'd follow, that even inanimate beings wou'd 
 and vice in \yQ susceptible of moral beauty and deformity. Now it seems 
 difficult to imagine, that any relation can be discover'd be- 
 twixt our passions, volitions and actions, compared to exter- 
 nal objects, which relation might not belong either to these 
 passions and volitions, or to these external objects, compar'd 
 among themselves. 
 
 But it will be still more difficult to fulfil the second condi- 
 tion, requisite to justify this system. According to the 
 principles of those who maintain an abstract rational differ- 
 ence betwixt moral good and evil, and a natural fitness and 
 unfitness of things, 'tis not only suppos'd that these relations, 
 being eternal and immutable, are the same, when consider'd 
 by every rational creature, but their effects are also suppos'd 
 to be necessarily the same ; and 'tis concluded they have no 
 less, or rather a greater, influence in directing the will of the 
 deity, than in governing the rational and virtuous of our own 
 species. These two particulars are evidently distinct. 'Tis 
 one thing to know virtue, and another to conform the will 
 to it. In order, therefore, to prove, that the measures of right 
 and wrong are eternal laws, obligatory on every rational 
 mind, 'tis not sufficient to shew the relations upon which 
 they are founded : We must also point out the connexion 
 betwixt the relatioji and the will; and must prove that this 
 connexion is so necessary, that in every well-disposed mind, 
 it must take place and have its influence ; tho' the difference 
 betwixt these minds be in other respects immense and infi- 
 nite. Now besides what I have already prov'd, that even in 
 human nature no relation can ever alone produce any action ; 
 besides this, I say, it has been shewn, in treating of the un- 
 derstanding, that there is no connexion of cause and effect, 
 such as this is suppos'd to be, which is discoverable other- 
 wise than by experience, and of which we can pretend to 
 have any security by the simple consideration of the objects. 
 All beings in the universe, consider'd in themselves, appear 
 entirely loose and independent of each other. 'Tis only by 
 experience we learn their influence and connexion ; and this 
 influence we ought never to extend beyond experience. 
 
 Thus it will be impossible to fulfil the first condition re- 
 quired to the system of eternal rational measures of right and
 
 Sect. I. OF MORALS. 24:J 
 
 ■wrong ; because it is impossible to shew those relations, SECT, 
 upon which such a distinction may be founded : And 'tis as ^- 
 impossible to fulfil the second condition ; because we cannot Moral dis- 
 prove a 'priori, that these relations, if they really existed tinctions 
 and were perceiv'd, wou'd be universally forcible and obli- ft-om^^'^ 
 
 gatory. reason. 
 
 But to make these general reflections more clear and con- 
 vincing, we may illustrate them by some particular instances, 
 wherein this character of moral good or evil is the most 
 universally acknowledged. Of all crimes that human crea- 
 tures are capable of committing, the most horrid and un- 
 natural is ingratitude, especially when it is committed against 
 parents, and appears in the more flagrant instances of wounds 
 and death. This is acknowledg'd by all mankind, philoso- 
 phers as well as the people ; the question only arises among 
 philosophers, whether the guilt or moral deformity of this 
 action be discover'd by demonstrative reasoning, or be felt 
 by an internal sense, and by means of some sentiment, which 
 the reflecting on such an action naturally occasions. This 
 question will soon be decided against the former opinion, if 
 we can shew the same relations in other objects, without the 
 notion of any guilt or iniquity attending them. Reason or 
 science is nothing but the comparing of ideas, and the dis- 
 covery of their relations; and if the same relations have 
 different characters, it must evidently follow, that those 
 characters are not discover'd merely by reason. To put the 
 affair, therefore, to this trial, let us chuse any inanimate 
 object, such as an oak or elm ; and let us suppose, that by 
 the dropping of its seed, it produces a sapling below it, which 
 springing up by degrees, at last overtoj)s and destroys the 
 parent tree : I avsk, if in this instance there be wanting any 
 relation, which is discoverable in parricide or ingratitude? 
 Is not the one tree the cause of the other's existence ; and 
 the latter the cause of the destruction of the former, in the 
 same manner as when a child murders his parent ? 'Tis not 
 sufficient to reply, that a choice or will is wanting. For in 
 the case of parricide, a will does not give rise to any different 
 relations, but is only the cause from which the action is 
 deriv'd ; and consequently produces the same relations, that 
 in the oak or elm arise from some other principles. 'Tis a 
 will or choice, that determines a man to kill his parent ; and 
 they are the laws of matter and motion, that determine a
 
 244 A TREATISE OF TIU^rAN NATURE, Part T. 
 
 PART sapling to destroy the oalc, from which it sprung. Here then 
 
 . ^ , the same relations have different causes ; but still the rela- 
 
 Ofvirtie tions are the same: And as their discovery is not in both 
 and Yuein (.Q,sgg attended with a notion of immorality, it follows, that 
 
 general. ,-,,,• -t i • c it 
 
 that notion does not arise irom such a discovery. 
 
 But to chuse an instance, still more resembling ; I would 
 fain ask any one, why incest in the human species is criminal, 
 and why the very same action, and the same relations in 
 animals have not the smallest moral turpitude and deformity ? 
 If it be answer'd, that this action is innocent in animals, 
 because they have not reason sufficient to discover its turpi- 
 tude ; but that man, being endow'd with that faculty, which 
 ought to restrain him to his duty, the same action instantly 
 becomes criminal to him ; should this be said, I would reply, 
 that this is evidently arguing in a circle. For before reason 
 can perceive this turpitude, the turpitude must exist ; and 
 consequently is independent of the decisions of our reason, 
 and is their object more properly than their effect. Accord- 
 ing to this system, then, every animal, that has sense, and 
 appetite, and will ; that is, every animal must be susceptible 
 of all the same virtues and vices, for which we ascribe praise 
 and blame to human creatures. All the difference is, that 
 our superior reason may serve to discover the vice or virtue, 
 and by that means may augment the blame or praise : But 
 still this discovery supposes a separate being in these moral 
 distinctions, and a being, which depends only on the will and 
 appetite, and which, both in thought and reality, may be dis- 
 tinguish'd from the reason. Animals are susceptible of the 
 same relations, with respect to each other, as the human 
 species, and therefore wou'd also be susceptible of the same 
 morality, if the essence of morality consisted in these rela- 
 tions. Their want of a sufficient degree of reason may 
 hinder them from perceiving the duties and obligations of 
 morality, but can never hinder these duties from existing ; 
 since they must antecedently exist, in order to their being 
 perceiv'd. Reason must find th^ra. and can never produce 
 them. This argument deserves to be weigh'd, as being, in 
 my opinion, entirely decisive. 
 
 Nor does this reasoning only prove, that morality consists 
 not in any relations, that are the objects of science; but if 
 examin'd will prove Avith equal certainty, that it consists not 
 hi any matter of fact, which can be discover 'd by the under-
 
 Sfxt. I. OF MOIiALS. 245 
 
 standing.' This is the second part of our argument; and if SECT, 
 it can be made evident, we may conclude, that morality is .._ ; 
 not an object of reason. But can there be any difficulty in Moral dis- 
 proving, that vice and virtue are not matters of fact, whose tinctious 
 existence we can infer by reason? Take any action allow'd from 
 to be vicious : Wilful murder, for instance. Examine it in reason. 
 all lights, and see if you can find that matter of fact, or real 
 existence, which you call vice. In which-ever way you talce 
 it, 3^ou find only certain passions, motives, volitions and 
 thoughts. There is no other matter of fact in the case. 
 The vice entirely escapes you, as long as you consider the 
 object. You never can find it, till you turn your reflection 
 into your own breast, and find a sentiment of disapprobation, 
 which arises in you, towards this action. Here is a matter 
 of fact ; but 'tis the object of feeling, not of rea.son. It lies 
 in yourself, not in the object. So that when you pronounce 
 any action or character to be vicious, you mean nothing, but 
 that from the constitution of your nature you have a feeling 
 or sentiment of blame from the contemplation of it. Vice and 
 virtue, therefore, may be compar'd to sounds, colours, heat 
 and cold, which, according to modern philosophy, are not 
 qualities in objects, but perceptions in the mind :* And this 
 discovery in morals, like that other in physics, is to be re- 
 garded as a considerable^ advancement of the speculative 
 sciences ; tho', like that too, it has little or no influence on 
 practice. Nothing can be more real, or concern us more, 
 than our own sentiments of pleasure and uneasiness ; and if 
 these be favourable to virtue, and unfavourable to vice, no 
 more can be requisite to the regulation of our conduct and 
 behaviour. 
 
 I cannot forbear adding to these reasonings an observation, 
 which may, perhaps, be found of some importance. In every 
 system of morality, which I have hitherto met with, I have 
 always remark'd, that the author proceeds for some time in 
 the ordinary way of reasoning, and establishes the being of 
 a God, or makes observations concerning human affairs ; 
 when of a sudden I am surpriz'd to find, that instead of the 
 usual copulations of propositions, is, and is not, I meet with 
 no proposition that is not connected with an otujht, or an 
 
 [' Introd. sect. 50. — En.] f^ For the hi.story of this sentence, 
 
 [■- Introd. sect. 50, note 4. — Ed.] sec vol. iii. p 31. — En.]
 
 246 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Tart I. 
 
 PAET 
 I. 
 
 Of -virtue 
 and vice id 
 general 
 
 ought not.^ This change is imperceptible ; but is, however, 
 of the last consequence. For as this ought, or ought not, 
 expresses some new relation or afiirmation, 'tis necessary that 
 it shou'd be observ'd and explain'd ; and at the same time that 
 a reason should be given, for what seems altogether incon- 
 ceivable, how this new relation can be a deduction from 
 others, which are entirely different from it. But as authors 
 do not commonly use this precaution, I shall j)resume to 
 recommend it to the readers ; and am persuaded, that this 
 small attention wou'd subvert all the vulgar systems of 
 morality, and let us see, that the distinction of vice and 
 virtue is not founded merely on the relations of objects, nor 
 is perceiv'd b}^ reason. 
 
 Sect. II. — Moral distinctions deriv^ d froyn a moral sense. 
 
 Thus the course of the argument leads us to conclude, 
 that since vice and virtue are not discoverable merely by 
 reason, or the comparison of ideas, it must be by means of 
 some impression or sentiment they occasion, that we are able 
 to mark the difference betwixt them. Our decisions con- 
 cerning moral rectitude and depravity are evidently percep- 
 tions ; and as all perceptions are either impressions or ideas, 
 the exclusion of the one is a convincing argument for the 
 other. Morality, therefore, is more properly felt than judg'd 
 of; tho' this feeling or sentiment is commonly so soft and 
 gentle, that we are apt to confound it Avith an idea, according 
 to our common custom of taking all things for the same, 
 which have any near resemblance to each other. 
 
 The next question is. Of what nature are these impressions, 
 and after what manner do they operate upon us ? Here we 
 cannot remain long in suspense, but must pronounce the 
 impression arising from virtue, to be agreeable, and that 
 proceeding from vice to be uneasy. Every moment's ex- 
 perience must convince us of this. There is no spectacle so 
 fair and beautiful as a noble and generous action ; nor any 
 which gives us more abhorrence than one that is cruel and 
 treacherous. No enjoyment equals the satisfaction we re- 
 ceive from the company of those we love and esteem ; as the 
 greatest of all punishments is to be oblig'd to pass our lives 
 with those we hate or contemn. A very play or romance 
 
 [' Introd. sect. 49.— Ed.]
 
 Si;cr. ir. OF MORM.S. 247 
 
 may afford us instances of this pleasure, wliicli virtue conveys SECT, 
 to us ; and pain, which arises from vice. . .J — - 
 
 Now since the distinguishing impressions, by which moral Moral dis" 
 good or evil is known, are nothing but particular pains or ^^^"^j'^lj"* 
 pleasures ; it follows, that in all enquiries concerning these frona -a 
 moral distinctions, it will be sufficient to shew the principles, moral 
 v\rhich make us feel a satisfaction or uneasiness from the 
 survey of any character, in order to satisfy us why the 
 character is laudable or blameable. An action, or sentiment, 
 or character is virtuous or vicious ; why ? because its view 
 causes a pleasure or uneasiness of a particular kind. In 
 giving a reason, therefore, for the pleasure or uneasiness, 
 we sufficiently explain the vice or virtue. To have the sense 
 of virtue, is nothing but to feel a satisfaction of a particular 
 kind from the contemplation of a character. The very 
 feeling constitutes our praise or admiration. We go no 
 farther ; nor do we enquire into the cause of the satisfaction. 
 AVe do not infer a character to be virtuous, because it 
 pleases : But in feeling that it pleases after such a particular 
 manner, we in effect feel that it is virtuous.' The case is 
 the same as in our judgments concerning all kinds of beauty, 
 and 'tastes, and sensations. Our approbation is imply'd in 
 the immediate pleasure they convey to us. 
 
 I have objected to the system, which establishes eternal 
 rational measures of right and wrong, that 'tis impossible to 
 shew, in the actions of reasonable creatures, any relations, 
 which are not found in external objects ; and therefore, if 
 morality always attended these relations, 'twere possible for 
 inanimate matter to become virtuous or vicious. Now it 
 may, in like manner, be objected to the present system, that 
 if virtue and vice be determin'd by pleasure and pain, these 
 qualities must, in every case, arise from the sensations ; and 
 consequently any object, whether animate or inanimate, 
 rational or irrational, might become morally good or evil, 
 provided it can excite a satisfaction or uneasiness. But tho' 
 this objection seems to be the very same, it has by no means 
 the same force, in the one case as in the other. For, first, 
 'tis evident, that under the term pleasure, we comprehend 
 sensations, which are very different from each other, and 
 which have only such a distant resemblance, as is requisite 
 to make them be express'd by the same abstract term. A 
 
 [' Introd. sect. 51. — En.]
 
 248 A TREATISE OF IIIBIAN NATURE. Par:- I, 
 
 PART good composition of music and a bottle of good wine equally 
 
 > '^ — ' I)roduce pleasure ; and what is more, their goodness is 
 
 Of virtue detemiin'd merely by the pleasure. But shall we say upon 
 general ^^ ^^^^ account, that the wine is harmonious, or the music of a 
 good flavour ? In like manner an inanimate object, and the 
 character or sentiments of any person may, both of them, 
 give satisfaction ; but as the satisfaction is different, this 
 keeps our sentiments concerning them from being con- 
 founded, and makes us ascribe virtue to the one, and not to 
 the other. Nor is every sentiment of pleasure or pain, which 
 arises from characters and actions, of that 'peculiar kind, 
 which makes us praise or condemn. The good qualities of 
 an enemy are hurtful to us ; but may still command our 
 esteem and respect. 'Tis only when a character is con- 
 sidered in general, without reference to our particular 
 interest, that it causes such a feeling or sentiment, as 
 denominates it morally good or evil.^ 'Tis true, those senti- 
 ments, for interest and morals, are apt to be confounded, 
 and naturally run into one another. It seldom happens, 
 that we do not think an enemy vicious, and can distinguish 
 betwixt his opposition to our interest and real villainy or 
 baseness. But this hinders not, but that the sentiments are, 
 in themselves, distinct ; and a man of temper and judgment 
 may preserve himself from these illusions. In like manner, 
 the' 'tis certain a musical voice is nothing but one that 
 naturally gives ^ ]) articular 'k\i\(\. of pleasure ; yet 'tis difficult 
 for a man to be sensible, that the voice of an enemy is 
 agreeable, or to allow it to be musical. But a person of a 
 line ear, avIio has the command of himself, can separate 
 these feelings, and give praise to what deserves it. 
 
 Secondly, We may call to remembrance the preceding 
 system of tlie passions, in order to remark a still more con- 
 siderable difference among our pains and pleasures. Pride 
 and humility, love and hatred are excited, when there is any 
 ihing presented to us, that both bears a relation to the 
 object of the passion, and produces a separate sensation 
 related to the sensation of the passion. Now virtue and 
 vice are attended with these circumstances. They must 
 necessarily be plac'd either in ourselves or others, and excite 
 either pleasure or uneasiness ; and therefore must give 
 rise to one of these four passions ; which clearly distinguishes 
 them from the pleasure and pain arising from inanimate 
 
 [' Introd. sect. Jl.- Ku.J
 
 Sect. H. OF MORALS. S49 
 
 objects, that often Lear no relation to us : And that is, 
 perhaps, the most considerable effect that virtue and vice 
 have upon the human mind. 
 
 It may now be ask'd in general, concerning this pain or 
 pleasure, that distinguishes moral good and evil, From what 
 principles is it derived, and whence does it arise in the human 
 mind? To this I reply, first, that 'tis absurd to imagine, 
 that in every particular instance, these sentiments are pro- 
 duc'd by an original quality and primary constitution. For 
 as the number of our duties is, in a manner, infinite, 'tis 
 impossible that our original instincts should extend to each 
 of them, and from our very first infancy impress on the 
 human mind all that multitude of precepts, which are con- 
 tain'd in the compleatest system of ethics. Such a method 
 of proceeding is not conformable to the usual maxims, by 
 which nature is conducted, where a few principles produce 
 all that variety we observe in the universe, and every thing 
 is carry'd on in the easiest and most simple manner. 'Tis 
 necessary, therefore, to abridge these primary impulses, and 
 find some more general principles, upon which all our notions 
 of morals are founded. 
 
 But in the second place, should it be ask'd. Whether we 
 ought to search for these principles in nature, or whether we 
 must look for them in some o*^her origin ? I won d reply, 
 that our answer to this question depends upon the definition 
 of the word, Nature, than which there is none more am- 
 biguous and equivocal. If nature be oppos'd to miracles, not 
 only the distinction betwixt vice and virtue is natural, but 
 also every event, which has ever happon'd in the world, 
 excepting those miracles, on ivhich our religion is founded. In 
 saying, then, that the sentiments of vice and virtue are 
 natural in this sense, we make no very extraordinary dis- 
 covery. 
 
 But nature ma}' also be opposed to rare and unusual ; and 
 in this sense of the word, which is the common one, there 
 may often arise disputes concerning what is natural or un- 
 natural ; and one may in general affirm, that we are not 
 possess'd of any very precise standard, by which these 
 disputes can be decided. Frequent and rare depend upon 
 the number of examples we have observ'd ; and as this 
 number may graduallj' encrease or diminish, 'twill be im- 
 possible to fix any exact boundaries betwixt them. We may
 
 general. 
 
 250 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATUEE. Part I, 
 
 PART only affirm on this liead, tliat if ever tliere was any thing, 
 
 ' which cou'd be call'd natural in this sense, the sentiments of 
 
 Of virtue morality certainly may ; since there never was any nation of 
 
 r^'\lir^° the world, nor any single person in any nation, who was 
 
 utterly depriv'd of them, and who never, in any instance, 
 
 sliew'd the least approbation or dislike of manners. These 
 
 sentiments are so rooted in our constitution and temper, that 
 
 without entirely confounding the human mind by disease or 
 
 madness, 'tis impossible to extirpate and destroy them. 
 
 But nature may also be opj)osed to artifice, as well as to 
 what is rare and unusual ; and in this sense it may be dis- 
 jnited, whether the notions of virtue be natural or not. We 
 readily forget, that the designs, and projects, and views of 
 men are principles as necessary in their operation as heat 
 and cold, moist and dry : But taking them to be free and 
 entirely om- own, 'tis usual for us to set them in opposition 
 to the other principles of nature. Shou'd it, therefore, be 
 demanded, whether the sense of virtue be natural or arti- 
 ficial, I am of opinion, that 'tis impossible for me at present 
 to give any precise answer to this question. Perhaps it will 
 appear afterwa.rds, that our sense of some virtues is artificial, 
 and that of others natural. The discussion of this question 
 will be more proper, when we enter upon an exact detail of 
 each particular vice and virtue.' 
 
 Mean while it may not be amiss to observe from these 
 definitions of natural and unnatural, that nothing can be 
 more unphilosophical than those systems, which assert, that 
 virtue is the same with what is natural, and vice with what 
 is unnatural. For in the first sense of the word, Nature, as 
 opposed to miracles, both vice and virtue are equallj natural ; 
 and in the second sense, as oppos'd to what is unusual, 
 perhaps virtue will be found to be the most unnatural. At 
 least it must be own'd, that heroic virtue, being as unusual, 
 is as little natural as the most brutal barbarity. As to the 
 third sense of the word, 'tis certain, that both vice and 
 virtue are equally artificial, and out of nature. For how- 
 ever it may be disputed, wdiether the notion of a merit oi 
 
 ' In the follo-ffing discoiirse natural always discover the sense, in which it is 
 is also opposed sometimes to civil, some- taken, 
 times to moral.* The opposition will 
 
 [• As in Part ii. sect. 8-10.— Ed.]
 
 Sect. IT. OF MORALS. 251 
 
 demerit in certain actions be natural or artificial, 'tis evident, SECT, 
 
 that the actions themselves are artificial, and are perform'd ^ ^- ^ 
 
 with a certain design and intention ; otherwise they cou'd Moral dis- 
 
 never be rank'd under any of these denominations. 'Tis tinctions 
 
 impossible, therefore, that the character of natural and un- f^^^^ ^ 
 
 natural can ever, in any sense, mark the boundaries of vice momi 
 
 T • , sense. 
 
 and virtue. 
 
 Thus we are still brought back to our first j)osition, that 
 virtue is distinguished by the pleasure, and vice by the pain, 
 that an}' action, sentiment or character gives us by the mere 
 view and contemplation. This decision is very commodious ; 
 because it reduces us to this simple question. Why any action 
 or sentiment upon the general view or survey, gives a certain 
 satisfaction or uneasiness, in order to shew the origin of its 
 moral rectitude or depravity, without looking for an}'- incom- 
 prehensible relations and qualities, which never did exist in 
 nature, nor even in our imagination, by any clear and dis- 
 tinct conception. I flatter myself I have executed a great 
 part of my present design by a statement of the question, 
 which appears to me so free from ambiguity and obscurity.
 
 \ 
 
 262 A TIIEATISE OF IIUIVIA^' NATUIIE. Part li. 
 
 iuytiee. 
 
 PAET II. 
 
 OP JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE. 
 
 Sect. I. — Justice, whether a natural or artificial virtue'^ 
 
 PART I HAVE already hinted, that our sense of every kind of 
 ^__1^1__ virtue is not natural ; but that there are some virtues, that 
 Ofiustice produce pleasure and approbation by means of an artifice 
 and m- or Contrivance, which arises from the circumstances and 
 necessity of mankind. Of this kind I assert justice to be ; 
 and shall endeavour to defend this opinion by a short, and, I 
 hope, convincing argument, before I examine the nature of 
 the arti&ce, from which the sense of that virtue is derived. 
 
 'Tis evident, that when we praise any actions, we regard 
 only the motives that produced them, and consider the actions 
 as signs or indications of certain principles in the mind and 
 temper. The external performance has no merit. We must 
 look within to find the moral quality. This we cannot do 
 directly ; and therefore fix our attention on actions, as on 
 external signs. But these actions are still considered as 
 signs ; and the ultimate object of our praise and approbation 
 is the motive, that produc'd them. 
 
 After the same manner, when we require any action, or 
 blame a person for not performing it, we always suppose, that 
 one in that situation sliou'd be influenc'd by the proper 
 motive of that action, and we esteem it vicious in him to be 
 regardless of it. If we find, upon enquiry, that the virtuous 
 motive was still powerful over his breast, tho' check'd in its 
 operation by some circumstances unknown to us, we retract 
 our blame, and have the same esteem for him, as if he had 
 actually perform'd the action, which we require of him. 
 
 It appears, therefore, that all virtuous actions derive their 
 merit only from virtuous motives, and are consider'd merely 
 as signs of those motives. From this principle I conclude, 
 that the first virtuous motive, which bestows a merit on any 
 action, can never be a regard to the vii'tue of that action.
 
 Sect. I. OF MORALS. ' 253 
 
 but must bo some other natural motive or principle. To SECT. 
 suppose, that the mere regard to the virtue of the action, . ' 
 ma}' be the first motive, vt^hich produc'd the action, and ren- justice, 
 der'd it virtuous, is to reason in a circle. Before vee can ""whether a 
 have such a regard, the action must be really virtuous ; and artificial 
 this virtue must be deriv'd from some virtuous motive : And virtue ? 
 consequently the virtuous motive must be different from the 
 regard to the virtue of the action. A virtuous motive is 
 requisite to render an action virtuous. An action must be 
 virtuous, before we can have a regard to its virtue. Some 
 virtuous motive, therefore, must be antecedent to that regard. 
 
 Nor is this merely a metaphysical subtilty ; but enters into 
 all our reasonings in common life, tho' perhaps we may not 
 be able to place it in such distinct philosophical terms. We 
 blame a father for neglecting his child. Why ? because it 
 shews a want of natural affection, which is the duty of every 
 parent. Were not natural affection a duty, the care of 
 children cou'd not be a duty ; and 'twere impossible we cou'd 
 have the duty in our eye in the attention we give to our 
 offspring. In this case, therefore, all men suppose a motive 
 to the action distinct from a sense of duty. 
 
 Here is a man, that does many benevolent actions ; relieves 
 the distress'd, comforts the afflicted, and extends his bounty 
 even to the greatest strangers. No character can be more 
 amiable and virtuous. We regard these actions as proofs of 
 the greatest humanity. This humanity bestows a merit on 
 the actions. A regard to this merit is, therefore, a secondary 
 consideration, and deriv'd from the antecedent principle of 
 humanity, which is meritorious and laudable. 
 
 In short, it may be establish'd as an undoubted maxim, 
 that no action can he virtuous, or morally good, unless there he 
 in human nature some motive to produce it, distinct from thp. 
 sense of its morality.^ 
 
 But may not the sense of morality or duty produce an 
 action, without any other motive ? I answer. It may : But 
 this is no objection to the present doctrine. When any 
 virtuous motive or principle is common in human nature, a, 
 person, who feels his heart devoid of that motive, may hate 
 himself upon that account, and may perform the action 
 without the motive, from a certain sense of duty, in order to 
 acquire by practice, that virtuous principle, or at least, to 
 disguise to himself, as much as possible, his want of it. A 
 
 C In trod. sect. 61.— En.]
 
 justice. 
 
 254 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part II. 
 
 PAET man tliat really feels no gratitude in Ids temper, is still 
 
 ' . pleas'd to perform grateful actions, and thinks he has, by 
 
 Of justice that means, fulfiU'd his duty. Actions are at first only con- 
 
 r!!!l"' sider'd as signs of motives : But 'tis usual, in this case, as 
 
 in all others, to fix our attention on the signs, and neglect, 
 
 in some measure, the thing signify'd. But tho', on some 
 
 occasions, a person may perform an action merel}^ out of 
 
 regard to its moral obligation, yet still this sujjposes iti 
 
 human nature some distinct principles, which are capable of 
 
 j)roducing the action, and whose moral beauty renders the 
 
 action meritorious. 
 
 Now to apply all this to the present case ; I suppose a 
 person to have lent me a sum of money, on condition that it 
 be restor'd m a few days ; and also suppose, that after the 
 expiration of the term agreed on, he demands the sum : I 
 ask, What reason or motive have I to restore the ')noney ? It 
 will, perhaps, be said, that my regard to justice, and abhor- 
 rence of villainy and knavery, are sufficient reasons for me, 
 if I have the least grain of honesty, or sense of duty and 
 obligation. And this answer, no doubt, is just and satisfac- 
 tory to man in his civiliz'd state, and when train'd up accord- 
 ing to a certain discipline and education. But in his rude 
 and more natural condition, if you are pleas'd to call such a 
 condition natural, this answer wou'd be rejected as perfectly 
 unintelligible and sophistical. For one in that situation 
 wou'd immediately ask you. Wherein consists this honesty and 
 justice, which you find in restoring a loan, and ahstaining from, 
 the ^property of others ? It does not surely lie in the external 
 action. It must, therefore be plac'd in the motive, from 
 which the external action is deriv'd. This motive can never 
 be a regard to the honesty of the action. For 'tis a plain 
 ftillacy to say, that a virtuous motive is requisite to render 
 an action honest, and at the same time that a regard to 
 the honesty is the motive of the action. We can never have 
 a regard to the virtue of an action, unless the action be ante- 
 cedently virtuous. No action can be virtuous, but so far 
 as it proceeds from a virtuous motive. A virtuous motive, 
 therefore, must precede the regard to the virtue ; and 'tis 
 impossible, that the virtuous motive and the regard to the 
 virtue can be the same. 
 
 'Tis requisite, then, to find some motive to acts of justice 
 and honesty, distinct from our regard to the honesty ; and in 
 this lies the great difficulty. For shou'd we say, that a concern
 
 Sect. I. OF MORALS. 255 
 
 for our private interest or reputation is tlie legitimate motive SECT. 
 to all honest actions ; it wou'd follow, that w^herever that con- ; _.. 
 
 cern ceases, honesty can no longer have place. But 'tis certain, Justice, 
 that self-love, vrhen it acts at its liberty, instead of enp^aofinnr us '"^^^ethor a 
 
 o o o natural or 
 
 to honest actions, is the source of all injustice and violence ; artificial 
 nor can a man ever correct those vices, without correcting virtuo? 
 and restraining the natural movements of that appetite. 
 
 But shou'd it be affirm'd, that the reason or motive of sucii 
 actions is the regard to puhlick interest, to which nothing is 
 more contrary than examples of injustice and dishonesty; 
 shou'd this be said, I wou'd propose the three following con- 
 siderations, as worthy of our attention. First, public interest 
 is not naturally attach'd to the observation of the rules of 
 justice; but is only connected with it, after an artificial con- 
 vention for the establishment of these rules, as shall be shewn 
 more at large hereafter. Secondly, if we suppose, that the 
 loan was secret, and that it is necessary for the interest of 
 the person, that the money be restor'd in the same manner 
 (as when the lender wou'd conceal his riches), in that case 
 the example ceases, and the public is no longer interested in 
 the actions of the borrower ; tho' I suppose there is no 
 moralist, who will affirm, that the duty and obligation ceases. 
 Thirdly, experience sufficiently proves, that men, in the ordi- 
 nary conduct of life, look not so far as the public interest, 
 when they pay their creditors, perform their promises, and 
 abstain from theft, and robbery, and injustice of every kind. 
 That is a motive too remote and too sublime to affect the 
 generality of mankind, and operate with any force in actions 
 so contrary to private interest as are frequently those of jus- 
 tice and common honesty. 
 
 In general, it may be affirm'd, that there is no such passion 
 in human minds, as the love of mankind, merely as such, in- 
 dependent of personal qualities, of services, or of relation to 
 ourself.^ 'Tis true, there is no human, and indeed no sen- 
 sible, creature, whose happiness or misery does not, in some 
 measure, affect us, when brought near to us, and represented 
 in lively colours : But this proceeds merely from sympathy, 
 and is no proof of such an universal affection to mankind, 
 since this concern extends itself beyond our own species. 
 An affection betwixt the sexes is a passion evidently im- 
 planted in human nature ; and this jaassion not only appears 
 [' Introd. sect. 57- — Ed.]
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 r.uiT II. 
 
 PART 
 JI. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 in its peculiar symptoms, but also in inflaming every other 
 principle of affection, and raising a stronger love from beauty, 
 wit, kindness, than what wou'd otherwise flow from them. 
 Were there an universal love among all human creatures, it 
 wou'd appear after the same manner. Any degree of a good 
 quality wou'd cause a stronger affection than the same de- 
 gree of a bad quality wou'd cause hatred ; contrary to what 
 we find by experience. Men's tempers are different, and 
 some have a propensity to the tender, and others to the 
 rougher, affections : But in the main, wo may affirm, that 
 man in general, or human nature, is nothing but the object 
 both of love and hatred, and requires some other cause, which 
 by a double relation of impressions and ideas, may excite 
 these passions. In vain would we endeavour to elude this 
 hypothesis. There are no phsenomena that point out any 
 such kind affection to men, independent of their merit, and 
 every other circumstance. We love company in general ; 
 but 'tis as we love any other amusement. An Englishman 
 in Italy is a friend :" A Europcean in China ; and perhaps a 
 man wou'd be belov'd as such, were we to meet him in the 
 moon. But this proceeds only from the relation to ourselves ; 
 which in these cases gathers force by being confined to a 
 few persons. 
 
 If public benevolence, therefore, or a regard to the interests 
 of mankind, cannot be the original motive to justice, much 
 less can private benevolence, or a regard to the interests of the 
 party concerii'cl, be this motive. For what if he be my enemy, 
 and has given me just cause to hate him ? What if he be a 
 vicious man, and deserves the hatred of all mankind ? What 
 if he be a miser, and can make no use of what I would de- 
 prive him of? What if he be a profligate debauchee, and 
 wou'd rather receive harm than benefit from large possessions? 
 What if I be in necessity, and have urgent motives to acquire 
 something to my family? In all these cases, the original 
 motive to justice wou'd fail ; and consequently the justice 
 itself, and along with it all property, right, and obligation. 
 
 A rich man lies under a moral obligation to communicate 
 to those in necessity a shai-e of his supei-fluities. Were pri- 
 vate benevolence the original motive to justice, a man wou'd 
 not be oblig'd to leave others in the possession of more than 
 he is oblig'd to give them. At least the difference wou'd be 
 very inconsiderable. Men generally fix their affections more
 
 Sect. I. OF MORALS. 257 
 
 on what tliey are possess'd of, tliau on what they never en- SECT. 
 
 joj'd : For this reason, it wou'd be greater cruelty to dis- — ; , 
 
 possess a man of any thing, than not to give it him. But Justicp, 
 who will assert, that this is the only foundation of iustice ? whether a 
 
 . ' . •' 1 • /. 1 natural or 
 
 Besides, we must consider, that the chiei reason, why artificial 
 
 men attach themselves so ranch to their possessions is, that virtue? 
 they consider them as their property, and as secur'd to them 
 inviolably by the laws of society. But this is a secondary con- 
 sideration, and dependent on the preceding- notions of justice 
 and property. 
 
 A man's property is suppos'd to be fenc'd against every 
 mortal, in every possible case. But private benevolence is, 
 and ought to be, weaker in some persons, than in others : 
 And in many, or indeed in most persons, must absolutely 
 fail. Private benevolence, therefore, is not the original mo- 
 tive of justice. 
 
 From all this it follows, that we have no real or universal 
 motive for observing the laws of equity, but the very equity 
 and merit of that observance ; and as no action can be equit- 
 able or meritorious, where it cannot arise from some separate 
 motive, there is here an evident sophistry and reasoning in a 
 circle. Unless, therefore, we will allow, that nature has 
 establish'd a sophistry, and render d it necessary and un- 
 avoidable, we mustallow,that the sense of justice and injustice 
 is not deriv'd from nature, but arises artificially, tho' neces- 
 sarily from education, and human conventions. 
 
 I shall add, as a corollary to this reasoning, that since no 
 action can be laudable or blameable, without some motives or 
 impelling passions, distinct from the sense of morals, these 
 distinct passions must have a gi'eat influence on that sense. 
 'Tis according to their general force in human nature, that we 
 blame or praise. In judging of the beauty of animal bodies, 
 we always carry in our eye the CBConomy of a certain species ; 
 and where the limbs and features observe that proportion, 
 which is common to the species, we pronounce them hand- 
 some and beautiful. In like manner we always consider the 
 tiattiral and usual force of the passions, when we determine 
 concerning vice and virtue ; and if the passions depart very 
 much from the common measures on either side, they are 
 always disapprov'd as vicious. A man naturally loves his 
 children better than his nephews, his nephews better than 
 his cousins, his cousins better than strangers, where every 
 
 VOL. n. s
 
 '258 
 
 A TREATISE OF IimiAN NATURE. 
 
 Part IT. 
 
 PART 
 U. 
 
 Ot justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 thing else is equal. Hence arise our common measures of 
 duty, in preferring the one to the other. Our sense of duty al- 
 ways follows the common and natural course of our passions. 
 To avoid giving ofl'ence, I must here observe, that when I 
 deny justice to be a natural virtue, I make use of the word, 
 natural, only as oppos'd to artificial. In another sense of the 
 word ; as no principle of the human mind is more natural 
 than a sense of virtue ; so no virtue is more natural 
 than justice. Mankind is an inventive species ; and where 
 an invention is obvious and absolutely necessary, it may as 
 properly be said to be natural as any thing that proceeds 
 immediately from original principles, without the intervention 
 of thought or reflection. Tho' the rules of justice be artificial, 
 they are not arbitrary. Nor is the expression improper to 
 call them Laws of Nature ; if by natural we understand what 
 is common to any species, or even if we confine it to mean 
 what is inseparable from the species. 
 
 Sect. II. — Of the origin of justice and iiroijerty . 
 
 We now proceed to examine two questions, viz. concerning 
 the manner, in which the rules of justice are estahlish'd by the 
 artifice of men ; and concernincj the reasons, which determine 
 us to attribute to the observav.ce or neglect of these rules a moral 
 beauty and deformity.^ These questions will appear after- 
 wards to be distinct. We shall begin with the former. 
 
 Of all the animals, with which this globe is peopled, there 
 is none towards whom nature seems, at first sight, to have 
 exercis'd more cruelty than towards man, in the numberless 
 wants and necessities, with which she has loaded him, and 
 in the slender means, which she affords to the relieving these 
 necessities. In other creatures these two particulars generally 
 compensate each other. If we consider the lion as a voracious 
 and carnivorous animal, we shall easily discover him to be 
 very necessitous ; but if we turn our eye to his make and 
 temper, his agility, his courage, his arms, and his force, we 
 shall find, that his advantages hold proportion with his 
 wants. The sheep and ox are depriv'd of all these advan- 
 tages ; but their appetites are moderate, and their food is of 
 easy purchase. In man alone, this unnatural conjunction of 
 infirmity, and of necessity, may be observ'd in its greatest 
 perfection. Not only the food, which is requir'd for his sus- 
 
 [' Iiitrod. sect. 57-— Ed.]
 
 Sect. H. OF MORALS. 259 
 
 tenance, flies liis search and approach, or at least requires liis sect. 
 
 labour to be produc'd, but he must be possessed of cloaths . i^" 
 
 and lodging, to defend him against the injuries of the ofthe 
 ■weather; tho' to consider him only in himself, he is provided or\g'm of 
 neither with arms, nor force, nor other natural abilities, property. 
 which are in any degree answerable to so many necessities. 
 
 'Tis by society alone he is able to supply his defects, and 
 raise himself up to an equality with his fellow- creatures, and 
 even acquire a superiority above them. By society all his 
 infirmities are compensated; and tho' in that situation his 
 wants multiply every moment upon him, yet his abilities are 
 still more augmented, and leave him in every respect more 
 satisfied and happy, than 'tis possible for him, in his savage 
 and solitary condition, ever to become. When every in- 
 dividual person labours a-part, and only for himself, his force 
 is too small to execute any considerable work ; his labour 
 being employ'd in supplying all his different necessities, he 
 never attains a perfection in any particular art ; and as his 
 force and success are not at all times equal, the least failure 
 in either of these particulars must be attended with inevitable 
 ruin and misery. Society provides a remedy for these three 
 inconveniences. By the conjunction of forces, our power is 
 augmented : By the partition of employments, our ability 
 encreases : And by mutual succour we are less expos'd to 
 fortune and accidents. 'Tis by this additional force, ability , 
 and security, that society becomes advantageous. 
 
 But in order to form society, 'tis requisite not only iJiat it 
 be advantageous, but also that men be sensible of these 
 advantages ; and 'tis impossible, in their wild uncultivated 
 state, that by study and reflection alone, they should ever be 
 able to attain tliis knowledge. Most fortunately, therefore, 
 there is conjoin'd to those necessities, whose remedies are 
 remote and obscure, another necessity, which having a pre- 
 sent and more obvious remedy, may justly be regarded as the 
 first and original principle of human society. This necessity 
 is no other than that natural appetite betwixt the sexes, 
 which unites them together, and preserves their union, till a 
 new tye takes place in their concern for their common 
 offspring. This new concern becomes also a principle of 
 union betwixt the parents and offspring, and forms a more 
 numerous society ; where the parents govern by the advan- 
 tage of their superior strength and wisdom, and at the same
 
 260 A TREATISE OF HUjNL\N NATURE. Part II. 
 
 PART time are restrain'd in the exercise of their authority by that 
 
 V ^ natural affection, which they bear their children. In a little 
 
 Of justice time, custom and habit operating on the tender minds of the 
 
 fustice' children, makes them sensible of the advantages, which they 
 
 may reap from society, as well as fashions them by degrees 
 
 for it, by rubbing off those rough corners and untoward 
 
 affections, which prevent their coalition. 
 
 For it must be confest, that however the circumstances of 
 human nature may render an union necessary, and however 
 those passions of lust and natural affection may seem to 
 render it unavoidable ; yet there are other particulars in our 
 natural temper, and in our outward circumstances, which are 
 very incommodious, and are even contrary to the requisite 
 conjunction. Among the former, we may justly esteem our 
 selfishness to be the most considerable. I am sensible, that, 
 generally speaking, the representations of this quality have 
 been carried much too far; and that the descriptions, which 
 certain philosophers delight so much to form of mankind in 
 this particular, are as wide of nature as any accounts of 
 monsters, which we meet with in fables and romances. So 
 far from thinking, that men have no affection for any thing 
 beyond themselves, I am of opinion, that tho' it be rare to 
 meet with one, who loves any single person better than him- 
 self; yet 'tis as rare to meet with one, in whom all the kind 
 affections, taken together, do not over-balance all the selfish. 
 Consult common experience : Do yon not see, that tho' the 
 whole expence of the family be generally under the direction 
 of the master of it, yet there are few that do not bestow the 
 largest part of their fortunes on the pleasures of their wives, 
 and the education of their children, reserving the smallest 
 portion for their own proper use and entertainment. This 
 is what we may observe concerning such as hare those en- 
 dearing ties ; and may presume, that the case would be the 
 same with others, were they plac'd in a like situation. 
 
 But tho' this generosity must be acknowledg'd to the 
 honour of human nature, we may at the same time remark, 
 that so noble an affection, instead of fitting men for large 
 societies, is almost as contrary to them, as the most narrow 
 selfishness. For while each person loves himself better than 
 any other single person, and in his love to others bears the 
 greatest affection to his relations and acquaintance, this 
 must necessarily produce an opposition of passions, and a
 
 S'KCT. II. OF MOliALS. 201 
 
 consequent opposition of actions; which cannot but be SECT, 
 dangerous to the new-establish'd union. ^^ , " _> 
 
 'Tis however worth while to remark, that this contrariety Ot the 
 of passions wou'd be attended with but small danger, did it •'^gfj^e ^nd 
 not concur with a peculiarity in our outward circumstances, property. 
 which affords it an opportunity of exerting itself. There 
 are three different species of goods, which we are possess'd 
 of; the internal satisfaction of our minds, the external 
 advantages of our body, and the enjoyment of such posses- 
 sions as we have acquir'd by our industry and good fortune. 
 We are perfectly secure in the enjoyment of the first. The 
 second may be ravish'd from us, but can be of no advantage 
 to him who deprives us of them. The last only are both 
 expos'd to the violence of others, and may be transferr'd 
 without suffering any loss of alteration ; while at the same 
 time, there is not a sufficient quantity of them to supply 
 every one's desires and necessities. As the improvement, 
 therefore, of these goods is the chief advantage of society, 
 so the instahility of their possession, along with their scarcity y 
 is the chief impediment.' 
 
 In vain shou'd we expect to find, in uncultivated nature, a 
 remedy to this inconvenience ; or hope for any inartificial 
 principle of the human mind, which might controul those 
 partial affections, and make us overcome the temjjtations 
 arising from our circumstances. The idea of justice can 
 never serve to this purpose, or be taken for a natural 
 principle, capable of inspiring men with an equitable con- 
 duct towards each other. Tliat virtue, as it is now under- 
 stood, wou'd never have been dream'd of among rude and 
 savage men. For the notion of injury or injustice implies 
 an immorality or vice committed against some other person : 
 And as every immorality is deriv'd from some defect or un- 
 soundness of the passions, and as this defect must be judg'd 
 of, in a great measure, from the ordinary course of nature 
 in the constitution of the mind; 'twill be easy to know, 
 whether we be guilty of any immorality, with regard to 
 others, by considering the natural, and usual force of those 
 several affections, which are directed towards them. Now it 
 appears, that in the original frame of our mind, our strongest 
 attention is confin'd to ourselves ; our next is extended to 
 our relations and acquaintance ; and 'tis only the weakest 
 
 [' Introd. sect. 67. — Ed.]
 
 262 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 PAKT 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 wliicli reaches to straiig^ers and indifferent persons. This 
 partiality, then, and unequal affection, must not only have 
 an influence on our behaviour and conduct in society, but 
 even on our ideas of vice and virtue; so as to make us 
 regard any remarkable transgression of such a degree of 
 partialitj^, either by too great an enlargement, or contraction 
 of the afi'ections, as vicious and immoral. This we may 
 observe in our common judgments concerning actions, where 
 we blame a person, who either centers all his affections in 
 his family, or is so regardless of them, as, in any oj^position 
 of interest, to give the preference to a stranger, or mere 
 chance acquaintance. From all which it follows, that our 
 natural uncultivated ideas of moralit}^ instead of providing 
 a remedy for the partiality of our affections, do rather con- 
 form themselves to that partiality, and give it an additional 
 force and influence. 
 
 The remedy, then, is not deriv'd from nature, but from 
 artifice ; or more properly speaking, nature provides a remedy 
 in the judgment and understanding, for what is irregular 
 and incommodious in the affections. For when men, from 
 their early education in society, have become sensible of the 
 infinite advantages that result from it, and have besides 
 acquir'd a new affection to company and conversation ; and 
 when they have observ'd, that the principal disturbance in 
 society arises from those goods, which we call external, and 
 from their looseness and easy transition from one person to 
 another; they must seek for a remedy, b}^ putting these 
 goods, as far as possible, on the same footing with the fix'd 
 and constant advantages of the mind and body. This can 
 be done after no other manner, than by a convention enter'd 
 into by all the members of the society to bestow stability on 
 the possession of those external goods, and leave every one 
 in the peaceable enjoyment of what he may acquire by his 
 fortune and industry. By this means, every one knows what 
 he may safely possess ; and the passions are restrain'd in 
 their partial and contradictory motions. Nor is such a re- 
 straint contrary to these passions ; for if so, it cou'd never 
 be enter'd into, nor maintain'd ; but it is only contrary to 
 their heedless and impetuous movement. Instead of depart- 
 ing from our ov^n interest, or from that of our nearest 
 friends,by abstaining from the possessions of others, we cannot 
 better consult both these interests, than by such a conven-
 
 Sect. H. OF MORALS. 263 
 
 lion ; because it is by that means we maintain society, which SECT. 
 
 is so necessary to their well-being and subsistence, as well . ^J — , 
 
 as to our own. Of the 
 
 This convention is not of the nature of a promise : For ?^S}^^ ^^^^ 
 even promises themselves, as we shall see afterwards, arise property. 
 from human conventions. It is only a general sense of com- 
 mon interest ; which sense all the members of the society 
 express to one another, and which induces them to regulate 
 their conduct by certain rules. I observe, that it will be for 
 my interest to leave another in the possession of his goods, 
 -provided he will act in the same manner with regard to me. 
 He is sensible of a like interest in the regidation of his con- 
 duct. When this common sense of interest is mutually ex- 
 press'd, and is known to both, it produces a suitable resolution 
 and behaviour. And this may properly enough be call'd a 
 convention or agreement betwixt us, tho' without the inter- 
 position of a promise ; since the actions of each of us have a 
 reference to those of the other, and are performed upon the 
 supposition, that something is to be perform'd on the other 
 part. Two men, who puU the oars of a boat, do it by an 
 agreement or convention, tho' they have never given promises 
 to each other. Nor is the rule concerning the stability of 
 possession the less deriv'd from human conventions, that it 
 arises gradually, and acquires force by a slow progression, 
 and by our repeated experience of the inconveniences of 
 transgressing it. On the contrary, this experience assures 
 us still more, that the sense of interest has become common 
 to all our fellows, and gives us a confidence of the future 
 regularity of their conduct : And 'tis only on the expectation 
 of this, that our moderation and abstinence are founded. In 
 like manner are languages gradually establish'd by human 
 conventions without any promise. In like manner do gold 
 and silver become the common measures of exchange, and are 
 esteem'd sufficient payment for what is of a hundred times 
 their value. 
 
 After this convention, concerning abstinence from the 
 possessions of others, is enter'd into, and every one has ac- 
 quir'd a stability in his possessions, there immediately arise 
 the ideas of justice and injustice; as also those of property, 
 right, and obligation. The latter are altogether unintelligible 
 without first understanding the former. Our property is 
 nothing but those goods, whose constant possession is estab-
 
 264 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part 11. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 lish'd by the laws of society ; that is, by the laws of justice. 
 Those, therefore, who make use of the words r)roperty, or right, 
 or ohligaiion, before they have explain'd the origin of justice, 
 or even make use of them in that explication, are guilty of 
 a very gross fallacy, and can never reason upon any solid 
 foundation. A man's property is some object related to him. 
 This relation is not natural, but moral, and founded on 
 justice. 'Tis very preposterous, therefore, to imag' ae, that 
 we can have any idea of property, without fully com- 
 prehending the nature of justice, and shewing its origin in 
 the artifice and contrivance of men. The origin of justice 
 exj)lains that of f)roperty. The same artifice gives rise to 
 both. As our first and most natural sentiment of morals is 
 founded on the nature of our passions, and gives the pre- 
 ference to ourselves and friends, above strangers ; 'tis im- 
 possible there can be naturally any such thing as a fix'd 
 right or property, while the opposite passions of men impel 
 them in contrary directions, and are not restrain'd by any 
 convention or agreement. 
 
 No one can doubt, that the convention for the distinction 
 of property, and for the stability of possession, is of all cir- 
 cumstances the most necessary to the establishment of human 
 society, and that after the agreement for the fixing and 
 observing of this rule, there remains little or nothing to be 
 done towards settling a perfect harmony and concord. All 
 the other passions, beside this of interest, are either easily 
 restrain'd, or are not of such pernicious consequence, when 
 indulg'd. Vanity is rather to be esteem'd a social passion, 
 and a bond of union among men. Pity and love are to be 
 consider 'd in the same light. And as to envy and revenge, 
 tho' pernicious, they operate only by intervals, and are 
 directed against particular persons, whom we consider as our 
 superiors or enemies. This avidity alone, of acquiring goods 
 and possessions for oui'selves and our nearest friends, is in- 
 satiable, perpetual, universal, and directly destructive of 
 society. There scarce is any one, who is not actuated by it ; 
 and there is no one, who has not reason to fear from it, when 
 it acts without any restraint, and gives way to its first and 
 most natural movements. So that upon the whole, we are 
 to esteem the difficulties in the establishment of society, to 
 be greater or less, according to those we encounter in regu- 
 lating and restraining this passion.
 
 Sect. H. OF MOEALS. 265 
 
 'Tis certain, that no affection of the human mind has both. SECT. 
 
 a sufficient force, and a proper direction to counter-balance . _ / . ^ 
 
 the love of gain, and render men fit members of society, by of the 
 
 making them abstain from the possessions of others. Bene- ?^'^° ^^ . 
 
 '^ -T 1 • T J. justice and 
 
 volence to strangers is too weak for this purpose ; and as to property. 
 the other passions, they rather inflame this avidity, when we 
 observe, that the larger our possessions are, the more ability 
 we have of gratifying all our appetites. There is no passion, 
 therefore, capable of controlling the interested affection, but 
 the very affection itself, by an alteration of its direction. 
 Now this alteration must necessarily take place upon the 
 least reflection ; since 'tis evident, that the passion is much 
 better satisfy 'd by its restraint, than by its liberty, and that 
 in preserving society, we make much greater advances in the 
 acquiring possessions, than in the solitary and forlorn con- 
 dition, which must follow upon violence and an universal 
 licence. The question, therefore, concerning the wickedness 
 or goodness of human nature, enters not in the least into 
 that other question concerning the origin of society ; nor is 
 there any thing to be considered but the degrees of men's 
 sagacity or folly. For whether the passion of self-interest 
 be esteemed vicious or virtuous, 'tis all a case ; since itself 
 alone restrains it : So that if it be virtuous, men become 
 social by their virtue ; if vicious, their vice has the same 
 effect. 
 
 Now as 'tis by establishing the rule for the stability of 
 possession, that this passion restrains itself; if that rule be 
 very abstruse, and of difficult invention ; society must be 
 esteem'd, in a manner, accidental, and the effect of many 
 ages. But if it be found, that nothing can be more simj^le 
 and obvious than that rule ; that every parent, in order to 
 preserve peace among his children, must establish it ; and 
 that these first rudiments of justice must every day be im- 
 prov'd, as the society enlarges : If all this appear evident, 
 as it certainly must, we may conclude, that 'tis utterly 
 impossible for men to remain any considerable time in that 
 savage condition, which precedes society ; but that his very 
 first state and situation may justly be esteem'd social. This, 
 however, hinders not, but that philosophers may, if they 
 please, extend their reasoning to the suppos'd state of nature; 
 provided they allow it to be a mere philosophical fiction, 
 which never had, and never cou'd have any reality. Human
 
 j ustiue. 
 
 266 A TREATISE OF IIUM^VN NATURE. Part IT, 
 
 PAltT nature being compos'd of two principal parts, wliich are 
 
 , ^ , requisite in all its actions, the aflfections and understanding ; 
 
 Of justice 'tis certain, that the blind motions of the former, without the 
 and lu- direction of the latter, incapacitate men for society : And it 
 may be allow'd us to consider separately the elfects, that 
 result from the separate operations of these two component 
 parts of the mind. The same liberty may be permitted to 
 moral, which is allow'd to natural philosophers ; and 'tis very 
 usual with the latter to consider any motion as compounded 
 and consisting of two parts separate from each other, tho' at 
 the same time they acknowledge it to be in itself uncom- 
 pounded and inseparable. 
 
 This state of nature, therefore, is to be regarded as a mere 
 fiction, not unlike that of the golden age, which poets have 
 invented ; only with this differoice, that the former is de- 
 scrib'd as full of war, violence and injustice ; whereas the 
 latter is painted out to us, as the most charming and most 
 peaceable condition, that can possibly be imagin'd. The 
 seasons, in that first age of nature, were so temperate, if we 
 may believe the poets, that there was no necessity for men 
 to provide themselves with cloaths and houses as a security 
 against the violence of heat and cold. The rivers flow'd with 
 wine and milk : The oaks yielded honey ; and nature spon- 
 taneously produc'd her greatest delicacies. Nor were these 
 the chief advantages of that happy age. The storms and 
 tempests were not alone remov'd from nature ; but those 
 more furious tempests were unknown to human breasts, 
 which now cause such uproar, and engender such confusion. 
 Avarice, ambition, cruelty, selfishness, were never heard of: 
 Cordial affection, compassion, sympathy, were the only 
 movements, with which the human mind was yet acquainted. 
 Even the distinction of mine and thine V7as banish'd from 
 that happy race of mortals, and carry'd with them the very 
 notions of j)roperty and obligation, justice and injustice. 
 
 This, no doubt, is to be regarded as an idle fiction ; but 
 yetdeserves our attention, because nothing can more evidently 
 shew the origin of those virtues, which are the subjects of our 
 present enquiry. I have already observ'd, that justice takes 
 its rise from human conventions; and that these are intended 
 as a remedy to some inconveniences, which proceed from the 
 concurrence of certain qualities of the human mind with 
 the situation of external objects. The qualities of the mind
 
 Sect. II. OF MOR.NXS. 267 
 
 are selfishness and limited generosity : And tlie situation of SECT, 
 external objects is their easy change, join'd to their scarcity ' , ^ 
 
 in comparison of the wants and desires of men. But how- Of the 
 ever philosophers may have been bewilder'd in those specula- ?^'S?" ^^ 
 tions, poets have been guided more infallibly, by a certain property. 
 taste or common instinct, which in most kinds of reasoning 
 goes farther than any of that art and philosophy, with which 
 we have been yet acquainted. They easily perceiv'd, if every 
 man had a tender regard for another, or if nature supplied 
 abundantly all our wants and desires, that the jealousy of 
 interest, which justice suj)poses, could no longer have place ; 
 nor would there be any occasion for those distractions and 
 limits of property and possession, which at present are in 
 use among mankind. Encrease to a sufficient degree the 
 benevolence of men, or the bounty of nature, and you render 
 justice useless, by supplying its place with much nobler 
 virtues, and more valuable blessings. The selfishness of men 
 is animated by the few possessions we have, in proportion to 
 our wants ; and 'tis to restrain this selfishness, that men 
 have been oblig'd to separate themselves from the community, 
 and to distinguish betwixt their own goods and those of 
 others. 
 
 Nor need we have recourse to the fictions of poets to learn 
 this ; but beside the reason of the thing, may discover the 
 same truth by common experience and observation. 'Tis 
 easy to remark, that a cordial affection renders all things 
 common among friends ; and that married people in particular 
 mutually lose their property, and are unacquainted with the 
 vnine and thine^ which are so necessary, and yet cause such 
 disturbance in human society. The same effect arises from 
 any alteration in the circumstances of mankind ; as when 
 there is such a plenty of any thing as satisfies all the desires 
 of men : In which case the distinction of property is entirely 
 lost, and every thing remains in common. This we may 
 observe with regard to air and water, tho' the most valuable 
 of all external objects ; and may easily conclude, that if men 
 were supplied with every thing in the same abundance, or if 
 every one had the same affection and tender regard for every 
 one as for himself; justice and injustice would be equally 
 unknown among mankind. 
 
 Here then is a proposition, which, I think, may be regarded 
 as certain, tJuit His only from the selfishness and confined gene-
 
 2G8 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part II. 
 
 PART rosity of men, along ivith the scanty provision nature has made 
 
 , ^ — ^ Jor his wants, thai justice derives its origin. If we look back- 
 
 Of jiistice ward we sliall find, that this proposition bestows an additional 
 kfctice' force on some of those observations, which we have already 
 made on this subject. 
 
 First, we may conclude from it, that a regard to public 
 interest, or a strong extensive benevolence, is not our first 
 and original motive for the observation of the rules of justice ; 
 since 'tis allow'd, that if men were endow'd with such a 
 benevolence, these rules would never have been dreamt of. 
 
 Secondly, we may conclude from the same principle, that 
 the sense of justice is not founded on reason, or on the dis- 
 covery of certain connexions and relations of ideas, which 
 are eternal, immutable, and universally obligatory. For since 
 it is confest, that such an alteration as that above-mention'd, 
 in the temper and circumstances of mankind, wou'd entirely 
 alter our duties and obligations, 'tis necesiary upon the com- 
 mon system, that the sense of virtue is deriv''d from reason, to 
 shew the change which this must produce in the relations 
 and ideas. But 'tis evident, that the only cause, why the 
 extensive generosity of man, and the perfect abundance of 
 every thing, wou'd destroy the very idea of justice, is because 
 they render it useless ; and that, on the other hand, his con- 
 fin'd benevolence, and his necessitous condition, give rise to 
 that virtue, only by making it requisite to the publick interest, 
 and to that of every individual. 'Twas therefore a concern 
 for our own, and the publick interest, which made us establish 
 the laws of justice ; and nothing can be more certain, than 
 that it is not any relation of ideas, which gives us this concern, 
 but our impressions and sentiments, without which every 
 thing in nature is perfectly indifferent to us, and can never 
 in the least affect us. The sense of justice, therefore, is not 
 founded on our ideas, but on our impressions. 
 
 Thirdly, we may farther confirm the foregoing proposition, 
 that those impressions, which give rise to this sense of justice, are 
 not natural to the mind of man, hut arise from artifice and human 
 conventions. For since any considerable alteration of tempei 
 and circumstances destroys equally justice and injustice ; and 
 since such an alteration has an effect only by changing our 
 own and the publick interest ; it follows, that the first 
 establishment of the rules of justice depends on these different 
 interests. But if men pursu'd the publick interest naturally,
 
 Sect. II. OF MORALS. 209 
 
 and with a lieartj affection, tliej wou'd never have dream 'd SECT. 
 
 of restraining each other by these rules ; and if they pnrsu'd . _. / _^ 
 
 their own interest, without any precaution, they wou'd run of the 
 
 head-lone: into every kind of iniustice and violence. These ?"8.'" ^^ , 
 
 • n ' A 1 11- ^ • justiL-e and 
 
 rules, therefore, are artificial, and seek their end in an property. 
 
 oblique and indirect manner ; nor is the interest, which gives 
 rise to them, of a kind that cou'd be pursu'd by the natural 
 and inartificial passions of men. 
 
 To make this more evident, consider, that tho' the rules of 
 justice are establish'd merely by interest, their connexion 
 wiih interest is somewhat singular, and is different from what 
 may be observ'd on other occasions. A single act of justice 
 is frequently contrary to public interest ; and were it to stand 
 alone, without being follow'd by other acts, may, in itself, 
 be very prejudicial to society. When a man of merit, of a 
 beneficent disposition, restores a great fortune to a miser, or 
 a seditious bigot, he has acted justly and laudably, but the 
 public is a real sufferer. Nor is every single act of justice, 
 consider'd apart, more conducive to private interest, than to 
 public ; and 'tis easily conceiv'd how a man may impoverish 
 himself by a signal instance of integrity, and have reason to 
 wish, that with regard to that single act, the laws of justice 
 were for a moment suspended in the universe. But however 
 single acts of justice may be contrary, either to public or 
 private interest, 'tis certain, that the whole plan or scheme 
 is highly conducive, or indeed absolutely requisite, both to 
 the support of society, and the well-being of every individual. 
 'Tis impossible to separate the good from the ill. Property 
 must be stable, and must be fix'd by general rules. Tho' in 
 one instance the public be a sufferer, this momentary ill is 
 amply compensated by the steady prosecution of the rule, 
 and by the peace and order, which it establishes in society. 
 And even every individual person must find himself a gainer, 
 on ballancing the account ; since, without justice, society 
 must immediately dissolve, and every one must fall into that 
 savage and solitary condition, which is infinitely worse than 
 the worst situation that can possibly be suppos'd in society. 
 When therefore men have had experience enough to observe, 
 that whatever may be the consequence of any single act of 
 justice, perform'd by a single person, yet the whole system of 
 actions, concurr'd in by the whole society, is infinitely advan- 
 tageous to the whole, and to every part ; it is not long before
 
 270 
 
 A TREATISE OF IIIBIAN NATURE. 
 
 Pakt n. 
 
 PAET 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 justice and property take place. Every member of society is 
 sensible of this interest : Every one expresses this sense to 
 his fellows, along with the resolution he has taken of squaring 
 his actions by it, on condition that others will do the same. 
 No more is requisite to induce any one of them to perform 
 an act of justice, who has the first opportunity. This 
 becomes an example to others. And thus justice establishes 
 itself by a kind of convention or agreement ; that is, by a 
 sense of interest, suppos'd to be common to all, and where 
 every single act is perform'd in expectation that others are to 
 perform the like. Without such a convention, no one wou'd 
 ever have dream'd, that there was such a virtue as justice, or 
 have been induc'd to conform his actions to it. Taking any 
 single act, my justice may be pernicious in every respect; 
 and 'tis only upon the supposition, that others are to imitate 
 my example, that I can be induc'd to embrace that virtue ; 
 since nothing but this combination can render justice advan- 
 tageous, or afford me any motives to conform myself to its 
 rules. 
 
 We come now to the second question we propos'd, viz. Why 
 we annex the idea of virtue to justice, and of vice to injustice. 
 This question will not detain us long after the principles, 
 which we have already establish'd. All we can say of it at 
 present will be dispatch'd in a few words : And for farther 
 satisfaction, the reader must wait till we come to the third 
 part of this book. The natural obligation to justice, viz. 
 interest, has been fully explain'd ; but as to the moraZ obliga- 
 tion, or the sentiment of right and wrong, 'twill first be 
 requisite to examine the natural virtues, before we can give a 
 full and satisfactory account of it. 
 
 After men have found by experience, that their selfishness 
 and confin'd generosity, acting at their liberty, totally in- 
 capacitate them for society; and at the same time have 
 observ'd, that society is necessary to the satisfaction of those 
 very passions, they are naturally induc'd to lay themselves 
 under the restraint of such rules, as may render their com- 
 merce more safe and commodious. To the imposition then, 
 and observance of these rules, both in general, and in every 
 particular instance, they are at first induc'd only by a regard 
 to interest ; and this motive, on the first formation of society, 
 is sufficiently strong and forcible. But when society has
 
 Sect. II. OF MORALS. 271 
 
 become n^amerous, and lias encreas'd to a tribe or nation, tliis SECT. 
 
 interest is more remote ; nor do men so readily perceive, that ^^: _, 
 
 disorder and confusion follow upon every breach of these ofthe 
 rules, as in a more narrow and contracted society. But tho' origin of 
 in our own actions we may frequently lose sight of that in- proprrtv"^ 
 terest, which we have in maintaining order, and may follow 
 a lesser and more present interest, we never fail to observe 
 the prejudice we receive, either mediately or immediately, 
 from the injustice of others ; as not being in that case either 
 blinded by passion, or byass'd by any contrary temptation. 
 Nay when the injustice is so distant from us, as no way to 
 affect our interest, it still displeases us ; because we consider 
 it as prejudicial to human society, and pernicious to every one 
 that approaches the person guilty of it. We partake of their 
 uneasiness by sympathy ; and as every thing, which gives 
 uneasiness in human actions, upon the general survey, is 
 call'd Vice, and whatever produces satisfaction, in the same 
 manner, is denominated Virtue ; this is the reason why 
 the sense of moral good and evil follows upon justice and 
 injustice. And tho' this sense, in the present case, be deriv'd 
 only from contemplating the actions of others, yet we fail 
 not to extend it even to our own actions. The general rule 
 reaches beyond those instances, from which it arose ; while 
 at the same time we naturally sympathize with others in the 
 sentiments they entertain of us. Thus self-interest is the 
 original motive to the establishment of justice : hut a sympathy 
 with public interest is the source of the moral approbation, 
 which attends that virtue} 
 
 Tho' this progress of the sentiments be natural, and even 
 necessary, 'tis certain, that it is here forwarded by the artifice 
 of politicians, who, in order to govern men more easily, 
 and preserve peace in human society, have endeavour'd to 
 produce an esteem for justice, and an abhorrence of injustice. 
 This, no doubt, must have its effect ; but nothing can be 
 more evident, than that the matter has been carry'd too far 
 by certain writers on morals, who seem to have employ'd 
 their utmost efforts to extirpate all sense of virtue from 
 among mankind. Any artifice of politicians may assist 
 nature in the producing of those sentiments, which she sug- 
 gests to us, and may even on some occasions, produce alone 
 an approbation or esteem for any particular action ; but 'tia 
 
 [' Introd. sect. 58 and If.— Ed.]
 
 272 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Pakt IT. 
 
 PART itni)ossible it should be the sole cause of the distinction we 
 
 IT 
 
 . , make betwixt vice and virtue. For if nature did not aid us in 
 
 Of justice this particular, 'twou'd be in vain for politicians to talk of 
 iu ti'°' honourable or dishonourable, praiseworthy or hlameahle. These 
 words wou'd be perfectly unintelligible, and wou'd no more 
 have any idea annex'd to them, than if they were of a tongue 
 perfectly unknown to us. The utmost politicians can per- 
 form, is, to extend the natural sentiments beyond their 
 original bounds ; but still nature must furnish the materials, 
 and give us some notion of moral distinctions. 
 
 As publick praise and blame encrease our esteem for justice; 
 so private education and instruction contribute to the same 
 effect. For as parents easily observe, that a man is the more 
 useful, both to himself and others, the greater degree ot 
 probity and honour he is endow'd with ; and that those 
 principles have greater force, when custom and education 
 assist interest and reflection : For these reasons they are 
 induc'd to inculcate on their children, from their earliest 
 infancy, the principles of probity, and teach them to regard 
 the observance of those rales, by which society is maintain 'd, 
 as worthy and honourable, and their violation as base and 
 infamous. By this means the seiitiments of honour may take 
 root in their tender minds, and acquire such firmness and 
 solidity, that they may fall little short of those principles, 
 which are the most essential to our natures, and the most 
 deeply radicated in our internal constitution. 
 
 What farther contributes to enc; ease their solidity, is the 
 interest of our reputation, after the opinion, that a merit or 
 demerit attends justice or injustice, is once firmly establish'd 
 among mankind. There is nothing, which touches us more 
 nearly than our reputation, and nothing on which our reputation 
 more depends than our conduct, with relation to the property 
 of others. For this reason, every one, who has any regard to 
 his character, or who intends to live on good terms with 
 mankind, must fix an inviolable law to himself, never, by any 
 temptation, to be induc'd to violate those principles, which 
 are essential to a man of probity and honour. 
 
 I shall make only one observation before I leave this sub- 
 ject, viz. that tho' I assert, that in the state of nature, or that 
 imaginary state, which preceded society, there be neither 
 justice nor injustice, yet I assert not, that it was allowable, 
 in such a state, to violate the property of others. I only
 
 Sect. III. OF MORALS. 273 
 
 maintain, that there was no such thing as property; and SKCr. 
 consequently cou'd be no such thing as justice or injustice. ^^' ^ 
 I shall have occasion to make a similar reflection with regard Of the 
 to promises, when I come to treat of them ; and I hope this P"?!" "^ 
 reflection, when duly weigh'd, will suffice to remove all odium property! 
 from the foregoing opinions, with regard to justice and in- 
 justice. 
 
 Sect. III. — Of the Rules, which determine Property. 
 
 Tho' the establishment of the rule, concerning the stability 
 of possession, be not only useful, but even absolutely neces- 
 sary to human society, it can never serve to any purpose, 
 while it remains in such general terms. Some method must 
 be shewn, by which we may distinguish what particular 
 goods are to be assign'd to each particular person, while the 
 rest of mankind are excluded from their possession and en- 
 joyment. Our next business, then, must be to discover the 
 reasons which modify this general rule, and fit it to the com- 
 mon use and practice of the world. 
 
 'Tis obvious, that those reasons are not deriv'd from 
 any utility or advantage, which either the particular person 
 or the public may reap from his enjoyment of any particular 
 goods, beyond what wou'd result from the possession of them 
 by any other person. 'Twere better, no doubt, that every 
 one were possess'd of what is most suitable to him, and 
 proper for his use : But besides, that this relation of fitness 
 may be common to several at once, 'tis liable to so many con- 
 troversies, and men are so partial and passionate in judging 
 of these controversies, that such a loose and uncertain rule 
 v/ou'd be absolutely incompatible with the peace of human 
 society. The convention concerning the stability of posses- 
 sion is enter'd iiito, in order to cut off all occasions of discoi'd 
 and contention ; and this end wou'd never be attain 'd, were 
 we allow'd to apply this rule differently in every particular 
 case, according to every particular utility, which might be 
 discover'd in such an application. Justice, in her decisions, 
 never regards the fitness or unfitness of objects to particular 
 persons, but conducts herself by more extensive views. 
 Whether a man be generous, or a miser, he is equally well 
 rcceiv'd by her, and obtains with the same facility a decision 
 in his favour, even for what is entirely useless to him. 
 
 VOL. II. T
 
 274 A TREATISE OF IIUMAX NATUliE. Pa hi IL 
 
 It follows, therefore, tliat the general rule, tJiat posse.'isioii 
 must he stable, is not apply 'd by particular judgments, but by 
 other general rules, which must extend to the whole society, 
 and be inflexible either by spite or favour. To illustrate this, 
 I propose the following instance. I first consider men in 
 their savage and solitary condition ; and suppose, that beii g 
 sensible of the misery of that state, and foreseeing the 
 advantages that wou'd result from society, they seek each 
 other's company, and make an offer of mutual protection and 
 assistance. I also suppose, that they are endow'd with such 
 sagacity as immediately to perceive, that the chief impediment 
 to this project of society and partnership lies in the avidity 
 and selfishness of their natural temper ; to remedy which, 
 they enter into a convention tor the stability of possession, 
 and for mutual restraint and forbearance. I am sensible, 
 that this method of proceeding is not altogether natural ; 
 but besides that I here only suppose those reflections to be 
 form'd at once, which in fact arise insensibly and by degrees ; 
 besides this, I say, 'tis very possible, that several persons, 
 being by different accidents separated from the societies, to 
 which they formerly belong'd, may be oblig'd to form a new 
 society among themselves ; in which case they are entirely 
 in the situation above-mention'd. 
 
 'Tis evident, then, that their first difiiculty, in this situa- 
 tion, after the general convention for the establishment of 
 society, and for the constancy of possession, is, how to sepa- 
 rate their possessions, and assign to each his particular 
 portion, which he must for the future inalterably enjoy. 
 This difficulty will not detain them long ; but it must imme- 
 diately occur to them, as the most natural expedient, that 
 every one continue to enjoy what he is at present master of, 
 and that property or constant possession be conjoin'd to the 
 immediate possession. Such is the effect of custom, that ir, 
 not only reconciles us to anything we have long enjoy'd, but 
 even gives us an affection for it, and makes us prefer it to 
 other objects, which may be more valuable, but are less 
 known to us. What has long lain under our eye, and has 
 often been employed to our advantage, that we are always the 
 most unwilling to part with ; but can easily live without 
 possessions, which we never have enjoy'd, and are not accus- 
 tom 'd to. 'Tis evident, therefore, that men wou'd easily 
 acquiesce in this expedient, that every one continue to enjcy
 
 Sect, III. 
 
 OF MORALS. 
 
 tvhat he is at present possess'' d of; and this is the reason, why 
 they wou'd so naturally agree in preferring it.' 
 
 But we may observe, that tho' the rule of the assignment 
 of property to the present possessor be natural, and by that 
 means useful, yet its utility extends not beyond the first for- 
 mation of society ; nor wou'd anything be more pernicious, 
 than the constant observance of it ; by which restitution 
 
 ' No questions in philosophy are more 
 difficult, than when a number of causes 
 present themselves for the samephseno- 
 menon, to determine which is the prin- 
 cipal and predominant. There seldum 
 is any very precise argument to fix our 
 choice, and men must_ bo contented to 
 be guided by a kind of taste or fancy, 
 aris:ng from annlogy, and a comparison 
 of similar instances. Thus, in the pre- 
 sent case, there are, no doubt, motives 
 of public interest for most of the rules, 
 which determine property ; but still I 
 suspect, that these rules are principally 
 fix'd by the imagination, or the more 
 frivolous properties of our thought and 
 conception. I shall continue to explain 
 these aiuses, leaving it to the reader's 
 choice, whether he will prefer those 
 deriv'd from publick utility, or those de- 
 riv'd from the imagination. We shall 
 begin with the right of the present 
 possessor. 
 
 'Tis a quality, which (a) I have 
 already observ'd in human nature, that 
 when two olijects appear in a close 
 relation to each other, the mind is apt 
 ti) ascribe to them any additional rela- 
 tion, in order to compleat the union ; 
 and this inclination is so strong, as 
 often to make us run into errors (such 
 as that of the conjunction of thought 
 and matter) if we find that they can 
 serve to that purpose. Many of our 
 impressions are incapable of place or 
 local position ; and yet those very im- 
 pressions we suppose to have a local 
 conjunction with the impressions of 
 sight and touch, merely because they 
 are conjoin'd by causation, and are al- 
 ready united in the imagination. Since, 
 therefore, we can feign a new relation, 
 and even an absurd one, in order to 
 compleat any union, 'twill easily be 
 imagin'd, that if there be any relations, 
 which depend on the mind, 'twill readily 
 conjoin them to any preceding relation. 
 
 and unite, by a new bond, such objects 
 as have already an union in the fancy. 
 Tiius for instance, we never fail, in our 
 arrangement of bodies, to place those 
 which are resemhling in contiguity to 
 a-Ach. other, or at least in correspondent 
 points of view ; because we feel a satis- 
 faction in joining the relation of con- 
 tiguity to that of resemblance, or the 
 resemblance of situation to that of quali- 
 ties. And this is easily accounted for 
 from the known properties of human 
 nature. When tho mind is deterrain'd 
 to join certain objects, but undeter- 
 min'd in its choice of the particular 
 objects, it naturally tm-ns its eye to 
 such as are related together. They are 
 already united in the mind : They pre- 
 sent themselves at tlie same time to 
 the conception ; and instead of requiring 
 any new reason for their conjunction, it 
 wou'd require a very powerful reason to 
 make \is over-look this natural affinity. 
 This we shall h;ive occasion to explain 
 more fully afterwards, wJien we come 
 to treat of beauty. In the mean time, 
 we may content ourselves witli observ- 
 ing, that the same love of order and 
 uniformity, which arranges the books in 
 a library, and the chairs in a parlour, 
 contribute to the formation of societv, 
 and to the well-being of mankind, by 
 modifying the general rule concerning 
 the stability of possession. And as pro- 
 perty forms a relation betwixt a person 
 and an object, 'tis natural to found it 
 on some preceding relation ; and as pro- 
 perty is nothing but a constant posses- 
 sion, secur'd by tlie laws of society, 'tis 
 natural to add it to tho present posses- 
 sion, whicii is a relation that resembles 
 it. For this also has its influence. If 
 it be naturtd to conjoin all sorts of 
 relations, 'tis more so, to conjoin such 
 relations as are resembling, and are re- 
 lated together. 
 
 (a) Book I. Part TV Sect. 6. 
 T 2
 
 ?7G A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATUItE. Part IL 
 
 PART wou'd be excluded, and every injustice wou'd be authoriz'd 
 ^^- _. and rewarded. We must, therefore, seek for some other cir- 
 Of justice cumstance, that may give rise to property after society is 
 and in- once establish'd ; and of this kind, I find four most con- 
 jus ice. siderable, viz. Occupation, Prescription, Accession, and Suc- 
 cession. We shall briefly examine each of these, beginning' 
 with Occupation. 
 
 The possession of all external goods is changeable and 
 uncertain ; which is one of the most considerable impedimenta 
 to the establishment of society, and is the reason why, by 
 universal agreement, express or tacite, men restrain them- 
 selves by what we now call the rules of justice and equity. 
 The misery of the condition, which precedes this restraint, is 
 the cause why we submit to that remedy as quickly as pos- 
 sible; and this affords us an easy reason, why we annex the 
 idea of property to the first possession, or to occupation. 
 Men are unwilling to leave property in suspence, even for 
 the shortest time, or open the least door to violence and dis- 
 order. To which we may add, that the first possession 
 always engages the attention most ; and did we neglect it, 
 there wou'd be no colour of reason for assigning property to 
 any succeeding possession.' 
 
 There remains nothing, but to determine exactly, what is 
 meant by possession ; and this is not so easy as may at first 
 sight be imagin'd. We are said to be in possession of any- 
 thing, not only when we immediately touch it, but also when 
 we are so situated with respect to it, as to have it in our 
 power to use it ; and may move, alter, or destroy it, according 
 to our present pleasure or advantage. This relation, then, 
 is a species of cause and effect ; and as property is nothing 
 but a stable possession, deriv'd from the rules of justice, or 
 the conventions of men, 'tis to be consider'd as the same 
 species of relation. But here we may observe, that as the 
 power of using any object becomes more or less certain, 
 
 • Some philosophers account for the 2. This accounts for the matter by 
 
 right of occupation, by saying, that means of acccssioii ; which is fciking a 
 
 every one has a property in his own needless circuit. .3. We cannot be said 
 
 labour; and when he joins that labour to join our labour to any thing but in a 
 
 to any thing, it gives him the property figurative sense. Properly speaking, we 
 
 of the whole: But, 1. There are several only make an alteration on it by our 
 
 kinds of occupation, where we cannot lab-^ur. This f(jrms a relation betwixt 
 
 be said to join our labour to the object us and the object ; and thence arises the 
 
 we acquire : As when we possess a property, according to the preceding 
 
 meadow by grazing our cattle upon it. priiiciples.
 
 Sect. III. 
 
 OF MORALS. 
 
 according as the interruptions we may meet with are more or SECT. 
 less probable ; and as this probability may increase by in- _ — ,J_ 
 sensible degrees ; 'tis in many cases impossible to determine Of the 
 when possession begins or ends ; nor is there any certain ^"^Jffj^ ^^ 
 standard, by which we can decide such controversies. A termiae 
 wild boar, that falls into our snares, is deem'd to be in our property, 
 possession, if it be impossible for him to escape. But what 
 do we mean by impossible ? How do we separate this im- 
 possibility from an improbability ? And how distinguish that 
 exactly from a probability ? Mark the precise limits of the 
 one and the other, and shew the standard, by which we may 
 decide all disputes that may arise, and, as we find by expe- 
 rience, frequently do arise upon this subject.^ 
 
 ' If we seek a solution of these diffi- 
 culties in reason and puhlic interest, we 
 never shall find satisfaction ; and if we 
 look for it in the imagination, 'tis evi- 
 dent, that the qualities, which operate 
 upon that faculty, run so insensibly 
 and gradually into each other, that 'tis 
 impossible to give them any precise 
 bounds or termination. The difficulties 
 on this head must encrease, when we 
 consider, that our judgment alters very 
 sensibly, according to the subject, and 
 that the same power and proximity will 
 be deem'd possession in one case, which 
 is not esteem'd such in anotlier. A 
 person, who has hunted a hare to the 
 last degree of weariness, wou'd look 
 upon it as an injustice for another to 
 rusii in before him, and seize his prey. 
 l>ut the same person, advancing to pluck 
 an apple, that hangs within his reach, 
 has no reason to complain, if another, 
 more alert, passes him, and takes posses- 
 sion. What is the reason of this differ- 
 ence, but that immobility, not being 
 natural to the hare, but the effect of 
 industry, forms in that aise a strong 
 relation with the hunter, which is want- 
 ing in the other? 
 
 Here then it appears, that a certain 
 and infallible power of enjoyment, 
 without touch or some other sensible 
 relation, often produces not property : 
 And I farther obsf rve, that a sensible 
 relation, without any present power, 
 is sometimes sufficient to give a title to 
 any object. The sight of a thing is 
 seldom a considerable relation, and is 
 only regarded as such, when the object 
 is hidden, or very obscure ; in which 
 case we find, that the view alone con- 
 voys a property ; according to that 
 
 maxim, that even a whole continent he- 
 tongs to the nation, which first discover d 
 it. 'Tis however remarkable, that both 
 in the case of discovery and that of 
 possession, the first discoverer and 
 possessor must join to the relation an 
 intention of rendering himself proprie- 
 tor, otherwise the relation will not have 
 its effect; and that because the con- 
 nexion in our fancy betwixt tlie pro- 
 perty and the relation is not so great, 
 imt that it requires to be help'd by such 
 an intention. 
 
 From all these circumstances, 'tis 
 easy to see how perplex'd many ques- 
 tions may become concerning the ac- 
 quisition of property by occupation ; 
 and the least effort of thought may 
 present us with instances, which are 
 not susceptible ( f any reasonable deci- 
 sion. If we prefer examples, which 
 are real, to such as are feign'd, we may 
 consider the following one, which is to 
 be met with in almost every writer, 
 that has treated of the laws of nature. 
 Two Grecian colonies, leaving their 
 native country, in search of new seats, 
 were inform'd that a city near them 
 was deserted by its inhabitants. To 
 know the truth of this report, they dis- 
 patch'd at once two messengers, one 
 from each colony ; *'ho finding on their 
 approach, that their information was 
 true, begun a race together with an in- 
 tention to take possession of the city, 
 each of them for h's countrymen. One 
 of these messengers, finding that he 
 was not an equal match for the other, 
 launch'd his spear at the gates of 
 the city, and was so fortunate as to fix 
 it there before the arrival of his com- 
 panion. This produc'd a dispute betwixt
 
 278 A TREATISE OF TIUMAX XATUIIE. Vxm IL 
 
 PATiT But such disputes may not only ai'ise concerning the real 
 
 . / __ existence of property and possession, but also concerning 
 
 Of justice their extent ; and these disputes are often susceptible of no 
 
 and m- decision, or can be decided by no other faculty than the 
 
 justice. ... •' '' 
 
 imagination. A person who lands on the shore of a small 
 island, that is desart and uncultivated, is deem'd its possessor 
 from the very first moment, and acquires the property of the 
 whole ; because the object is there bounded and circumscrib'd 
 in the fancy, and at the same time is proportion'd to the 
 new possessor. The same person landing on a desart island, 
 as large as Great Britain, extends his property no farther 
 than his immediate possession ; tho' a numerous colony are 
 esteem'd the proprietors of the whole from the instant of 
 their debarkment. 
 
 But it often happens, that the title of first possession 
 becomes obscure thro' time ; and that 'tis impossible to 
 determine many controversies, which may arise concerning 
 it. In that case long possession or prescription naturally 
 ta,kes place, and gives a person a sufiicient property in any- 
 thing he enjoys. The nature of human society admits not 
 of any great accuracy ; nor can we always remount to the 
 first origin of things, in order to determine their present 
 condition. Any considerable space of time sets objects at 
 such a distance, that they seem, in a manner, to lose their 
 reality, and have as little influence on the mind, as if they 
 never had been in being. A man's title, that is clear and 
 certain at present, will seem obscure and doubtful fifty years 
 hence, even tho' the facts, on which it is founded, sliou'd be 
 
 the two colonies, which of them was the or any other part of the citv, but that 
 
 proprietor of the empty city ; and this the gates, being the most obvious and 
 
 ilispiite still subsists among philoso- remarkable part, satisfy the fancy best 
 
 phers. For my part I find the dispute in taking them for the whole ; as we 
 
 impossible to be decided, and that find by the poets, who frequently draw 
 
 beciiuse the whole question hangs upon their images and metaphors from them, 
 
 the fancy, which in this case is not Besides we may consider, that the touch 
 
 possess'd of any precise or determinate or contact of the one messeoger is not 
 
 standard, upon which it can give sen- properly possession, no more than the 
 
 fence. To make this evident, let us piercing the gnte-s with a spear; but 
 
 consider, that if these two persons had only forms a relation ; and there is 
 
 been simply members of the colonies, a relation, in the ether case, equally ob- 
 
 and not messengers or deputies, their vious. tho' not, perhaps, of equal force, 
 
 actions wou'd not have been of any Which of these relations, then, conveys 
 
 consequence; since in that case their a right and property, or whether any 
 
 relation to the colonies wou'd have of them be sufficient for that effect. I 
 
 been but feeble and imperfect. Add to le<Tve to the decision of such as are 
 
 this, that nothing determin'd them to Miser than myself. 
 run to the gates rather than the walls,
 
 h'ECT. III. OF MORALS. 270 
 
 prov'd with the greatest evidence and certainty. The same SECT. 
 facts have not the same influence after so long an interval of ._ _ • , 
 time. And this may be receiv'd as a convincing argument of the 
 for our preceding doctrine with regard to property and r"'es 
 justice. Possession during a long tract of time conveys a termiue 
 title to any object. But as 'tis certain, that, however every property. 
 thing be produc'd in time, there is nothing real, that is pro- 
 duc'd by time ; it follows, that property being produc'd by 
 time, is not anything real in the objects, but is the offspring 
 of the sentiments, on which alone time is found to have any 
 influence.' 
 
 We acquire the property of objects by accession, when they 
 are connected in an intimate manner with objects that are 
 already our property, and at the same time are inferior to 
 them. Thus the fruits of our garden, the offspring of our 
 cattle, and the work of our slaves, are all of them esteem 'd 
 our property, even before possession. Where objects are 
 connected together in the imagination, they are apt to be 
 put on the same footing, and are commonly suppos'd to be 
 endow'd with the same qualities. We readily pass from one 
 to the other, and make no difference in our judgments con- 
 cerning them ; especially if the latter be inferior to the 
 former.'^ 
 
 ' Present possession is plainly a re- se7if possession ; and afterwards, that it 
 
 lation betwixt a person and an oljject ; arises from Jirst or from long ]>ossission. 
 
 but it is not sufficient to counter-bal- Now we may easily oliStTve, that rela- 
 
 lance the relation of first possession, tion is not confinVl merely to one degree ; 
 
 unless the former be long and uiiinter- but that from an object, that is related 
 
 rupted : In which ease the relation is to us, we acquire a relation to every 
 
 encreas'd on the side of the present other object, which is related to it, and 
 
 possession, by the extent of time, and so on, till the thought loses the chain 
 
 tliminish'd on tliat of first possession, by too long a progress. However tJie 
 
 by the distance. This change in the relation may weaken by each remove, 
 
 relation produces a consequent change 'tis not immediately destroy'd ; but fre- 
 
 in tlie property. quently connects two olgects by means 
 
 ^ This source of property can never of an intermediate one, which is related 
 
 be explain'd but from the imaginations ; to both. And this principle is of such 
 
 and one may affirm, that the cjiuses are force as to give rise to the right of ac- 
 
 lieru unmix'd. We shall proceed to ex- cession, and causes us to acquire tlie 
 
 plain them more particularly, and illus- property not only of sucli objects as wo 
 
 trate them by examples from common are immediately possess'd of, but also 
 
 life and experience. of such as are closely connected with 
 
 It has been observ'd above, that the them, 
 mind has a natural propensity to join Suppose a German, fi Frenchman, nnd 
 
 relations, especially resembling ones, a Spa7iiavd to come into a room, where 
 
 and finds a kind of fitness and uni- there are plac'd upon the table three 
 
 formity in such an union. From tliis bottles of wine, Bheiiish. Burgundy and 
 
 propensity are deriv'd these laws of Port ; and suppose they sliouM fall a 
 
 nature, that upon the first jormation of quarrelling about the division of tliem ; 
 
 society. 2)rop(rti/ always follows the pre- a person, who was chosen for umpire.
 
 •280 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part IL 
 
 TART 
 II. 
 
 The rio-lit of succession is a very natural one, from the pre- 
 
 sum'd consent of the parent or near rehition, and from the 
 
 Of justice general interest of mankind, which requires, that men's pos- 
 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 ■wou'd naturally, to shew his impartiality, 
 give every one the product of his own 
 country : And tliis from a principle, 
 which, in some measure, is the source of- 
 those laws of nature, that ascribe pro- 
 perty to occupation, prescription and 
 accession. 
 
 In all these cases, and particularly 
 that of accession, there is first a natural 
 union betwixt the idea of the person 
 and that of the object, and afterwards 
 a new and vioral union produc'd by that 
 right or property, which we ascribe to 
 the person. But here there occurs a 
 difficulty, which merits our attention, 
 and may affi)rd us an opportunity of 
 putting to tryal that singular method of 
 I'easoning, which h;is been employ'd on 
 tlie preiseut subject. I have already 
 observ'd, that the imngiuation passes 
 with greater facility from little to great, 
 than from great to little, and that the 
 transition of ideas is always easier and 
 smoother in the former case than in the 
 latter. Now as the right of accession 
 arises from the easy transition of ideas, 
 by which related objects are connected 
 together, it shou'd naturally be imagin'd, 
 that the right of accession mustencrease 
 in strength, i:" proportion as the transi- 
 tion of ideas is perf<)rm'd with greater 
 facility. It may, therefore, be tliought, 
 that when we have acquir'd the property 
 of any small object, we shall readily 
 consider any great object related to it as 
 an accession, and as Vielonging to the 
 proprietor of the small one ; since the 
 transition is in that case very easy from 
 the small object to the great one, and 
 shou'd connect them together in the 
 closest manner. But in fact the case is 
 always found to be otherwise The em- 
 pire of Grrai Britain seems todraw along 
 with it the dominion of the Orkneys, 
 the Hfbridcs, the isle of Man, and the 
 isle of Wight ; but the authority over 
 those lesser islands does not naturally 
 imply any title to Girat Britai7i. In 
 sliort. a small object uaturwlly follows 
 a great one as its accession ; but a 
 great one is never suppos'd to belong 
 to the proprietor of a small one related 
 to it, merely on account of that pro- 
 perty and relation. Yet in this latter 
 case the transition of ideas is smoother 
 from thp proprietor to the small object. 
 
 which is his property, and from the 
 small object to the great one, than in 
 the former case from the proprietor to 
 the great object, and from the great 
 one to the small. It may therefore be 
 thought, that these phsenonjena are ob- 
 jections to the foregoing hypothesis, 
 that the ascrihinq of property to aces- 
 sion is nothing but an effect of the rela- 
 tions of ideas, and of the smooth transi- 
 tion (f the imagination. 
 
 'Twill be easy to solve this objection, 
 if wo consider the agility and unsteadi- 
 ness of tlie imagination, with the dif- 
 ferent views, in which it is continually 
 placing its objects. When we attribute 
 to a person a property in two objects, 
 we do not always pass from the person 
 to one object, and from that to the 
 other related to it. The objects being 
 here to be consider'd as the property f)f 
 the person, we are apt to join them to- 
 gether, and place them in the same light. 
 Suppose, therefore, a great and a small 
 object to be related together ; if a per- 
 son be strongly related to the great ob- 
 ject, he will likewise be strongly related 
 to both the objects, consider'd together, 
 because he is related to the most con- 
 siderable part. On the contrary, if he 
 be only related to the small object, he 
 will not be strongly related to both, 
 consider'd together, since his relation 
 lies only with the most trivial part, 
 which is not apt to strike us in any 
 great degree, when we consider the 
 whole. And this is the reason, why 
 small objects become accessions to 
 great ones, and not great to small. 
 
 'Tis the general opinion of philoso- 
 phers and civilians, that the sea is in- 
 capable of becoming the property of 
 any nation ; and that becaiise 'tis im- 
 possible to take possession of it, or form 
 any such distinct relation with it, as 
 may be the foundation of property. 
 Where this reason ceases, property im- 
 mediately takes place. Thus the most 
 strenuous advocates for the liberty of 
 the seas universally allow, that friths 
 and bays naturally belong as an acces- 
 sion to the proprietors of the surround- 
 ing continent. These have properly no 
 more bond or union with the land, than 
 the Pacific ocean wou'd have; but 
 having an union in the fancy, and being
 
 Sect. TIT. 
 
 OF MORALS. 
 
 281 
 
 sessions sliou'd pass to those, who are dearest to them, in 
 order to render them more industrious and frugal. Perhaps 
 these causes are seconded by the influence of relation, or the 
 
 at the same time inferior, they are of 
 course regarded as an accession. 
 
 The property of rivers, by the laws 
 of most nations, and by the natural 
 turn of our thought, is attributed to the 
 proprietors of their banks, excepting 
 such vast rivers as the Ehine or the 
 Danube, which seem too large to the 
 imagination to follow as an accession 
 the property of the neighbouring 
 fields. Yet even these rivers are con- 
 sider'd as the property of that nation, 
 thro' whose dominions they run ; the 
 idea of a nation being of a suit- 
 able bulk to correspond with them, 
 and bear them such a relation in the 
 fancy. 
 
 The accessions, which are made to 
 lands bordering upon rivers, follow 
 the land, say the civilians, provided it 
 be made by what they call alluvion, 
 that is, insensibly and imperceptibly ; 
 which are circumstances that mightily 
 assist the imagination in the conjunc- 
 tion. Where there is any considerable 
 portion torn at once from one bank, 
 andjoin'd to another, it becomes not 
 his property, whose land it falls on, till 
 it unite with the land, and till the 
 trees or plants have spread their roots 
 into both. Before that, the imagination 
 does not sufficiently join them. 
 
 There are other cases, which some- 
 what resemble this of accession, but 
 which, at the bottom, are considerably 
 different, and merit our attention. Of 
 this kind is the conjunction of the 
 properties of different persons, after 
 such a manner as not to admit of sepa- 
 ration. The question is, to whom the 
 united mass must belong. 
 
 Where this conjunction is of such a 
 nature as to admit of division, bixt not 
 of separation, the decision is natural 
 and easy. The whole mass must be 
 Buppos'd to be common betwixt the 
 proprietors of the several parts, and 
 afterwards must be di\-ided according 
 to the proportions of these parts. But 
 here I cannot forbear taking notice of 
 a remarkable subtilty of the Roman 
 law, in distinguishing betwixt eoH/7f«fo« 
 and commixtion. Confusion is an 
 union of two bodies, such as different 
 liquors, where the parts become entirely 
 undistinguishable. Commixtion is the 
 
 blending of two bodies, such as two 
 bushels of corn, where the parts remain 
 separate in an obvious and visible 
 manner. As in the latter case the ima- 
 gination discovers not so entire an 
 union as in the former, but is able to 
 trace and preserve a distinct idea 
 of the property of each ; this is the 
 reason, why the civil law. tho' it estab- 
 lished an entire community in the case 
 of confusion, and after that a propor- 
 tional division, yet in the case of com- 
 mixtion, supposes each of the proprie- 
 tors to maintain a distinct right ; how- 
 ever necessity may at last force them to 
 submit to the same division. 
 
 Quod sifrumentum Titii frumento tuo 
 mistum fucrit : siquidcm ex volunfatc 
 vestra, commune est: quia singula cor- 
 pora, id est, singula grana, qiuB cujusque 
 propria fuerunt, ex consensu vestro com- 
 municafa sunt. Quod si caste id mistum 
 fuerit, vel Titius id miscucrit sine iua 
 voluntate, non vidcfur id commune esse ; 
 quia singula corpora in sua substantia 
 durant. Sed nee magis istis casibus 
 commune sit frumcntum quam grex in- 
 tcUigitur esse communis, si pecora Titii 
 tuis pecorilms mistafuerint. Sed si a(> 
 alterutro vesfrum totum id frumentum 
 retineatur, in rem qui dem actio pro modn 
 frumenti cujusque competit. ArHtrio 
 autcm judicis, ut ipse eestimei quale cu- 
 jusque frumentum fuerit. Inst. Lib. 
 "ll. Tit." 1 I 28. 
 
 Where the properties of two per- 
 sons are united after such a manner 
 as neither to admit of division nor 
 separation, as when one builds a 
 house on another's ground, in that 
 case, the whole must belong to one of 
 the proprietors : And here I assert, that 
 it naturally is conceiv'dto belong to the 
 proprietor of the most considerable part. 
 For however the compound object may 
 have a relation to two different^ persons, 
 and carry our view at once to both of 
 them, yet as the most considerable part 
 principally engages our attention, and 
 by the strict union draws the inferior 
 along it ; for this reason, the whole bears 
 a relation to the propri etor of that part, 
 and is regarded as his property. The 
 only difficulty is, what we shall be 
 pleas'd to call the mnstconsiderable part, 
 and most attractive to the imagination. 
 
 SECT. 
 III. 
 
 Of the 
 rules 
 which de- 
 tei-mine 
 property.
 
 282 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Pa Fa IL 
 
 PART 
 11. 
 
 Of justice 
 :i\v\ in- 
 justice. 
 
 association of ideas, by wliicli we are naturally directed to 
 consider the son after the parent's decease, and ascribe to him 
 a title to his father's possessions. Those goods must become 
 the property of some body : But of whom is the question. 
 Here 'tis evident the person's children naturally present 
 themselves to the mind ; and being already connected to 
 those possessions by means of their deceas'd parent, we are 
 apt to connect them still farther by the relation of property. 
 Of this there are many parallel instances.* 
 
 This quality depends on several dif- 
 ferent circumstances, which have little 
 connexion with each other. One part 
 of a compound object may become more 
 considerable than another, either because 
 it is more constant and durable ; be- 
 cause it is of greater value ; because it 
 is more obvious and remarkable ; be- 
 cause it is of greater extent ; or because 
 its existence is more separate and inde- 
 pendent. 'Twill be easy to conceive 
 that, as these circumstances may be 
 conjoin'd and oppos'd in all the different 
 ways, and according to all the different 
 degrees, which can be imagin'd, there 
 will result many cases, where the reasons 
 on both sides are so equally ballanc'd, 
 that 'tis impossible for us to give any 
 satisfactory decision. Here then is the 
 proper business of municipal laws, to 
 fix what the principles of human nature 
 have left undetermin'd. 
 
 The superficies yields to the soil, says 
 tlie civil law: The writing to the paper: 
 The canvas to the pictitre. These de- 
 cisions do not well agree together, and 
 are a proof of the contrariety of those 
 principles, from which they are deriv'd. 
 
 But of all the questions of this kind 
 the most cu?ious is that, which for so 
 many ages divided the disciples of Pro- 
 culus and Sahinus. Suppose a person 
 shou'd make a cup from the metal of 
 another, or a ship from his wood, and 
 suppose the proprietor of the metal or 
 wood shou'd demand his goods, the 
 question is, whether he acquires a title 
 to the cup or ship. Sahinus maintain'd 
 the affirmative, and asserted that the 
 substance or matter is the foundation 
 of all the qualities ; that it is incorrup- 
 tible and immortal, and therefore su- 
 perior to the form, which is casual and 
 dependent. On the other hand, Pro- 
 cu/un observ'd, that the form is the most 
 obvious and remarkable part, and that 
 from it bodies are denominated of this 
 
 or that particular species. To whiih 
 he might have added, that the mattir 
 or substance is in most bodies so fluctu- 
 ating and uncertain, that 'tis utterly im- 
 possible to trace it in all its changes. 
 For my part, I know not from wliat 
 principles such a controversy can be 
 certainly determin'd. I shall therefore 
 content my self with observing, that the 
 decision of Trebotiia7i seems to me pretty 
 ingenious ; that the cup belongs to the 
 proprietor of the metal, because it can 
 be brought back to its first form : But 
 that the ship belongs to the author of 
 its form for a contrary reason. Bi't 
 however ingenious this reason may 
 seem, it plainly depends upon the fancy, 
 which by the possibility of such a re- 
 duction, finds a closer connexion and 
 relation betwixt a cup and the proprie- 
 tor of its metal, than betwixt a ship and 
 the proprietor of its wood, where the 
 substance is more fix'd and unalterable. 
 ' In examining the different titles to 
 authority in government, we shall meet 
 with many reasons to convince us, that 
 the right of succession depends, in a 
 great measure, on the imagination. 
 Mean while I shall rest contented with 
 observing one example, which belongs 
 to the present subject. Suppose that a 
 person die without children, and that a 
 dispute arises among his relations con- 
 cerning his inheribmce : 'tis evident, 
 that if his riches be deriv'd partly from 
 his father, partly from his mother, the 
 most natural way of determining such 
 a dispute, is, to divide his possessions, 
 and assign each part to the family, 
 from whence it is deriv'd. Now as the 
 person is suppos'd to have been once the 
 full and entire proprietor of those 
 goods ; I ask, what is it makes us find 
 a certain equity and natural reason iu 
 this partition, except it be the imagina- 
 tion ? His affection to these families 
 does not depend upon his possessiccs
 
 Sect. IV. OF MORALS. 283 
 
 Sect. IV. — Of the transference of property hy consent. SECT. 
 
 However useful, or even necessary, the stability of possession • . ' 
 
 may be to human society, 'tis attended with very considerable Of the 
 inconveniences. The relation of fitness or suitableness ouglit ence of 
 never to enter into consideration, in distributing the pro- in-op-rty 
 perties of mankind ; but we must govern ourselves by rules, ^ ^^^^^'^ • 
 which are more general in their application, and more free 
 from doubt and uncertainty. Of this kind is present pos- 
 session upon the first establishment of society ; and after- 
 wards occupation, prescription, accession, and succession. As 
 these depend very much on chance, they must frequently 
 prove contradictory both to men's wants and desires ; and 
 persons and possessions must often be very ill adjusted. 
 This is a grand inconvenience, which calls for a remedy. To 
 apply one directly, and allow every man to seize by viol^ince 
 what he judges to be fit for him, wou'd destroy society ; and 
 therefore the rules of justice seek some medium betwixt a 
 rigid stability, and this changeable and uncertain adjustment. 
 But there is no medium better than that obvious one, that 
 possession and property shou'd always be stable, except when 
 the proprietor consents to bestow them on some other person. 
 This rule can have no ill consequence, in occasioning wars 
 and dissentions ; since the proprietor's consent, who alone is 
 concern'd, is taken along m the alienation : And it may 
 serve to many good purposes in adjusting projjerty to persons. 
 Different parts of the earth produce different commodities : 
 and not only so, but different men both are by nature fitted 
 for different employments, and attain to greater jjerfection in 
 any one, when they confine themselves to it alone. All this 
 requires a mutual exchange and commerce; for which reason 
 the translation of property by consent is founded on a law 
 of nature, as well as its stability without such a consent. 
 
 So far is determin'd by a plain utility and interest. But 
 perhaps 'tis from more trivial reasons, that delivery, or a 
 sensible transference of the object is commonly requir'd by 
 civil laws, and also by the laws of nature, according to most 
 authors, as a requisite circumsta.nce in the translation of 
 property. The property of an object, when taken for some- 
 
 for which reason his consent can never seems not to be in the least coucern'd 
 ]>(' presimiM precisely for such a parti- on the one side or the other, 
 lion. And as to the public interest, it
 
 284 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Rakt II. 
 
 PART 
 
 Of justice 
 Riul in- 
 just ico. 
 
 thing real, without any reference to morality, or the senti- 
 ments of the mind, is a quality perfectly insensible, and 
 even inconceivable ; nor can we form any distinct notion, 
 either of its stability or translation. This imperfection of 
 our ideas is less sensibly felt with regard to its stability, as it 
 engages less our attention, and is easily past over by the 
 mind, without any scrupulous examination. But as the 
 translation of property from one person to another is a more 
 remarkable event, the defect of our ideas becomes more 
 sensible on that occasion, and obliges us to turn ourselves on 
 every side in search of some remedy. Now as nothing more 
 enlivens any idea than a present impression, and a relation 
 betwixt that impression and the idea ; 'tis natural for us to 
 seek some false light from this quarter. In order to aid the 
 imagination in conceiving the transference of property, we 
 take the sensible object, and actually transfer its possession 
 to the person, on whom we wou'd bestow the property. The 
 suppos'd resembla,nce of the actions, and the presence of 
 this sensible delivery, deceive the mind, and make it fancy, 
 that it conceives the mysterious transition of the property. 
 And that this explication of the matter is just, appears 
 hence, that men have invented a symbolical delivery, to satisfy 
 the fancy, where the real one is impracticable. Thus the 
 giving the keys of a granary is understood to be the delivery 
 of the corn contain'd in it : The giving of stone and earth 
 represents the delivery of a mannor. This is a kind of 
 superstitious practice in civil laws, and in the laws of nature, 
 resembling the Roman catholic superstitions in religion. As 
 the Roman catholics represent the inconceivable mysteries of 
 the Christian religion, and render them more present to the 
 mind, by a taper, or habit, or grimace, which is suppos'd to 
 resemble them ; so lawyers and moralists have run into like 
 inventions for the same reason, and have endeavour'd by 
 those means to satisfy themselves concerning the transference 
 of property by consent. 
 
 Sect. V. — Of the ohUgaiion of promises. 
 
 That the rule of morality, which enjoins the performance 
 of promises, is not natural, will sufficiently appear from these 
 two propositions, which I proceed to prove, viz. that a pro- 
 mise wou'd not he intcUifjihle, before hnman co7wentions had
 
 Sect. V. OF MORALS. 285 
 
 established it ; and that even if it were intelligible, it wou'd not 
 be attended with any moral obligation. 
 
 I say, first, that a promise is not intelligible naturally, of the ob- 
 nor antecedent to human conventions ; and that a man, un- I'ga^ipn of 
 acquainted with society, could never enter into any engage- 
 ments with another, even tho' they could perceive each 
 other's thoughts by intuition. If promises be natural and 
 intelligible, there must be some act of the mind attending 
 these words, I 'promise ; and on this act of the mind must 
 the obligation depend. Let us, therefore, run over all the 
 faculties of the soul, and see which of them is exerted in our 
 promises. 
 
 The act of the mind, exprest by a promise, is not a reso- 
 lution to perform any thing : For that alone never imposes 
 any obligation. Nor is it a desire of such a performance : 
 For we may bind ourselves without such a desire, or even 
 with an aversion, declar'd and avow'd. Neither is it the 
 willing of that action, which we promise to perform : For a 
 promise always regards some future time, and the will has 
 an influence only on present actions. It follows, therefore, 
 that since the act of the mind, which enters into a promise, 
 and produces its obligation, is neither the resolving, desiring, 
 nor willing any particular performance, it must necessarily 
 be the willing of that obligation, which arises from the pro- 
 mise. Nor is this only a conclusion of philosophy ; but is 
 entirely conformable to our common ways of thinking and of 
 expressing ourselves, when we say that we are bound by our 
 own consent, and that the obligation arises from our mere 
 will and pleasure. The only question, then, is, whether 
 there be not a manifest absurdity in supposing this act of 
 the mind, and such an absurdity as no man cou'd fall into, 
 whose ideas are not confounded with prejudice and the fal- 
 lacious use of language. 
 
 All morality depends upon our sentiments ; and when any 
 action, or quality of the mind, pleases us after a certain 
 manner, we say it is virtuous ; and when the neglect, or non- 
 performance of it, displeases us after a like manner, we say 
 that we lie under an obligation to perform it. A change of 
 the obligation supposes a change of the sentiment; and a 
 creation of a new obligation supposes some new sentiment to 
 arise. But 'tis certain we can naturally no more change our 
 own sentiments, than the motions of the heavens ; nor by a
 
 286 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN XATUHE. 
 
 Pa HI II. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 single act of our will, tliat is, by a promise, render any action 
 agreeable or disagreeable, moral or immoral ; which, without 
 that act, wou'd have produc'd contrary impressions, or have 
 been endowed with different qualities. It wou'd be absurd, 
 therefore, to will any new obligation, that is, any new senti- 
 ment of pain or pleasure ; nor is it possible, that men cou'd 
 naturally fall into so gross an absurdity. A promise, there- 
 fore, is naturally something altogether unintelligible ; nor is 
 there any act of the mind belonging to it.' 
 
 But, secondly, if there was any act of the mind belonging 
 to it, it could not naturally produce any obligation. This 
 appears evidently from the foregoing reasoning. A promise 
 creates a new obligation. A new obligation supposes new 
 sentiments to arise. The will never creates new sentiments. 
 There could not naturally, therefore, arise any obligation 
 from a promise, even supposing the mind could fall into the 
 absurdity of willing that obligation. 
 
 The same truth may be prov'd still more evidently by that 
 reasoning, which proved justice in general to be an artificial 
 virtue. No action can be requir'd of us as our duty, unless 
 there be implanted in human nature some actuating passion 
 or motive, capable of producing the action. This motive 
 cannot be the sense of duty. A sense of duty supposes an 
 antecedent obligation : And where an action is not requir'd 
 by any natural passion, it cannot be requir'd by any natural 
 obligation ; since it may be omitted without proving any 
 
 ' AVere moralitj' cliscoveraLle lij rea- 
 son, and not by sentiment, 'twou'd be 
 still more evident, that promises cou'd 
 make no alteration upon it. Morality 
 is suppos'dto consist in relation. Every 
 new imposition of morality, therefore, 
 must arise from some new relation of 
 objects ; and conseqiiently the will cou'd 
 not produce imincdiufeh/ any change in 
 morals, liut cou'd have that effect only 
 by producing a change upon the objects. 
 Eut as the moral obligation of a pro- 
 mise is the pure effect of the will, with- 
 out the least change in any part of the 
 universe ; it follows, that promises have 
 no natural obligation. 
 
 iShou'd it be said, that this act of the 
 will being in effect a new object, pro- 
 duces new relations and new duties; 
 I wou'd answer, that this is a pure 
 sophism, which may be detected by a 
 very moderate share of accuracy and 
 
 exactness. To will a new obligation, is 
 to will a new relation of objects ; and 
 therefore, if this new relation of objects 
 were form'd by the volition itself, we 
 shou'd in effect will the volition ; which 
 is plainly absurd and impossible. The 
 will has here no object to which it cou'd 
 tend ; but must rtturn iipon itself in 
 mjijiitum. The new obligation depends 
 upon new relations. The new relations 
 depend upon a new volition. The new 
 volition has for object a new oblig.ition, 
 and consequently new relation.s, and 
 consequently a now volition ; wliich 
 volition again has in view a new obliga- 
 tion, relation and volition, without any 
 termination. 'Tis impossible, therefore, 
 we cou'd ever will a new obligation ; 
 and consequently 'tis impossible the 
 will cou'd ever accompany a pro- 
 mise, or produce a new obligation of 
 morality.
 
 promises. 
 
 Skci. v. of MOHALS. 2S7 
 
 defect or imperfection in the mind and temper, and conse- SECT, 
 quently without any vice. Now 'tis evident we have no _ ,' 
 motive leading us to the performance of promises, distinct of the ob- 
 from a sense of duty. If we thought, that promises had no i^'f^,^,^"^^^'^' 
 moral obligation, we never shou'd feel any inclination to 
 observe them. This is not the case with the natural virtues. 
 Tho' there was no obligation to relieve the miserable, our 
 humanity wou'd lead us to it ; and when we omit that duty, 
 the immorality of the omission arises from its being a proof, 
 that we want the natural sentiments of humanity. A father 
 knows it to be his duty to take care of his children : But he 
 has also a natural inclination to it. And if no human 
 creature had that inclination, no one cou'd lie under any such 
 obligation. But as there is naturally no inclination to 
 observe promises, distinct from a sense of their obligation ; 
 it follows, that fidelity is no natural virtue, and that promises 
 have no force antecedent to human conventions. 
 
 If any one dissent from this, he must give a regular proof 
 of these two propositions, viz. that there is a peculiar act of 
 the mind, annext to promises ; and that consequent to this act 
 of the mind, there arises an inclination to perform, distinct from 
 a sense of duty, I presume, that it is impossible to prove 
 either of these two points ; and therefore I venture to con- 
 clude, that promises are human inventions, founded on the 
 necessities and interests of society. 
 
 In order to discover these necessities and interests, we 
 must consider the same qualities of human nature, which 
 we have already found to give rise to the preceding laws of 
 society. Men being naturally selfish, or endow'd only with 
 a confin'd generosit}^ they are not easily indac'd to perform 
 any action for the interest of strangers, except with a view 
 to some reciprocal advantage, which they had no hope of 
 obtaining but by such a performance. Now as it frequently 
 happens, that these mutual performances cannot be finish'd 
 at the same instant, 'tis necessary, that one party be con- 
 tented to remain in uncertainty, and depend upon the grati- 
 tude of the other for a return of kindness. But so much 
 corruption is there among men, that, generally speaking, 
 tnis becomes but a slender security ; and as the benefactor 
 is here suppos'd to bestow his favours with a view to self- 
 interest, this both takes off from the obligation, and sets an 
 example of selfishness, which is the true mother of ingrati-
 
 288 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part n 
 
 PART 
 U. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 tude. Were we, therefore, to follow the natural course of 
 our passions and inclinations, we shou'd perform but few 
 actions for the advantage of others, from disinterested views ; 
 because we are naturally very limited in our kindness and 
 affection : And we shou'd perform as few of that kind, out of 
 a regard to interest ; because we cannot depend upon their 
 gratitude. Here then is the mutual commerce of good 
 offices in a manner lost among mankind, and every one re- 
 duc'd to his own skill and industry for his v/ell-being and 
 subsistence. The invention of the law of nature, concerning 
 the stability of possession, has already render'd men tolerable 
 to each other ; that of the transference of property and pos- 
 session by consent has begun to render them mutually ad- 
 vantageous : But still these laws of nature, however strictly 
 observ'd, are not sufficient to render them so serviceable to 
 each other, as by nature they are fitted to become. Tho' 
 I^ossession be stable, men may often reap but small advantage 
 from it, while they are possess'd of a greater quantity of any 
 species of goods than they have occasion for, and at the same 
 time suffer by the want of others. The transference of property, 
 which is the proper remedy for this inconvenience, cannot 
 remedy it entirely ; because it can only take place with 
 regard to such objects as are present and individual, but not 
 to such as are abse^it or general. One cannot transfer the 
 property of a particular house, twenty leagues distant ; be- 
 cause the consent cannot be attended with delivery, which is 
 a requisite circumstance. Neither can one transfer the pro- 
 perty of ten bushels of corn, or five hogsheads of wine, by 
 the mere expression and consent; because these are only 
 general terms, and have no direct relation to any particular 
 heap of com, or barrels of wine. Besides, the commerce of 
 mankind is not confin'd to the barter of commodities, but 
 may extend to services and actions, which we may exchange 
 to our mutual interest and advantage. Your corn is ripe to- 
 day ; mine will be so to-morrow. 'Tis profitable for us both, 
 that I shou'd labour with you to-day, and that you shou'd 
 aid me to-morrow. I have no kindness for you, and know 
 you have as little for me. I will not, therefore, take any 
 pains upon your account ; and should I labour with you 
 upon my own account, in expectation of a return, I know I 
 shou'd be disappointed, and that I shou'd in vain depend 
 upon your gratitude. Here then I leave you to labour alone :
 
 ligation of 
 promises. 
 
 Sect. V. OF MORALS. 289 
 
 You treat me in tlie same manner. Tlie seasons change ; SECT, 
 and both of us lose our harvests for want of mutual confi- ^- 
 deuce and security. Of the ob- 
 
 All this is the effect of the natural and inherent principles 
 and passions of human nature ; and as these passions and 
 principles are inalterable, it may be thought, that our con- 
 duct, which depends on them, must be so too, and that 
 'twou'd be in vain, either for moralists or politicians, to 
 tamper with us, or attempt to change the usual course of our 
 actions, with a view to public interest. And indeed, did the 
 success of their designs depend upon their success in correct- 
 ing the selfishness and ingratitude of men, they wou'd never 
 make any progress, unless aided by omnipotence, which is 
 alone able to new-mould the human mind, and change its 
 character in such fundamental articles. All they can pre- 
 tend to, is, to give a new direction to those natural passions, 
 and teach us that we can better satisfy our appetites in an 
 oblique and artificial manner, than by their headlong and 
 impetuous motion. Hence I learn to do a service to another, 
 without bearing him any real rkindness ; because I foresee, 
 that he will return my service, in expectation of another of 
 the same kind, and in order to maintain the same corres- 
 pondence of good ofiices with me or with others. And 
 accordingly, after I have serv'd him, and he is in possession 
 of the advantage arising from my action, he is induc'd to 
 perform his part, as foreseeing the consequences of his 
 refusal. 
 
 But tlio' this self-interested commerce of men begrins to 
 take place, and to predominate in society, it does not entirely 
 abolish the more generous and noble intercourse of friendship 
 and good offices. I may still do services to such persons as 
 T love, and am more particularly acquainted with, without 
 any prospect of advantage ; and they may make me a return 
 in the same manner, without any view but that of recom- 
 pensing my past services. In order, therefore, to distinguish 
 those two different sorts of commerce, the interested and the 
 disinterested, there is a certain form of words invented for 
 the former, by which we bind ourselves to the performance 
 of any action. This form of words constitutes what we call 
 a promise, which is the sanction of the interestecl commerce 
 of mankind. When a man says he 'promises any thing, he in 
 effect expresses a resolution of performing it ; and along with 
 
 VOL. II. U
 
 290 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part IT, 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 iustice. 
 
 that, by making use of this form of words, subjects himself 
 to the penalty of never being trusted again in case of failure. 
 A resolution is the natural act of the mind, which promises 
 express : But were there no more than a resolution in the 
 case, promises wou'd only declare our former motives, and 
 wou'd not create any new motive or obligation. They are 
 the conventions of men, which create a new motive, when 
 experience has taught us, that human affairs wou'd be con- 
 ducted much more for mutual advantage, were their certain 
 symbols or signs instituted, by which we might give each other 
 security of our conduct in any particular incident. After 
 these signs are instituted, whoever uses them is immediately 
 bound by his interest to execute his engagements, and must 
 never expect to be trusted any more, if he refuse to perform 
 what he promis'd. 
 
 Nor is that knowledge, which is requisite to make mankind 
 sensible of this interest in the institution and observance of 
 promises, to be esteem'd superior to the capacity of human 
 nature, however savage and uncultivated. There needs but 
 a very little practice of the world, to make us perceive all 
 these consequences and advantages. The shortest experience 
 of society discovers them to every mortal; and when each 
 individual perceives the same sense of interest in all his 
 fellows, he immediately performs his part of any contract, as 
 being assur'd, that they will not be wanting in theirs. All 
 of them, by concert, enter into a scheme of actions, calcu- 
 lated for common benefit, and agree to be true to their word; 
 nor is there any thing requisite to form this concert or con- 
 vention, but that every one have a sense of interest in th« 
 faithful fulfilling of engagements, and express that sense to 
 other members of the society. This immediately causes that 
 interest to operate upon them ; and interest is tlie first obli- 
 o-ation to tlie performance of promises. 
 
 Afterwards a sentiment of morals concurs with interest, 
 and becomes a new obligation upon mankind. This senti- 
 ment of morality, in the performance of promises, arises from 
 the same princij)les as that in the abstinence from the pro- 
 perty of others. Public interest, education, and the artifices 
 of politicians, have the same effect in both cases. The difii- 
 culties, that occur to us, in supposing a moral obligation 
 to attend promises, we either surmount or elude. For in- 
 stance ; the expression of a resolution is not commonly
 
 Srot. v. of morals. nm 
 
 snppos'J to be obligatory ; and we cannot readily conceive SECT. 
 how the making use of a certain form of words shou'd be ._ ^' 
 able to cause any material difference. Here, therefore, we oftheob- 
 feign a new act of the mind, which we call the willing an ligafion of 
 obligation ; and on this we suppose the morality to depend. 
 But we have prov'd already, that there is no such act of the 
 mind, and consequently that promises impose no natural ob- 
 ligation. 
 
 To confirm this, we may subjoin some other reflections 
 concerning that will, which is suppos'd to enter into a pro- 
 mise, and to cause its obligation. 'Tis evident, that the will 
 alone is never suppos'd to cause the obligation, but must be 
 express'd by words or signs, in order to impose a tye upon 
 any man. The expression being once brought in as sub- 
 servient to the will, soon becomes the principal part of the 
 promise ; nor will a man be less bound by his word, tho' he 
 secretly give a different direction to his intention, and with- 
 hold himself both from a resolution, and from willing an 
 obligation. But tho' the expression makes on most occa- 
 sions the whole of the promise, yet it does not always so ; 
 and one, who shou'd make use of any exj)ression, of which 
 he knows not the meaning, and which he uses without any 
 intention of binding himself, wou'd not certainly be bound 
 by it. Nay, tho' he knows its meaning, yet if he uses it in 
 jest only, and with such signs as shew evidently he has no 
 serious intention of binding himself, he wou'd not lie under 
 any obligation of performance ; but 'tis necessary, that the 
 words be a perfect expression of the will, without any con- 
 trary signs. Nay, even this we must not carry so far as to 
 imagine, that one, whom, by our quickness of understanding, 
 we conjecture, from certain signs, to have an intention of 
 deceiving us, is not bound by his expression or verbal pro- 
 mise, if we accept it ; but must limit this conclusion to those 
 cases, where the signs are of a different kind from those of 
 deceit. All these contradictions are easily accounted for, if 
 the obligation of promises be merely a human invention for 
 the convenience of society ; but will never be explain'd, if it 
 be something real and natural, arising from any action of 
 the mind or body. 
 
 I shall farther observe, that since every new promise im- 
 poses a new obligation of morality on the person who pro- 
 "lises, and since this new obligation arises from his will ; 'tis 
 
 V 2
 
 292 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part IT. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 one of the most mysterious and incomprehensible operations 
 that can possibly be imagin'd, and may even be compar'd to 
 transuhstantiation, or holy orders,^ where a certain form of 
 words, along with a certain intention, changes entirely the 
 nature of an external object, and even of a human creature. 
 But tho' these mysteries be so far alike, 'tis very remarkable, 
 that they differ widely in other particulars, and that this 
 difference may be regarded as a strong proof of the difference 
 of their origins. As the obligation of promises is an inven- 
 tion for the interest of society, 'tis warp'd into as many 
 different forms as that interest requires, and even runs into 
 direct contradictions, rather than lose sight of its object. 
 But as those other monstrous doctrines are mere priestly in- 
 ventions, and have no public interest in view, they are less 
 disturb'd in their progress by new obstacles ; and it must be 
 own'd, that, after the first absurdity, they follow more 
 directly the current of reason and good sense. Theologians 
 clearly perceiv'd, that the external form of words, being 
 mere sound, require an intention to make them have any 
 efficacy ; and that this intention being once consider'd as a 
 requisite circumstance, its absence must equally prevent the 
 effect, whether avow'd or conceal'd, whether sincere or de- 
 ceitful. Accordingly they have commonly determin'd, that 
 the intention of the priest makes the sacrament, and that 
 when he secretly withdraws his intention, he is highly 
 criminal in himself; but still destroys the baptism, or com- 
 munion, or holy orders. The terrible consequences of this 
 doctrine were not able to hinder its taking place ; as the in- 
 conveniences of a similar doctrine, with regard to promises, 
 have prevented that doctrine from establishing itself. Men 
 are always more concern'd about the present life than the 
 future ; and are apt to think the smallest evil, which regards 
 the former, more important than the greatest, which regards 
 the latter. 
 
 We may draw the same conclusion, concerning the origin 
 of promises, from the force, which is suppos'd to invalidate 
 all contracts, and to free us from their obligation. Such a 
 principle is a proof, that promises have no natural obligation, 
 and are mere artificial contrivances for the convenience and 
 advantage of society. If we consider aright of the matter, 
 
 • I mean so far, as holy ordors are 
 suppos'd to produce the indelible cha- 
 
 racter. In other resprcts they are only 
 a legal qualification.
 
 promises. 
 
 Sect, V. OF MORALS. 293 
 
 force is not essentially diiFerent from any other motive of SECT, 
 hope or fear, which may induce us to engage our word, and — ,' _^ 
 lay ourselves under any obligation. A man, dangerously of the ob- 
 wounded, who promises a competent sum to a surgeon to I'ga^tion of 
 cure him, wou'd certainly be bound to performance ; tho 
 the case be not so much different from that of one, who pro- 
 mises a sum to a robber, as to produce so great a difference 
 in our sentiments of morality, if these sentiments were not 
 built entirely on public interest and convenience. 
 
 Sect. VI. — Some farther reflections concerning justice and 
 
 injustice. 
 
 We have now run over the three fundamental laws of 
 nature, that of the stability of possession, of its transference hij 
 consent, and of the perforraance of promises . 'Tis on the strict 
 observance of those three laws, that the peace and security 
 of human society entirely depend ; nor is there any possibility 
 of establishing a good correspondence among men, where 
 these are neglected. Society is absolutely necessary for the 
 well-being of men ; and these are as necessary to the support 
 of society. Whatever restraint they may impose on the 
 passions of men, they are the real offspring of those passions, 
 and are only a more artful and more refin'd way of satisfying 
 them. Nothing is more vigilant and inventive than our 
 passions ; and nothing is more obvious, than the convention 
 for the observance of these rules. Nature has, therefore, 
 trusted this affair entirely to the conduct of men, and has 
 not plac'd in the mind any peculiar original principles, to 
 determine us to a set of actions, into which the other prin- 
 ciples of our frame and constitution were sufficient to lead us. 
 And to convince us the more fully of this truth, we may here 
 stop a moment, and from a review of the preceding reason- 
 ings may draw some new arguments, to prove that those 
 laws, however necessary, are entirely artificial, and of human 
 invention ; and consequently that justice is an artificial, and 
 not a natural virtue. 
 
 I. The first argument I shall make use of is deriv'd from 
 the vulgar definition of justice. Justice is commonly defin'd 
 to be a constant and perpettud will of giving every one his due. 
 In this definition 'tis supposed, that there are such things as
 
 294 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Pakt II. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 right and property, independent of justice, and antecedent 
 to it ; and that they wou'd have subsisted, tho' men had 
 never dreamt of practising such a virtue. I have already 
 observ'd, in a cursory manner, the fallacy of this opinion, 
 and shall here continue to open up a little more distinctly 
 my sentiments on that subject. 
 
 I shall begin with observing, that this quality, which we 
 call property, is like many of the imaginary qualities of the 
 peripatetic philosophy, and vanishes upon a more accurate 
 inspection into the subject, when consider'd a-part from our 
 moral sentiments. 'Tis evident property does not consist in 
 any of the sensible qualities of the object. For these may 
 continue invariably the same, while the property changes. 
 Property, therefore, must consist in some relation of the 
 object. But 'tis not in its relation with regard to other ex- 
 ternal and inanimate objects. For these may also continue, 
 invariably the same, while the property changes. This 
 quality, therefore, consists in the relations of objects to 
 intelligent and rational beings. But 'tis not the external 
 and corporeal relation, which forms the essence of property. 
 For that relation may be the same betwixt inanimate objects, 
 or with regard to brute creatures ; tho' in those cases it 
 forms no property. 'Tis, therefore, in some internal relation, 
 that the property consists ; that is, in some influence, which 
 the external relations of the object have on the mind and 
 actions. Thus the external relation, which we call occupation 
 or first possession, is not of itself imagin'd to be the pro- 
 perty of the object, but only to cause its property. Now 'tis 
 evident, this external relation causes nothing in external 
 objects, and has only an influence on the mind, by giving us 
 a sense of duty in abstaming from that object, and in re- 
 storing it to the first possessor. These actions are properly 
 what we call justice ; and consequently 'tis on that virtue 
 that the nature of j)roperty depends, and not the virtue on 
 the property. 
 
 If any one, therefore, wou'd assert, that justice is a natural 
 virtue, and injustice a natural vice, he must assert, that 
 abstracting from the notions of property, and right and 
 obligation, a certain conduct and train of actions, in certain 
 external relations of objects, has naturally a moral beauty or 
 fleformity, and causes an original pleasure or uneasiness. 
 Thus the restoring a man's goods to him is consider'd as
 
 Sect. VI. OF MORALS. 205 
 
 virtuous, not because nature has annex'd a certain sentiment ^^^'^' 
 of pleasure to such a conduct, with regard to the property of ._ — ^ — . 
 others, but because she has annex'd that sentiment to such Some far- 
 a conduct, with regard to those external objects, of which g^^^j^^y 
 others have had the first or long possession, or which they concerning 
 have receiv'd by the consent of those, who have had the first ^^1?^^'^.'^^'^°'^ 
 or long possession. If nature has given us no such senti- 
 ment, there is not, naturally, nor antecedent to human con- 
 ventions, any such thing as property. Now, tho' it seems 
 sufficiently evident, in this dry and accurate consideration of 
 the present subject, that nature has annex'd no pleasure or 
 sentiment of approbation to such a conduct ; yet that I may 
 leave as little room for doubt as possible, I shall subjoin a 
 few more arguments to confirm my opinion. 
 
 First, If nature had given us a pleasure of this kind, it 
 wou'd have been as evident and discernible as on every other 
 occasion ; nor shou'd we have found any difficulty to perceive, 
 that the consideration of such actions, in such a situation, 
 gives a certain pleasure and sentiment of approbation. We 
 shou'd not have been oblia'd to have recourse to notions of 
 property in the definition of justice, and at the same time 
 make use of the notions of justice in the definition of pro- 
 perty. This deceitful method of reasoning is a plain proof, 
 that there are contain'd in the subject some obscurities and 
 difficulties, which we are not able to surmount, and which 
 we desire to evade by this artifice. 
 
 Secondly, Those rules, by which properties, rights, and 
 obligations are determin'd, have in them no marks of a 
 natural origin, but many of artifice and contrivance. They 
 are too numerous to have proceeded from nature : They are 
 changeable by human laws : And have all of them a direct 
 and evident tendency to public good, and the support of 
 civil society. This last circumstance is remarkable upon 
 two accounts. First, because, tho' the cause of the estab- 
 lishment of these laws had been a regard for the public good, 
 as much as the public good is their natural tendency, they 
 wou'd still have been artificial, as being purposely contriv'd 
 and directed to a certain end. Secondly, because, if men had 
 been endow'd with such a strong regard for public good, they 
 wou'd never have restrain'd themselves by these rules : so 
 that the laws of justice arise from natural principles in a 
 manner still more oblique and artificial. 'Tis self-love which
 
 296 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUM.IN NATURE. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 is their real origin ; and as the self-love of one person is 
 naturally contrary to that of another, these several interestad 
 passions are oblig'd to adjust themselves after such a manner 
 as to concur in some system of conduct and behaviour. This 
 system, therefore, comprehending the interest of each in- 
 dividual, is of course advantageous to the public ; tho' it be 
 not intended for that purpose by the inventors. 
 
 II. In the second place we may observe, that all kinds oi 
 vice and virtue run insensibly into each other, and may 
 approach by such imperceptible degrees as will make it very 
 difficult, if not absolutely impossible, to determine when the 
 one ends, and the other begins ; and from this observation 
 we may derive a new argument for the foregoing principle. 
 For whatever may be the case, with regard to all kinds of 
 vice and virtue, 'tis certain, that rights, and obligations, and 
 property, admit of no such insensible gradation, but that a 
 man either has a full and perfect property, or none at all ; 
 and is either entirely oblig'd to perform any action, or lies 
 under no manner of obligation. However civil laws may 
 talk of a perfect dominion, and of an imperfect, 'tis easy to 
 observe, that this arises from a fiction, which has no founda- 
 tion in reason, and can never enter into our notions of natural 
 justice and equity. A man that hires a horse, tho' but for a 
 day, has as full a right to make use of it for that time, 
 as he whom we call its proprietor has to make use of it any 
 other day ; and 'tis evident, that however the use may be 
 bounded in time or degree, the right itself is not susceptible 
 of any such gradation, but is absolute and entire, so far as 
 it extends. Accordingly we may observe, that this right 
 both arises and perishes in an instant ; and that a man en- 
 tirely acquires the property of any object by occupation, or 
 the consent of the proprietor ; and loses it by his own con- 
 sent; without any of that insensible gradation, which is 
 remarkable in other qualities and relations. Since, there- 
 fore, this is the case with regard to property, and rights, and 
 obligations, I ask, how it stands with regard to justice and 
 injustice? After whatever manner you answer this question, 
 you run into inextricable difficulties. If you reply, that 
 justice and injustice admit of no degree, and run insensibly 
 into each other, you expressly contradict the foregoing posi- 
 tion, that obligation and property are not susceptible of such
 
 Sect. VI. OF MORALS. 297 
 
 a gradation. These depend entirely upon justice and in- SECT. 
 
 justice, and follow them in all their variations. Where the .^ ^ — . 
 
 justice is entire, the property is also entire : Where the justice Some far- 
 is imperfect, the property must also be imperfect. And vice ^^^^^^^^ 
 versa, if the property admit of no such variations, they must concerning 
 also be incompatible with iustice. If you assent, therefore, justice and 
 
 ■"■ *' '' . . 1 • • !• injustice. 
 
 to this last proposition, and assert, that justice and injustice 
 are not susceptible of degrees, you in effect assert, that they 
 are not naturally either vicious or virtuous ; since vice and 
 virtue, moral good and evil, and indeed all natural qualities, 
 run insensibly into each other, and are, on many occasions, 
 undistinguishable. 
 
 And here it may be worth while to observe, that tho' 
 abstract reasoning, and the general maxims of philosophy 
 and law establish this position, that property, and right, and 
 obligation admit not of degrees, yet in our common and 
 negligent way of thinking, we find great difficulty to enter- 
 tain that opinion, and do even secretly embrace the contrary 
 principle. An object must either be in the possession of one 
 person or another. An action must either be perform'd or 
 not. The necessity there is of choosing one side in these 
 dilemmas, and the impossibility there often is of finding any 
 just medium, oblige us, when we reflect on the matter, to 
 acknowledge, that all property and obligations are entire. 
 But on the other hand, when we consider the origin of pro- 
 i^erty and obligation, and find that they depend on public 
 utility, and sometimes on the propensities of the imagination, 
 which are seldom entire on any side; we are naturally in- 
 clin'd to imagine, that these moral relations admit of an 
 insensible gradation. Hence it is, that in references, where 
 the consent of the parties leave the referees entire masters of 
 the subject, they commonly discover so much equity and 
 justice on both sides, as induces them to strike a medium, 
 and divide the difference betwixt the parties. Civil judges, 
 Avho have not this liberty, but are oblig'd to give a decisive 
 sentence on some one side, are often at a loss how to deter- 
 mine, and are necessitated to proceed on the most frivolous 
 reasons in the world. Half rights and obligations, which 
 seem so natural in common life, are perfect absurdities in 
 their tribunal ; for which reason they are often oblig'd to 
 take half arguments for whole ones, in order to terminate 
 the affair one way or other.
 
 justice. 
 
 298 A TREATISE OF HUI\IAN NATURE. Rakt IT. 
 
 PART III. The tliird argument of this kind I shall make use of 
 
 ^ . / _ , ^ may be exj)lain'd thus. If we consider the ordinary course 
 Of justice of human actions, we shall find, that the mind restrains not 
 f,?.l;i°' itself by any general and universal rules ; but acts on most 
 occasions as it is determin'd by its present motives and in- 
 clination. As each action is a particular individual event, it 
 must proceed from particular principles and from our imme- 
 diate situation within ourselves, and with respect to the' rest 
 of the universe. If on some occasions we extend our motives 
 beyond those very circumstances, which gave rise to them, 
 and form something like general rules for our conduct, 'tis 
 easy to observe, that these rules are not perfectly inflexible, 
 but allow of many exceptions. Since, therefore, this is the 
 ordinary course of human actions, we may conclude, that the 
 laws of justice, being universal and perfectly inflexible, can 
 never be deriv'd from nature, nor be the immediate offspring 
 of any natural motive or inclination. No action can be 
 either morally good or evil, unless there be some natural 
 passion or motive to impel us to it, or deter us from it ; and 
 'tis evident, that the morality must be susceptible of all the 
 same variations, which are natural to the passion. Here are 
 two persons, who dispute for an estate ; of whom one is rich, 
 a fool, and a batchelor ; the other poor, a man of sense, and 
 has a numerous family : The first is my enemy ; the second 
 my friend. Whether I be actuated in this affair by a view to 
 public or private interest, by friendship or enmity, I must be 
 indue 'd to do my utmost to procure the estate to the latter. 
 Nor wou'd any consideration of the right and property of the 
 persons be able to restrain me, were I actuated only by 
 natural motives, without any combination or convention with 
 others. For as all property depends on morality ; and as all 
 morality depends on the ordinary course of our passions and 
 actions ; and as these again are only directed by particular 
 motives ; 'tis evident, such a partial conduct must be suitable 
 to the strictest morality, and cou'd never be a violation of 
 property. Were men, therefore, to take the liberty of acting 
 with regard to the laws of society, as they do in every other 
 affair, they wou'd conduct themselves, on most occasions, by 
 particular judgments, and wou'd take into consideration the 
 characters and circumstances of the persons, as well as the 
 general nature of the question. But 'tis easy to observe, 
 that this wou'd produce an infinite confusion in human
 
 Skct. VI. OF MORALS. 299 
 
 society, and that the avidity and partiality of men wou'd SKCT. 
 quickly bring disorder into the world, if not restrain'd by ___^J_^ 
 some o^eneral and inflexible principles. 'Twas, therefore, Some far- 
 with a view to this inconvenience, that men have establish'd ther re- 
 
 ' •111 flections 
 
 those principles, and have agreed to restrain themselves by concerning 
 general rules, which are unchangeable by spite and favour, ji'^^t'ce and 
 and by particular views of private or public interest. These 
 rules, then, are artificially invented for a certain purpose, 
 and are contrary to the common principles of human nature, 
 which accommodate themselves to circumstances, and have 
 no stated invariable method of operation. 
 
 Nor do I perceive how I can easily be mistaken in this 
 matter. I see evidently, that when any man imposes on 
 himself general inflexible rules in his conduct with others, he 
 considers certain objects as their property, which he supposes 
 to be sacred and inviolable. But no proposition can be more 
 evident, than that property is perfectly unintelligible without 
 first supposing justice and injustice; and that these virtues 
 and vices are as unintelligible, unless we have motives, inde- 
 pendent of the morality, to impel us to just actions, and 
 deter us from unjust ones. Let those motives, therefore, be 
 what they will, they must aecoinmodate themselves to cir- 
 cumstances, and must admit of all the variations, which 
 human affairs, in their incessant revolutions, are susceptible 
 of. They are consequently a very improper foundation for such 
 rigid inflexible rules as the laws of nature ; and 'tis evident 
 these laws can only be deriv'd from human conventions, when 
 men have perceiv'd the disorders that result from following 
 their natural and variable principles. 
 
 Upon the whole, then, we are to consider this distinction 
 betwixt justice and injustice, as having two different founda- 
 tions, viz. that of interest, when men observe, that 'tis im- 
 possible to live in society without restraining themselves by 
 certain rules ; and that of morality, when this interest is 
 once observ'd, and men receive a pleasure from the view of 
 such actions as tend to the peace of society, and an uneasiness 
 from such as are contrary to it. 'Tis the voluntary conven- 
 tion and artifice of men, which makes the first interest take 
 place ; and therefore those laws of justice are so far to be 
 considrr'd as artificial. After that interest is once establish'd 
 and acknowledg'd, the sense of morality in the observance of
 
 300 A TEEATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part H. 
 
 PART these rules follows naturally^ and of itself; the' 'tis certain, 
 -_ ,' ' that it is also augmented by a new artifice^ and that the 
 Of justice public instructions of politicians, and the private education 
 rustice" ^^ parents, contribute to the giving us a sense of honour and 
 
 duty in the strict regulation of our actions with regard to 
 
 the properties of others. 
 
 Sect. VII. — Of the origin of government. 
 
 Nothing is more certain, than that men are, in a greau 
 measure, govern'd by interest, and that even when they 
 extend their concern beyond themselves, 'tis not to any great\ 
 distance ; nor is it usual for them, in common life, to look \ 
 farther than their nearest friends and acquaintance. 'Tis no 1 
 less certain, that 'tis imi^ossible for men to consult their 
 interest in so effectual a manner, as by an universal and in- 
 flexible observance of the rules of justice, by which alone 
 they can preserve society, and keep themselves from falling 
 into that wretched and savage condition, which is commonly 
 represented as the state of nature. And as this interest, 
 which all men have in the upholding of society, and the 
 observation of the rules of justice, is great, so is it palpable 
 and evident, even to the most rude and uncultivated of the 
 human race ; and 'tis almost impossible for any one, who has 
 had experience of society, to be mistaken in this particular. 
 Since, therefore, men are so sincerely attach'd to their 
 interest, and their interest is so much concern'd in the ob- 
 servance of justice, and this interest is so certain and avow'd ; 
 it may be ask'd, how any disorder can ever arise in society, 
 and what principle there is in human nature so powerful as 
 to overcome so strong a passion, or so violent as to obscure so 
 clear a knowledge ? 
 
 It has been observ'd, in treating of the passions, that men 
 are mightily govern'd by the imagination, and proportion 
 their affections more to the light, under which any object 
 appears to them, than to its real and intrinsic value. What 
 strikes upon them with a strong and lively idea commonly 
 j)revails above what lies in a more obscure light; and it 
 must be a great superiority of value, that is able to com- 
 pensate tliis advantage. Now as every thing, that is con- 
 tiguous to us, either in space or time, strikes upon us Avith 
 such iin idea, it has a proportional effect on the will and
 
 8kct. VII, OF MORALS. ,301 
 
 passions, and commonly operates with more force than any SECT, 
 object, that lies in a more distant and obscure light. Tho' . ^^^" _, 
 we may be fully convinc'd, that the latter object excels the of the 
 former, we are not able to regulate our actions by this origin of 
 judgment ; but yield to the sollicitations of our passions, mem;, 
 which always plead in favour of whatever is near and con- 
 tiguous. 
 
 This is the reason why men so often act in contradiction 
 to their known interest ; and in particular why they prefer 
 any trivial advantage, that is present, to the maintenance of 
 order in society, which so much depends on the observance 
 of justice. The consequences of every breach of equity seem 
 to lie very remote, and are not able to counterballance any 
 immediate advantage, that may be reap'd from it. They are, 
 however, never the less real for being remote ; and as all 
 men are, in some degree, subject to the same weakness, it 
 necessarily happens, that the violations of equity must be- 
 come very frequent in society, and the commerce of men, by 
 that means, be render'd very dangerous and uncertain. You 
 have the same propension, that I have, in favour of what is 
 contiguous above what is remote. You are, therefore, 
 naturally carried to commit acts of injustice as well as me. 
 Your example both pushes me forward in this way by imita- 
 tion, and also affords me a new reason for any breach of 
 equity, by shewing me, that I should be the cully of my in- 
 tegrity, if I alone shou'd impose on myself a severe restraint 
 amidst the licentiousness of others. 
 
 This quality, therefore, of human nature, not only is very 
 dangerous to society, but also seems, on a cursory view, to 
 be incapable of any remedy. The remedy can only come 
 from the consent of men ; and if men be incapable of them- 
 selves to prefer remote to contiguous, they will never consent 
 to any thing, which wou'd oblige them to such a choice, and 
 contradict, in so sensible a manner, their natural principles 
 and propensities. Whoever chuses the means, chuses also 
 the end ; and if it be impossible for us to prefer what is 
 remote, 'tis equally impossible for us to submit to any 
 necessity, which would oblige us to such a method of acting. 
 
 But here 'tis observable, that this infirmity of human 
 nature becomes a remedy to itself, and that we provide 
 against our negligence about remote objects, merely because 
 we are naturally inclin'd to that negligence. When we con-
 
 302 
 
 A TREATISE OF iroMAN NATURE. 
 
 Tart II. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of just: :e 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 sider any objects at a distance, all their minute distinctions 
 vanish, and we always give the preference to whatever is in 
 itself preferable, without considering its situation and cir- 
 cumstances. This gives rise to what in an improper sense 
 we call reason, which is a principle, that is often contra- 
 dictory to those propensities that display themselves upon 
 the approach of the object. In reflecting on any action, 
 which I am to perform a twelve-month hence, I always 
 resolve to prefer the greater good, whether at that time it 
 will be more contiguous or remote ; nor does any difierence 
 in that particular make a difi'erence in my present intentions 
 and resolutions. My distance from the final determination 
 makes all those minute differences vanish, nor am I affected 
 by any thing, but the general and more discernable qualities 
 of good and evil. But on my nearer approach, those circum- 
 stances, which I at first over-look'd, begin to appear, and 
 have an influence on my conduct and affections. A new 
 inclination to the present good springs up, and makes it 
 difficult for me to adhere inflexibly to my first purpose and 
 resolution. This natural infirmity I may very much regret, 
 and I may endeavour, by all possible means, to free myself 
 from it. I may have recourse to study and reflection within 
 myself; to the advice of friends ; to frequent meditation, and 
 repeated resolution : And having experienc'd how ineffectual 
 all these are, I may embrace with pleasure any other ex- 
 pedient, by which I may impose a restraint upon myself, and 
 guard against this weakness. 
 
 The only difiiculty, therefore, is to find out this expedient, 
 by which men cure their natural weakness, and lay them- 
 selves under the necessity of observing the laws of justice 
 and equity, notwithstanding their violent propension to 
 prefer contiguous to remote. 'Tis evident such a remedy can 
 never be effectual without correcting this propensity ; and as 
 'tis impossible to change or correct any thing material incur 
 nature, the utmost we can do is to change our circumstances 
 and situation, and render the observance of the laws of 
 justice our nearest interest, and their violation our most 
 remote. But this being impracticable with respect to all 
 mankind, it can only take place with respect to a few, whom 
 we thus immediately interest in the execution of justice. 
 These are the persons, whom we call civil magistrates, kings 
 and their ministers, our governors and rulers, who being in-
 
 Sect. Vn. OF MORALS, /iOS 
 
 different persons to the greatest part of the state, have no SECT, 
 interest, or but a remote one, in any act of injustice ; and . _ ^ ' _ 
 being satisfied with their present condition, and with their Of the 
 part in society, have an immediate interest in every execu- o^gi"^ ^^ 
 tion of justice, which is so necessary to the upholding of ment. 
 society. Here then is the origin of civil government and 
 society. Men are not able radically to cure, either in them- 
 selves or others, that narrowness of soul, which makes them 
 prefer the present to the remote. They cannot change their 
 natures. All they can do is to change their situation, and 
 render the observance of justice the immediate interest of 
 some particular persons, and its violation their more remote. 
 These persons, then, are not only induc'd to observe those 
 rules in their own conduct, but also to constrain others to a 
 like regularity, and enforce the dictates of equity thro' the 
 whole society. And if it be necessary, they may also interest 
 others more immediately in the execution of justice, and 
 create a number of officers, civil and military, to assist them 
 in their government. 
 
 But this execution of justice, tho' the principal, is not the 
 only advantage of government. As violent passion hinders 
 men from seeing distinctly the interest they have in an 
 equitable behaviour towards others ; so it hinders them from 
 seeing that equity itself, and gives them a remarkable par- 
 tiality in their own favours. This inconvenience is corrected 
 in the same manner as that above-mention'd. The same 
 persons, who execute the laws of justice, will also decide all 
 controversies concerning them ; and being indifferent to the 
 greatest part of society, will decide them more equitably 
 than every one wou'd in his own case. 
 
 By means of these two advantages, in the execution and 
 decision of justice, men acquire a security against each others 
 weakness and passion, as well as against their own, and under 
 the shelter of their governors, begin to taste at ease the 
 sweets of society and mutual assistance. But government 
 extends farther its beneficial influence ; and not contented 
 to protect men in those conventions they make for their 
 mutual interest, it often obliges them to make such conven- 
 tions, and forces them to seek their own advantage, by a 
 concurrence in some common end or purpose. There is no 
 quality in human nature, which causes more fatal errors in 
 our conduct, than that which leads us to prefer whatever is
 
 304 
 
 A TREATISE OF inJ]\IAN NATURE. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 PART 
 JI. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 present to tlie distant and remote, and makes us desire 
 objects more according to their situation than their intrinsic 
 value. Two neighbours may agree to drain a meadow, which 
 they possess in common ; because 'tis easy for them to know 
 each others mind ; and each must perceive, that the imme- 
 diate consequence of his failing in his part, is, the abandoning 
 the whole project. But 'tis very difficult, and indeed impos- 
 sible, that a thousand persons shou'd agree in any such 
 action ; it being difficult for them to concert so complicated 
 a design, and still more difficult for them to execute it ; 
 while each seeks a pretext to free himself of the trouble and 
 expence, and wou'd lay the whole burden on others. Political 
 society easily remedies both these inconveniences. Magis- 
 trates find an immediate interest in the interest of any con- 
 siderable part of their subjects. They need consult no body 
 but themselves to form any scheme for the promoting of that 
 interest. And as the failure of any one piece in the execu- 
 tion is connected, tho' not immediately, with the failure of 
 the whole, they prevent that failure, because they find no 
 interest in it, either immediate or remote. Thus bridges are 
 built ; harbours open'd ; ramparts rais'd ; canals form'd ; 
 fleets equip'd ; and armies disciplin'd ; every where, by the 
 care of government, which, tho' compos'd of men subject to 
 all human infirmities, becomes, by one of the finest and most 
 subtle inventions imagina,ble, a composition, which is, in 
 some measure, exempted from all these infirmities. 
 
 Sect. VIII. — Of the source of allegiance. 
 
 Though government be an invention veiy advantageous, 
 and even in some circumstances absolutely necessary to man- 
 kind ; it is not necessary in all circumstances, nor is it 
 impossible for men to preserve society for some time, with- 
 out having recourse to such an invention. Men, 'tis true, 
 are always much inclin'd to prefer present interest to distant 
 and remote ; nor is it easy for them to resist the temptation 
 of any advantage, that they may immediately enjoy, in 
 apprehension of an evil, that lies at a distance from them : 
 But still this weakness is less conspicuous, where the posses- 
 sions, and the pleasures of life are few, and of little value, as 
 they always are in the infancy of society. An Indian is but
 
 Sect. Vni. OF MORALS. 305 
 
 little tempted to dispossess another of his hut, or to steal his SECT, 
 bow, as being already provided of the same advantages ; and . _ , _^ 
 as to any superior fortune, which may attend one above Of the 
 another in hunting and fishing, 'tis only casual and tern- source of 
 porary, and will have but small tendency to disturb society. 
 And so far am I from thinking with some philosophers, that 
 men are utterly incapable of society without government, 
 that I assert the first rudiments of government to arise from 
 quarrels, not among men of the same society, but among 
 those of different societies. A less degree of riches will 
 suffice to this latter effect, than is requisite for the former. 
 Men fear nothing from public war and violence but the 
 resistance they meet with, which, because they share it in 
 common, seems less terrible ; and because it comes from 
 strangers, seems less pernicious in its consequences, than 
 when they are expos'd singly against one whose commerce is 
 advantageous to them, and without whose society 'tis impos- 
 sible they can subsist. Now foreign war to a society without 
 government necessarily produces civil war. Throw any con- 
 siderable goods among men, they instantly fall a quarrelling, 
 while each strives to get possession of what pleases him, 
 without regard to the consequences. In a foreign war the 
 most considerable of all goods, life and limbs, are at stake ; 
 and as every one shuns dangerous ports, seizes the best arms, 
 seeks excuse for the slightest wounds, the laws, which may 
 be well enough observ'd, while men were calm, can now no 
 longer take place, when they are in such commotion. 
 
 This we find verified in the American tribes, where men 
 live in concord and amity among themselves without any 
 establish'd government ; and never pay submission to any of 
 their fellows, except in time of war, when their captain 
 enjoys a shadow of authority, which he loses after their 
 return from the field, and the establishment of peace with 
 the neighbouring tribes. This authority, however, instructs 
 them in the advantages of government, and teaches them to 
 have recourse to it, when either by the pillage of war, by 
 commerce, or by any fortuitous inventions, their riches and 
 possessions have become so considerable as to make them 
 forget, on every emergence, the interest they have in the 
 preservation of peace and justice. Hence we may give a 
 plausible reason, among others, why all governments are at 
 first monarchical, without any mixture and variety ; and why 
 
 VOL. II. X
 
 306 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part n. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 republics arise only from the abuses of monarchy and despotic 
 power. Camps are the true mothers of cities ; and as war 
 cannot be administered, by reason of the suddenness of every 
 exigency, without some authority in a single person, the 
 same kind of authority naturally takes place in that civil 
 government, which succeeds the military. And this reason 
 I take to be more natural, than the common one deriv'd from 
 patriarchal government, or the authority of a father, which 
 is said first to take place in one family, and to accustom the 
 members of it to the government of a single person. The 
 state of society without government is one of the most 
 natural states of men, and must subsist with the conjunction 
 of many families, and long after the first generation. No 
 thing but an encrease of riches and possessions cou'd oblige 
 men to quit it ; and so barbarous and uninstructed are all 
 societies on their first formation, that many years must 
 elapse before these can encrease to such a degree, as to 
 disturb men in the enjoyment of peace and concord. 
 
 But tho' it be possible for men to maintain a small uncul- 
 tivated society without government, 'tis impossible they 
 shou'd maintain a society of any kind without justice, and 
 the observance of those three fundamental laws concern- 
 ing the stability of possession, its translation by consent, 
 and the performance of promises. These are, therefore, 
 antecedent to government, and are suppos'd to impose an 
 obligation before the duty of allegiance to civil magistrates 
 has once been thought of. Nay, I shall go farther, and 
 assert, that government, upon its first establishment, wou'd 
 naturally be suppos'd to derive its obligation from those laws 
 of nature, and, in particular, from that concerning the per- 
 formance of promises. When men have once perceived the 
 necessity of government to maintain peace, and execute 
 justice, they wou'd naturally assemble together, wou'd chuse 
 magistrates, determine their power, and promise them obedi- 
 ence. As a promise is suppos'd to be a bond or security 
 already in use, and attended with a moral obligation, 'tis 
 to be consider'd as the original sanction of government, and 
 as the source of the first obligation to obedience. This 
 reason appears so natural, that it has become the foundation 
 of our fashionable system of politics, and is in a manner the 
 creed of a party amongst us, who pride themselves, wich 
 reason, on the soundness of their philosophy, and their liberty
 
 Sect. VIH. OF MORALS. • 307 
 
 of thought. All men, say they, are horn free and equal : SECT. 
 Government and superiority can only he estahlisK'd hy consent : ' . 
 
 The consent of men, in estdblishlng government, imposes on them Of the 
 a new ohligation, unknown to the laws of nature. Men, there- source of 
 fore, are hound to ohey their m,agistrates, only hecause they 
 promise it ; and if they had not given their word, either expressly 
 or tacitly, to preserve allegiance, it ivould never have hecome a 
 part of their moral duty. This conclusion, however, when 
 carried so far as to comprehend government in all its ages 
 and situations, is entirely erroneous ; and I maintain, that 
 tho' the duty of allegiance be at first grafted on the obliga- 
 tion of promises, and be for some time supported by that 
 obligation, yet it quickly takes root of itself, and has an 
 original obligation and authority, independent of all con- 
 tracts. This is a principle of moment, which we must 
 examine with care and attention, before we proceed any 
 farther. 
 
 'Tis reasonable for those philosophers, who assert justice 
 to be a natural virtue, and antecedent to human conventions, 
 to resolve all civil allegiance into the obligation of a promise, 
 and assert that 'tis our own consent alone, which binds us to 
 any submission to magistracy. For as all government is 
 plainly an invention of men, and the origin of most govern- 
 ments is known in history, 'tis necessary to mount higher, 
 in order to find the source of our political duties, if we wou'd 
 assert them to have any natural obligation of morality. 
 These philosophers, therefore, quickly observe, that society 
 is as antient as the human species, and those three funda- 
 mental laws of nature as antient as society : So that taking 
 advantage of the antiquity, and obscure origin of these laws, 
 they first deny them to be artificial and voluntary inventions 
 of men, and then seek to ingraft them on those other duties, 
 which are more plainly artificial. But being once undeceiv'd 
 in this particular, and having found that natural, as well as 
 civil justice, derives its origin from human conventions, we 
 shall quickly perceive, how fruitless it is to resolve the one 
 into the other, and seek, in the laws of nature, a stronger 
 foundation for our political duties than interest, and human 
 conventions ; while these laws themselves are built on the 
 very same foundation. On which ever side we turn this 
 subject, we shall find, that these two kinds of duty are 
 exactly on the same footing, and have the same source both 
 
 X 2
 
 308 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part U. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 
 and in- 
 j ustiee. 
 
 of their j^rsi invention and moral ohligation. They are con- 
 triv'd to remedy like inconveniences, and acquire their moral 
 sanction in the same manner, from their remedying those 
 inconveniences. These are two points, which we shall endea- 
 vour to prove as distinctly as possible. 
 
 We have already shewn, that men invented the three fun- 
 damental laws of nature, when they observ'd the necessity 
 of society to their mutual subsistance, and found, that 'twas 
 impossible to maintain any correspondence together, without 
 some restraint on their natural appetites. The same self- 
 love, therefore, which renders men so incommodious to each 
 other, taking a new and more convenient direction, produces 
 the rules of justice, and is the first motive of their observance. 
 But when men have observ'd, that tho' the rules of justice 
 be sufficient to maintain any society, yet 'tis impossible for 
 them, of themselves, to observe those rules, in large and 
 polish'd societies ; they establish government, as a new in- 
 vention to attain their ends, and preserve the old, or procure 
 new advantages, by a more strict execution of justice. So 
 far, therefore, our civil duties are connected with our natural, 
 that the former are invented chiefly for the sake of the latter; 
 and that the principal object of government is to constrain 
 men to observe the laws of nature. In this respect, however, 
 that law of nature, concerning the performance of promises, 
 is only compriz'd along with the rest ; and its exact obser- 
 vance is to be considered as an effect of the institiition of 
 government, and not the obedience to government as an 
 effect of the obligation of a promise. Tho' the object of our 
 civil duties be the enforcing of our natural, yet the^ first 
 motive of the invention, as well as performance of both, is 
 nothing but self-interest : And since there is a separate in- 
 terest in the obedience to government, from that in the per- 
 formance of promises, we must also allow of a separate 
 obligation. To obey the civil magistrate is requisite to 
 preserve order and concord in society. To perform promises 
 is requisite to beget mutual trust and confidence in the 
 common offices of life. The ends, as well as the means, 
 are perfectly distinct ; nor is the one subordinate to the 
 other. 
 
 To make this more evident, let us consider, that men will 
 often bind themselves by promises to the performance of 
 ' First in time, not in dignity or force.
 
 allegiance. 
 
 Sect. VUI. OF MORALS. 809 
 
 wJiat it wou'd have been their interest to perform, indepen- SECT. 
 dent of these promises ; as when they wou'd give others a ._ , \ 
 fuller security, by super-adding a new obligation of interest of the 
 to that which they formerly lay under. The interest in the ^o^^'c^ of 
 performance of promises, besides its moral obligation, is 
 general, avow'd, and of the last consequence in life. Other 
 interests may be more particular and doubtful ; and we are 
 apt to entertain a greater suspicion, that men may indulge 
 their humour, or passion, in acting contrary to them. Here, 
 therefore, promises come naturally in play, and are often re- 
 quir'd for fuller satisfaction and security. But supposing 
 those other interests to be as general and avow'd as the 
 interest in the performance of a promise, they will be re- 
 garded as on the same footing, and men will begin to repose 
 the same confidence in them. Now this is exactly the case 
 with regard to our civil duties, or obedience to the magis- 
 trate : without which no government cou'd subsist, nor any 
 peace or order be maintain'd in large societies, where there 
 are so many possessions on the one hand, and so many wants, 
 real or imaginary, on the other. Our civil duties, therefore, 
 must soon detach themselves from our promises, and acquire 
 a separate force and influence. The interest in both is of 
 the very same kind : 'Tis general, avow'd, and prevails in all 
 times and places. There is, then, no pretext of reason for 
 founding the one upon the other ; while each of them has a 
 foundation peculiar to itself. We might as well resolve the 
 obligation to abstain from the possessions of others, into the 
 obligation of a promise, as that of allegiance. The interests 
 are not more distinct in the one case than the other. A 
 regard to property is not more necessary to natural society, 
 than obedience is to civil society or government ; nor is the 
 former society more necessary to the being of mankind, than 
 the latter to their well-being and happiness. In short, if 
 the performance of promises be advantageous, so is obe- 
 dience to government : If the former interest be general, so is 
 the latter : If the one interest be obvious and avow'd, so is 
 the other. And as these two rules are founded on like obli- 
 gations of interest, each of them must have a peculiar 
 authority, independent of the other. 
 
 But 'tis not only the natural obligations of interest, which 
 are distinct in promises and allegiance ; but also the moral 
 oblicfations of honour and conscience : Nor does the merit or
 
 310 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part IL 
 
 PART demerit of the one depend in tlie least upon that of the other. 
 And indeed, if we consider the close connexion there is 
 
 Of justice betwixt the natural and moral obligations, we shall find this 
 justice! conclusion to be entirely unavoidable. Our interest is always 
 engag'd on the side of obedience to magistracy ; and there is 
 nothing but a great present advantage, that can lead us to 
 rebellion, bj making us over-look the remote interest, which 
 we have in the 2)reserving of peace and order in society. 
 But tho' a present interest may thus blind us with regard to 
 our own actions, it takes not place with regard to those of 
 others ; nor hinders them from appearing in their true 
 colours, as highly prejudicial to public interest, and to our 
 own in particular. This naturally gives us an uneasiness, in 
 considering such seditious and disloyal actions, and makes 
 us attach to them the idea of vice and moral deformity. 
 Tis the same principle, which carises us to disapprove of all 
 kinds of private injustice, and in particular of the breach of 
 promises. We blame all treachery and breach of faith; 
 because we consider, that the freedom and extent of human 
 commerce depend entirely on a fidelity with regard to pro- 
 mises. We blame all disloyalty to magistrates ; because we 
 perceive, that the execution of justice, in the stability of 
 possession, its translation by consent, and the performance of 
 promises, is impossible, without submission to government. 
 As there are here two interests entirely distinct from each 
 other, they must give rise to two moral obligations, equally 
 separate and independent. Tho' there was no such thing as 
 a promise in the world, government wou'd still be necessary 
 in all large and civiliz'd societies ; and if promises had only 
 their own proper obligation, without the separate sanction of 
 government, they wou'd have but little efiicacy in such socie- 
 ties. This separates the boundaries of our public and 
 private duties, and shews that the latter are more dependent 
 on the former, than the former on the latter. Education, 
 and the artifice of politicians, concur to bestow a farther 
 morality on loyalty, and to brand all rebellion with a greater 
 degree of guQt and infamy. . Nor is it a wonder, that poli- 
 ticians shou'd be very industrious in inculcating such notions, 
 where their interest is so particularly concern'd. 
 
 Lest those arguments shou'd not appear entirely conclusive 
 (as I think they are) I shall have recourse to authority, and 
 shall prove, from the universal consent of mankind, that the
 
 Sect. VIH. OF MORALS. 311 
 
 oblisfation of submission to ffovernment is not deriv'd from SECT. 
 
 VIII 
 
 any promise of the subjects. Nor need any one wonder, that ^_ 
 
 tho' I have all along endeavour'd to establish my system on Of the 
 
 irce I 
 egiance. 
 
 pure reason, and have scarce ever cited the judgment even ^°|^^<^® ^^ 
 
 of philosophers or historians on any article, I shou'd now 
 appeal to popular authority, and oppose the sentiments of 
 the rabble to any philosophical reasoning. For it must be 
 observ'd, that the opinions of men, in this case, carry with 
 them a peculiar authority, and are, in a great measure, in- 
 fallible. The distinction of moral good and evil is founded 
 on the pleasure or pain, which results from the view of any 
 sentiment, or character ; and as that pleasure or pain cannot 
 be unknown to the person who feels it, it follows,^ that there 
 is just so much vice or virtue in any character, as every one 
 places in it, and that 'tis impossible in this particular we can 
 ever be mistaken. And tho' our judgments concerning the 
 origin of any vice or virtue, be not so certain as those con- 
 cerning their degrees ; yet, since the question in this case 
 regards not any philosophical origin of an obligation, but a 
 plain matter of fact, 'tis not easily conceiv'd how we can fall 
 into an error. A man, who acknowledges himself to be 
 bound to another, for a certain sum, must certaiidy know 
 whether it be by his own bond, or that of his father; whether 
 it be of his mere good-will, or for money lent him ; and 
 under what conditions, and for what purposes he has bound 
 himself. In like manner, it being certain, that there is a 
 moral obligation to submit to government, because every one 
 thinks so ; it must be as certain, that this obligation arises 
 not from a promise ; since no one, whose judgment has not 
 been led astray by too strict adherence to a system of phi- 
 losophy, has ever yet dreamt of ascribing it to that origin. 
 Neither magistrates nor subjects have form'd this idea of our 
 civil duties. 
 
 We find, that magistrates are so far from deriving their 
 authority, and the obligation to obedience in their subjects, 
 from the foundation of a promise or original contract, that 
 they conceal, as far as possible, from their people, especially 
 
 ' This proposition must hold strictly afterwards. In the mean time, it mny 
 
 trne, with regard to every quality, that be observ'd, that there is such an uni- 
 
 is determin'd merely by sentiment. In formity in the general sentiments of 
 
 ■what sense we can talk either of a mankind, as to render such questions of 
 
 right or a wrong taste in morals, elo- but small importance, 
 quence, or beauty, shall bo consider'd
 
 812 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE, 
 
 Part II. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and n- 
 juitice. 
 
 from the vulgar, that they have their origin from thence. 
 Were this the sanction of government, our rulers wou'd never 
 receive it tacitly, which is the utmost that can be pretended ; 
 since what is given tacitly and insensibly can never have 
 such influence on mankind, as what is perform'd expressly 
 and openly. A tacit promise is, where the will is signified b^ 
 other more diffuse signs than those of speech ; but a will 
 there must certainly be in the case, and that can never 
 escape the person's notice, who exerted it, however silent or 
 tacit. But were you to ask the far gi*eater part of the nation, 
 whether they had ever consented to the authority of their 
 rulers, or promis'd to obey them, they wou'd be inclin'd to 
 think very strangely of you ; and wou'd certainly reply, that 
 the affair depended not on their consent, but that they were • 
 bom to such an obedience. In consequence of this opinion, 
 we frequently see them imagine such persons to be their 
 natural rulers, as are at that time depriv'd of all power and 
 authority, and whom no man, however foolish, wou'd volun- 
 tarily cliuse ; and this merely because they are in that line, 
 which rul'd before, and in that degree of it, which us'd to 
 succeed ; tho' perhaps in so distant a period, that scarce any 
 man alive cou'd ever have given any promise of obedience. 
 Has a government, then, no authority over such as these, 
 because they never consented to it, and wou'd esteem the 
 very attempt of such a free choice a piece of arrogance and 
 impiety ? We find by experience, that it punishes them very 
 freely for what it calls treason and rebellion, which, it seems, 
 according to this system, reduces itself to common injustice. 
 If you say, that by dwelling in its dominions, they in effect 
 consented to the establish'd government ; I answer, that this 
 can only be, where they think the affair depends on their 
 choice, which few or none, beside those philosophers, have 
 ever yet imagin'd. It never was pleaded as an excuse for a 
 rebel, that the first act he perform'd, after he came to years 
 of discretion, \s^as to levy war against the sovereign of the 
 state ; and that while he was a child he cou'd not bind him- 
 self by his own consent, and having become a man, show'd 
 plainly, by the first act he perform'd, that he had no design 
 to impose on himself any obligation to obedience. We find, 
 on the contrary, that civil laws punish this crime at the same 
 age as any other, which is criminal, of itself, without our 
 consent ; that is, when the person is come to the full use of
 
 Sect. IX. OF MORALS. 313 
 
 reason : Whereas to this crime tliey ought in justice to allow SECT. 
 
 some intermediate time, in which a tacit consent at least > , — _. 
 
 might be suppos'd. To which we may add, that a man Of the 
 living under an absolute government, wou'd owe it no alJe- ^^"^'j^^gg 
 giance ; since, by its very nature, it depends not on consent. 
 But as that is as natural and common a government as any, it 
 must certainly occasion some obligation ; and 'tis plain froro 
 experience, that men, who are subjected to it, do always 
 think so. This is a clear proof, that we do not commonly 
 esteem our allegiance to be deriv'd from our consent or pro- 
 mise ; and a ftirther proof is, that when our promise is upon 
 any account expressly engag'd, we always distinguish exactly 
 betwixt the two obligations, and believe the one to add more 
 force to the other, than in a repetition of the same promise. 
 Where no promise is given, a man looks not on his faith as 
 broken in private matters, upon account of rebellion ; but 
 keeps those two duties of honour and allegiance perfectly 
 distinct and separa-te. As the uniting of them was thought 
 by these philosophers a very subtile invention, this is a con- 
 vincing proof, that 'tis not a true one ; since no man can 
 either give a promise, or be restrain'd by its sanction and 
 obligration unknown to himself. 
 
 Sect. IX. — Of the measures of allegiance. 
 
 Those political writers, who have had recourse to a pro- 
 mise, or original contract, as the source of our allegiance to 
 government, intended to establish a principle, which is per- 
 fectly just and reasonable ; tho' the reasoning, upon vs^hich 
 they endeavour'd to establish it, was fallacious and sophistical. 
 They wou'd prove, that our submission to government admits 
 of exceptions, and that an egregious tyranny in the rulers is 
 sufficient to free the subjects from all ties of allegiance. 
 Since men enter into society, say they, and submit them- 
 selves to government, by their free and voluntary consent, they 
 must have in view certain advantages, which they propose to 
 reap from it, and for which they are contented to resign 
 their native liberty. There is, therefore, something mutual 
 engag'd on the part of the magistrate, viz. protection and 
 security ; and 'tis only by the hopes he affords of these ad- 
 vantages, that he can ever persuade men to submit to him. 
 But when instead of protection and security, they meet with
 
 314 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Pari TI. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 tyranny and oppression, they are free'd from tlieir promises, 
 (as happens in all conditional contracts) and return to that 
 state of liberty, which preceded the institution of govern- 
 ment. Men wou'd never be so foolish as to enter into such 
 engagements as shou'd turn entirely to the advantage of 
 others, without any view of bettering their own condition. 
 Whoever proposes to draw any profit fi'om our submission, 
 must engage himself, either expressly or tacitly, to make us 
 reap some advantage from his authority ; nor ought he to 
 expect, that without the performance of his part we will ever 
 continue in obedience. 
 
 I repeat it: This conclusion is just, tho' the principles be 
 erroneous ; and I flatter myself, that I can establish the same 
 conclusion on more reasonable principles. I shall not take 
 such a compass, in establishing our political duties, as to 
 assert, that men perceive the advantages of government ; 
 that they institute government with a view to those advan- 
 tages ; that this institution requires a promise of obedience : 
 which imposes a moral obligation to a certain degree, but 
 being conditional, ceases to be binding, whenever the other 
 contracting party performs not his part of the engagement. 
 I perceive, that a promise itself arises entirely from human 
 conventions, and is invented with a view to a certain interest. 
 I seek, therefore, some such interest more immediately con- 
 nected with government, and which may be at once the 
 original motive to its institution, and the source of our 
 obedience to it. This interest I find to consist in the se- 
 curity and protection, which we enjoy in political society, 
 and which we can never attain, when perfectly free and in- 
 dependent. As interest, therefore, is the immediate sanction 
 of government, the one can have no longer being than the 
 other ; and whenever the civil magistrate cames his oppres- 
 sion so far as to render his authority perfectly intolerable, 
 we are no longer bound to submit to it. The cause ceases ; 
 the effect must cease also. 
 
 So far the conclusion is immediate and direct, concerning 
 the natural obligation which we have to allegiance.' As to 
 the moral obligation, we may observe, that the maxim wou'd 
 here be false, that wJien the cause ceases, the effect unust cease 
 also. For there is a principle of human nature, which we 
 
 ' The antithesis of 'natural' and 
 ' moral' corresponds to that of ' interest' 
 
 and ' morality ' in sect. 6. cf. Part I. 
 sect. 2. Note near the end. — Ed.
 
 Sbct. DC. OF MORALS. 315 
 
 have frequently taken notice of, that men are mightily ad- 
 dicted to general rules, and that we often carry our maxims 
 beyond those reasons, which first induc'd us to establish Of the 
 them. Where cases are similar in many circumstances, we ™/alle-*^ 
 are apt to put them on the same footing, without considering, giance. 
 that they differ in the most material circumstances, and that 
 the resemblance is more apparent than real. It may, there- 
 fore, be thought, that in the case of allegiance our moral 
 obligation of duty will not cease, even tho' the natural obli- 
 gation of interest, which is its cause, has ceas'd ; and that 
 men may be bound by conscience to submit to a tyrannical 
 government against their own and the public interest. And 
 indeed, to the force of this argument I so far submit, as to 
 acknowledge, that general rules commonly extend beyond 
 the principles, on which they are founded; and that wo 
 seldom make any exception to them, unless that exception 
 have the qualities of a general rule, and be founded on very 
 numerous and common instances. Now this I assert to be 
 entirely the present case. When men submit to the authority 
 of others, 'tis to procure themselves some security against 
 the wickedness and injustice of men, who are perpetually 
 carried, by their unruly passions, and by their present and 
 immediate interest, to the violation of all the laws of society. 
 But as this imperfection is inherent in human nature, we 
 know that it must attend men in all their states and condi- 
 tions ; and that those, whom we chuse for rulers, do not 
 immediately become of a superior nature to the rest of man- 
 kind, upon account of their superior power and authority. 
 Whaf we expect from them depends not on a change of their 
 nature but of their situation, when they acquire a more im- 
 mediate interest in the preservation of order and the execu- 
 tion of justice. But besides that this interest is only more 
 immediate in the execution of justice among their subjects ; 
 besides this, I say, we may often expect, from the irregularity 
 of human nature, that they will neglect even this immediate 
 interest, and be transported by their passions into all the 
 excesses of cruelty and ambition. Our general knowledge 
 of human nature, our observation of the past history of man- 
 kind, our experience of present times ; all these causes must 
 induce us to open the door to exceptions, and must make us 
 conclude, that we may resist the more violent effects of 
 supreme power, without any crime or injustice.
 
 816 
 
 A TREATISE OF HDTVLAN NATURE. 
 
 pakt ir. 
 
 PAET 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 Accordingly we may observe, that this is both the general 
 practice and principle of mankind, and that no nation, that 
 cou'd find any reinedy, ever yet siiffer'd the cruel ravages of 
 a tyrant, or vrere blam'd for their resistance. Those who 
 took up arms ap^ainst Dionysius or Nero, or Philip the second, 
 have the favour of every reader in the perusal of their his- 
 tory ; and nothing but the most violent perversion of common 
 sense can ever lead us to condemn them. 'Tis certain, there- 
 fore, that in all our notions of morals we never entertain such 
 an absurdity as that of passive obedience, but make allow- 
 ances for resistance in the more flagrant instances of tyranny 
 and oi3pression. The general opinion of mankind has some 
 authority in all cases ; but in this of morals 'tis perfectly 
 infallible. Nor is it less infallible, because men cannot dis- 
 tinctly explain the principles, on which it is founded. Few 
 persons can carry on this train of reasoning : ' Government 
 ' is a mere human invention for the interest of society. 
 
 * Where the tyranny of the governor removes this interest, it 
 ' also removes the natural obligation to obedience. The 
 ' moral obligation is founded on the natural, and therefore 
 
 * must cease where that ceases ; especially where the subject 
 ' is such as makes us foresee very many occasions wherein the 
 
 * natural obligation may cease, and causes us to form a kind 
 ' of general rule for the regulation of our conduct in such 
 ' occurrences.' But tho' this train of reasoning be too subtile 
 for the vulgar, 'tis certain, that all men have an implicit 
 notion of it, and are sensible, that they owe obedience to 
 government merely on account of the public interest^; and 
 at the same time, that human nature is so subject to frailties 
 and passions, as may easily pervert this institution, and 
 change their governors into tyrants and public enemies. If 
 the sense of common interest were not our original motive to 
 obedience, I wou'd fain ask, what other jjrinciple is there in 
 human nature capable of subduing the natural ambition of 
 men, and forcing them to such a submission ? Imitation and 
 custom are not sufficient. For the question still recurs, what 
 motive first j^roduces those instances of submission, which 
 we imitate, and that train of actions, which produces the 
 custom ? There evidently is no other principle than common 
 interest ; and if interest first produces obedience to govern- 
 ment, the obligation to obedience must cease, whenever the 
 interest ceases, in any great degree, and in a considerable 
 number of instances.
 
 Sect. X. OF MORALS. 317 
 
 SECl. 
 Sect. X. — Of the objects of allegiance. X. 
 
 But tho', on some occasions, it may be justifiable, both in of the 
 sound politics and morality, to resist supreme power, 'tis objects of 
 certain, that in the ordinary course of human affairs nothing ^ egiauce. 
 can be more pernicious and criminal ; and that besides the 
 convulsions, which always attend revolutions, such a practice 
 tends directly to the subversion of all government, and the 
 causing an universal anarchy and confusion among mankind. 
 As numerous and civiliz'd societies cannot subsist without 
 government, so government is entirely useless without an 
 exact obedience. We ought always to weigh the advantages, 
 which we reap from authority, against the disadvantages ; 
 and by this means we shall become more scrupulous of 
 putting in practice the doctrine of resistance. The common 
 rule requires submission ; and 'tis only in cases of grievous 
 tyranny and oppression, that the exception can take place. 
 
 Since then such a blind submission is commonly due to 
 magistracy, the next question is, to wJiom it is due, and whom 
 we are to regard as our lawful magistrates ? In order to 
 answer this question, let us recollect what we have already 
 establish'd concerning the origin of government and political 
 society. When men have once experienc'd the impossibility 
 of preserving any steady order in society, while every one is 
 his own master, and violates or observes the laws of society, 
 according to his present interest or pleasure, they naturally 
 run into the invention of government, and put it out of their 
 own power, as far as possible, to transgress the laws of 
 society. Government, therefore, arises from the voluntary 
 convention of men ; and 'tis evident, that the same conven- 
 tion, which establishes government, will also determine the 
 persons who are to govern, and will remove all doubt and 
 ambiguity in this particular. And the voluntary consent of 
 men must here have the greater efficacy, that the authority 
 of the magistrates does at first stand upon the foundation of 
 a promise of the subjects, by which they bind themselves to 
 obedience ; as in every other contract or engagement. The 
 same promise, then, which binds them to obedience, ties 
 them down to a particular person, and makes him the object 
 of their allegiance. 
 
 But when government has been establish'd on this footino- 
 for some considerable time, and the separate interest, which
 
 318 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUINIAN NATURE. 
 
 Part il. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 we have in submission lias produc'd a separate sentiment of 
 morality, the case is entirely alter'd, and a promise is no 
 longer able to determine the particular magistrate ; since it 
 is no longer consider'd as the foundation of government. 
 We naturally suppose ourselves born to submission ; and 
 imagine, that such particular persons have a right to com- 
 mand, as we on our part are bound to obey. These notions 
 of right and obligation are deriv'd from nothing but the 
 advantage we reap from government, which gives us a re- 
 pugnance to practise resistance ourselves, and makes us 
 displeas'd with any instance of it in others. But here 'tis 
 remarkable, that in this new state of affairs, the original 
 sanction of government, which is interest, is not admitted 
 to determine the persons whom we are to obey, as the 
 original sanction did at first, when affairs were on the footing 
 of a promise. A promise fixes and determines the persons, 
 without any uncertainty : But 'tis evident, that if men were 
 to regulate their conduct in this particular, by the view of a 
 peculiar interest, either public or private, they wou'd involve 
 themselves in endless confusion, and wou'd render all govern- 
 ment, in a great measure, ineffectual. The private interest 
 of every one is different ; and tho' the public interest in itself 
 be always one and the same, yet it becomes the source of as 
 great dissentions, by reason of the different opinions of par- 
 ticular persons concerning it. The same interest, therefore, 
 which causes us to submit to magistracy, makes us renounce 
 itself in the choice of our magistrates, and binds us down to 
 a certain form of government, and to particular persons, 
 without allowing us to aspire to the utmost perfection in 
 either. The case is here the same as in that law of nature 
 concerning the stability of possession. 'Tis highly advanta- 
 geous, and even absolutely necessary to society, that posses- 
 sion shou'd be stable ; and this leads us to the establishment 
 of such a rule : But we find, that were we to follow the same 
 advantage, in assigning particular possessions to particular 
 persons, we shou'd disappoint our end, and perpetuate the 
 confusion, which that rule is intended to prevent. We must, 
 therefore, proceed by general rules, and regulate ourselves 
 by general interests, in modifying the law of nature con- 
 cerning the stability of possession. Nor need we fear, that 
 our attachment to this law will diminish upon account of 
 the seeming frivolousness of those interests, by which it is
 
 Skct. X. OF MORALS. 319 
 
 determinM. The impulse of the mind is deriv'd from a very SfiUT. 
 strong interest ; and those other more minute interests serve . ^' . 
 only to direct the motion, without adding- anything to it, or of the 
 diminishing from it. 'Tis the same case with government. oVcts of 
 Nothing is more advantageous to society than such an in- 
 vention ; and this interest is sufficient to make us embrace it 
 with ardour and alacritj^ ; tho' we are oblig'd afterwards to 
 regulate and direct our devotion to government by several 
 considerations, which are not of the same importance, and 
 to chuse our magistrates without having in view any parti- 
 cular advantage from the choice. 
 
 The first of those principles I shall take notice of, as a 
 foundation of the right of magistracy, is that which gives 
 authority to all the most establish'd governments of the 
 world without exception : I mean, long possession in any one 
 form of government, or succession of princes. 'Tis certain, 
 that if we remount to the first origin of every nation, we 
 shall find, that there scarce is any race of kings, or form of a 
 commonwealth, that is not primarily founded on usurpation 
 and rebellion, and whose title is not at first worse than 
 doubtful and uncertain. Time alone gives solidity to their 
 right ; and operating gradually on the minds of men, recon- 
 ciles them to any authority, and makes it seem just and 
 reasonable. Nothing causes any sentiment to have a greater 
 influence upon us than custom, or turns our imagination more 
 strongly to any object. When we have been long accustom'd 
 to obey any set of men, that general instinct or tendency, 
 which we have to suppose a moral obligation attending 
 loyalty, takes easily this direction, and chuses that set of 
 men for its objects. 'Tis interest which gives the general 
 instinct ; but 'tis custom which gives the particular direction. 
 
 And here 'tis observable, that the same length of time has 
 a different influence on our sentiments of morality, according 
 to its different influence on the mind. We naturally judge 
 of everything by comparison ; and since in considering the 
 fate of kingdoms and republics, we embrace a long extent of 
 time, a small duration has not in this case a like influence 
 on our sentiments, as when we consider any other object. 
 One thinks he acquires a right to a horse, or a suit of cloaths, 
 in a very short time ; but a century is scarce sufficient to 
 establish any new government, or remove all scruples in the 
 minds of the subjects concerning it. Add to this, that a
 
 320 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part IL 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 shorter period of time will suffice to give a prince a title to 
 any additional power he may usurp, than will serve to fix his 
 right, where the whole is an usurpation. The kings of 
 France have not been possess'd of absolute power for above 
 two reigns ; and yet nothing will appear more extravagant to 
 Frenchmen than to talk of their liberties. If we consider 
 what has been said concerning accession, we shall easily 
 account for this phsenomenon. 
 
 When there is no form of government establish'd by long 
 possession, the i^resent possession is sufficient to supply its 
 place, and may be regarded as the second source of all public 
 authority. Right to authority is nothing but the constant 
 possession of authority, maintain'd by the laws of society 
 and the interests of mankind ; and nothing can be more 
 natural than to join this constant possession to the present 
 one, according to the principles above-men tion'd. If the 
 same principles did not take place with regard to the pro- 
 perty of private persons, 'twas because these principles were 
 counter- ballanc'd by very strong considerations of interest ; 
 when we observ'd, that all restitution wou'd by that means 
 be prevented, and every violence be authoriz'd and protected. 
 And tho' the same motives may seem to have force, with 
 regard to public authority, yet they are oppos'd by a contrary 
 interest ; which consists in the preservation of peace, and 
 the avoiding of all changes, which, however they may be 
 easily produc'd in private affairs, are unavoidably attended 
 with bloodshed and confusion, where the public is interested. 
 
 Any one, who finding the impossibility of accounting for 
 the right of the present possessor, by any receiv'd system of 
 ethics, shou'd resolve to deny absolutely that right, and 
 assert, that it is not authoriz'd by morality, wou'd be justly 
 thought to maintain a very extravagant paradox, and to 
 shock the common sense and judgment of mankind. No 
 maxim is more conformable, both to prudence and morals, 
 than to submit quietly to the government, which we find 
 establish'd in the country where we happen to live, without 
 enquiring too curiously mto its origin and first establishment- 
 Few governments will bear being examin'd so rigorously. 
 How many kingdoms are there at present in the world, and 
 how many more do we find in history, whose governors have 
 no better foundation for their authority than that of present 
 possession ? To confine ourselves to the Roman and Grecian
 
 Shot. X. OF MORALS. 321 
 
 empire ; is it not evident, that tlie long succession of em- SECT, 
 perors, from the dissolution of the Roman liberty, to the final , . ^' . 
 extinction of that empire by the Turks, con'd not so much as Of the 
 pretend to any other title to the empire ? The election of the ^^^^.^^ of 
 senate was a mere form, which always folio w'd the choice of 
 the legions ; and these were almost always divided in the 
 different provinces, and nothing but the sword was able to 
 terminate the difference. 'Twas by the sword, therefore, 
 that every emperor acquir'd, as well as defended his right ; 
 and we must either say, that all the known world, for so 
 many ages, had no government, and ow'd no allegiance to 
 any one, or must allow, that the right of the stronger, 
 in public affairs, is to be receiv'd as legitimate, and au- 
 thoriz'd by morality, when not oppos'd by any other title. 
 
 The right of conquest may be consider'd as a third source 
 of the title of sovereigns. This right resembles very much 
 that of present possession ; but has rather a superior force, 
 being seconded by the notions of glory and honour, which 
 we ascribe to conquerors, instead of the sentiments of hatred 
 and detestation, which attend usurpers. Men naturally favour 
 those they love ; and therefore are more apt to ascribe a right 
 to successful violence, betwixt one sovereign and another, 
 than to the successful rebellion of a subject against his 
 sovereign.' 
 
 When neither long possession, nor present possession, nor 
 conquest take place, as when the first sovereign, who 
 founded any monarchy, dies ; in that case, the right of 
 succession naturally prevails in their stead, and men are 
 commonly induc'd to place the son of their late monarch on 
 the throne, and suppose him to inherit his father's authority. 
 The presum'd consent of the father," the imitation of the 
 succession to private families, the interest, which the state 
 has in chusing the person, who is most powerful, and has 
 the most numerous followers ; all these reasons lead men to 
 prefer the son of their late monarch to any other person.' 
 
 ' It is not here asserted, thut p7-csent will allow, that they have great force in 
 
 possession or conqiiest are sufficient to all disputes concerning the rights of 
 
 give a title against long possession and princes. 
 
 positive laws : But only that they have ^ To prevent mistakes I must observe, 
 some force, and will be able to cast the that this cafeb of succession is not the 
 ballance where the titles are otherwise same with that of hereditary monarchies, 
 equal.and will even be sufficient so ;Heii»««fc- where custom has fix'd the right of sue- 
 to sanctify the weaker title What de- cession. These depend upon the prin- 
 groe of force they have is difficult to ciple of long possession above explain'd. 
 determine. I believe all moderate men 
 VOL. II. Y
 
 322 A TREATISE OF HTBL^N NATURE. Paet IL 
 
 I'ART These reasons have some weight ; but I am persuaded, that 
 . _ ^j' ^ to one, who considers impartially of the matter, 'twill appear, 
 Of justice that there concur some principles of the imagination, along 
 and in- with those views of interest. The royal authority seems to 
 JUS ice. ^^ connected with the young prince even in his father's life- 
 time, by the natural transition of the thought ; and still 
 more after his death : So that nothing is more natural than 
 to compleat this union by a new relation, and by j)uttinghim 
 actually in possession of what seems so naturally to belong 
 to him. 
 
 To confirm this we may weigh the following phenomena, 
 which are pretty curious in their kind. In elective mon- 
 archies the right of succession has no place by the laws and 
 settled custom ; and yet its influence is so natural, that 'tis 
 impossible entirely to exclude it from the imagination, and 
 render the subjects indifi'erent to the son of their deceas'd 
 monarch. Hence in some governments of this kind, the 
 choice commonly falls on one or other of the royal family, 
 and in some governments they are all excluded. Those con- 
 trary phppnomena proceed from the same principle. Where 
 the royal family is excluded, 'tis from a refinement in politics, 
 which makes people sensible of their propensity to chuse a 
 sovereign in that family, and gives them a jealousy of their 
 liberty, lest their new monarch, aided by this propensity, 
 shou'd establish his family, and destroy the freedom of 
 elections for the future. 
 
 The history of Artaxerxes, and the younger Cyrus, may 
 furnish us with some reflections to the same purpose. Cyrus 
 pretended a right to the throne above his elder brother, 
 because he was born after his father's accession. I do not 
 pretend, that this reason was valid. I wou'd only infer from 
 it, that he wou'd never have made use of such a pretext, were 
 it not for the qualities of the imagination above-mention 'd, 
 by which we are naturally inclin'd to unite by a new relation 
 whatever objects we find already united. Artaxerxes had an 
 advantage above his brother, as being the eldest son, and the 
 first in succession : But Cyrus was more closely related to 
 the royal authority, as being begot after his father was in- 
 vested with it. 
 
 Shou'd it here be pretended, that the view of convenienco 
 may be the source of all the right of succession, and that men 
 gladly take advantage of any rule, by which they can fix the
 
 allegiance. 
 
 Sect. X. OF MORALS. 82.'? 
 
 successor of their late sovereign, and prevent that anarch}- SECT, 
 and confusion, which attends all new elections : To this I ■^, ^/ _. 
 wou'd answer, that I readily allow, that this motive may Of the 
 contribute something to the effect ; but at the same time I o^iects of 
 assert, that without another principle, 'tis impossible such a 
 motive shou'd take place. The interest of a nation requires, 
 that the succession to the crown shou'd be fix'd one way or 
 other ; but 'tis the same thing to its interest in what way it 
 be fix'd : So that if the relation of blood had not an effect 
 independent of public interest, it would never have been re- 
 garded, without a positive law; and 'twou'd have been im- 
 possible, that so many positive laws of different nations could 
 ever have concur'd precisely in the same views and intentions. 
 This leads us to consider the fifth source of authority, viz. 
 positive laws ; when the legislature establishes a certain form 
 of government and succession of princes. At first sight it may 
 be thought, that this must resolve into some of the pT-eceding 
 titles of authority. The legislative power, whence the posi- 
 tive law is deriv'd, must either be establish'd by original 
 contract, long possession, present possession, conquest, or 
 succession ; and consequently the positive law must derive 
 its force from some of those principles. But here 'tis re- 
 markable, that tho' a positive law can only derive its 
 force from these principles, yet it acquires not all the 
 force of the principle from whence it is deriv'd, but loses 
 considerably in the transition ; as it is natural to imagine. 
 For instance ; a government is establish'd for many centuries 
 on a certain system of laws, forms, and methods of succession. 
 The legislative power, established by this long succession, 
 changes all on a sudden the whole system of government, 
 and introduces a new constitution in its stead. I believe 
 few of the subjects will think themselves bound to comply 
 with this alteration, unless it have an evident tendency to 
 the public good : But will think themselves still at liberty to 
 return to the antient government. Hence the notion of 
 fundamental laws', which are suppos'd to be inalterable by 
 the will of the sovereign : And of this nature the Salic law is 
 understood to be in France. How far these fundamental 
 laws extend is not determin'd in any government ; nor is it 
 possible it ever shou'd. There is such an insensible grada- 
 tion from the most material laws to the most trivial, and 
 from the most antient laws to the most modern, that 'twill 
 
 y 2
 
 324 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part IL 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 be impossible to set bounds to the legislative power, and 
 determine how far it may innovate in the principles of 
 government. That is the work more of imagination and 
 passion than of reason. 
 
 "Whoever considers the histoiy of the several nations of 
 the world ; their revolutions, conquests, increase, and diminu- 
 tion ; the manner in which their particular governments are 
 establish'd, and the successive right transmitted from one 
 person to another, will soon learn to treat very lightly all 
 disputes concerning the rights of princes, and will be con- 
 vinc'd, that a strict adherence to any general rules, and the 
 rigid loyalty to particular persons and families, on which 
 some people set so high a value, are virtues that hold less of 
 reason, than of bigotry and superstition. In this particular, 
 the study of history confirms the reasonings of true philo- 
 soph}' ; which, shewing us the original qualities of human 
 nature, teaches us to regard the controversies in politics as 
 incapable of any decision in most cases, and as entirely sub- 
 ordinate to the interests of peace and liberty. Where the 
 public good does not evidently demand a change ; 'tis certain 
 that the concurrence of all those titles, original contract, long 
 possession, present possession, succession, and positive laws, 
 forms the strongest title to sovereignty, and is justly regarded 
 as sacred and inviolable. But when these titles are mingled 
 and opiX)s'd in different degrees, they often occasion per- 
 plexity ; and are less capable of solution from the arguments 
 of lawyers and philosophers, than from the swords of the 
 soldiery. Who shall tell me, for instance, whether Germanicus 
 or Drusus, ought to have succeeded Tiberius, had he died 
 while they were both alive, without naming any of them for 
 his successor ? Ought the right of adoption to be receiv'd 
 as equivalent to that of blood in a nation, where it had the 
 same effect in private families, and had already, in two in- 
 stances, taken place in public? Ought Germanicus to be 
 esteem'd the eldest son, because he was born before Drusus ; 
 or the younger, because he was adopted after the birth of his 
 brother ? Ought the right of the elder to be regarded in a 
 nation, where the eldest brother had no advantage in the 
 succession to private families ? Ought the Boman empire at 
 that time to be esteem'd hereditary, because of two examples ; 
 or ought it, even so early, to be regarded as belonging to the 
 stronger, or the present possessor, as being founded on so
 
 Sect. X. OF MORALS. 826 
 
 recent an usurpation ? Upon whatever principles we may SECT, 
 pretend to answer these and such like questions, I am afraid . — %: — . 
 we shall never be able to satisfy an impartial enquirer, who Of the 
 adopts no party in political controversies, and will be satis- ^Jf^^f^^f^ 
 fied with nothing but sound reason and philosophy. 
 
 But here an English reader will be apt to enquire con- 
 cerning that famous revolution, which has had such a happy 
 influence on our constitution, and has been attended with 
 such mighty consequences. We have already remark'd, that 
 in the case of enormous tyranny and oppression, 'tis lawful 
 to take arms even against supreme power; and that as 
 government is a mere human invention for mutual advantage 
 and security, it no longer imposes any obligation, either 
 natural or moral, when once it ceases to have that tendency. 
 But 'tho this general principle be authoriij'd by common 
 sense, and the practice of all ages, 'tis certainly impossible 
 for the laws, or even for philosophy, to establish any 'par- 
 ticular rules, by which we may know when resistance is 
 lawful ; and decide all controversies, which may arise on that 
 subject. This may not only happen with regard to supi*eme 
 power ; but 'tis possible, even in some constitutions, where 
 the legislative authority is not lodg'd in one person, that 
 there may be a magistrate so eminent and powerful, as 
 to oblige the laws to keep silence in this particular. Nor 
 wou'd this silence be an effect only of their respect, but also 
 of their prudence ; since 'tis certain, that in the vast variety 
 of circumstances, which occur in all governments, an exercise 
 of power, in so great a magistrate, may at one time be bene- 
 ficial to the public, which at another time wou'd be pernicious 
 and tyrannical. But notwithstanding this silence of the 
 laws in limited monarchies, 'tis certain, that the people still 
 retain the right of resistance ; since 'tis impossible, even in 
 the most despotic governments, to deprive them of it. The 
 same necessity of self-preservation, and the same motive of 
 public good, give them the same liberty in the one case as in 
 the other. And we may farther observe, that in such mix'd 
 governments, the cases, wherein resistance is lawful, must 
 occur much oftener, and greater indulgence be given to the 
 subjects to defend themselves by force of arms, than in 
 arbitrary governments. Not only where the chief magistrate 
 enters into measures, in themselves, extremely pernicious to
 
 326 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Pakt II. 
 
 PART 
 II. 
 
 Of justice 
 and in- 
 justice. 
 
 the public, but even when he wou'd encroach on the other 
 parts of the constitution, and extend his power beyond the 
 legal bounds, it is allowable to resist and dethrone him ; tho' 
 such resistance and violence may, in the general tenor of the 
 laws, be deeni'd unlawful and rebellious. For besides that 
 nothing is more essential to public interest, than the pre- 
 servation of public liberty ; 'tis evident, that if such a mix'd 
 government be once suppos'd to be establish 'd, every part or 
 member of the constitution must have a right of self-defence, 
 and of maintaining its antient bounds against the encroach- 
 ment of every other authority. As matter wou'd have been 
 created in vain, were it depriv'd of a power of resistance, 
 without which no part of it cou'd preserve a distinct exist- 
 ence, and the whole might be crowded up into a single point : 
 So 'tis a gross absurdity to suppose, in any government, a right 
 without a remedy, or allow, that the supreme power is shar'd 
 with the people, without allowing, that 'tis lawful for them 
 to defend their share against every invader. Those, there- 
 fore, who wou'd seem to respect our free government, and yet 
 deny the right of resistance, have renounc'd all pretensions 
 to common sense, and do not merit a serious answer. 
 
 It does not belong to my present purpose to shew, that 
 these general principles are applicable to the late revolution ; 
 and that all the rights and privileges, which ought to be 
 sacred to a free nation, were at that time threaten'd with the 
 utmost danger. I am better pleas'd to leave this contro- 
 verted subject, if it really admits of controversy ; and to 
 indulge myself in some philosophical reflections, which 
 naturally arise from that important event. 
 
 First, We may observe, that shou'd the lords and commons 
 in our constitution, without any reason from public interest, 
 either depose the king in being, or after his death exclude 
 the prince, who, by laws and settled custom, ought to suc- 
 ceed, no one wou'd esteem their proceedings legal, or think 
 themselves bound to comply with them. But shou'd the 
 king, by his unjust practices, or his attempts for a tyrannical 
 and despotic power, justly forfeit his legal, it then not only 
 becomes morally lawful and suitable to the nature of political 
 society to dethrone him ; but what is more, we are apt like- 
 wise to think, that the remaining members of the constitution 
 acquire a right of excluding his next heir, and of chusing 
 whom they please for his successor. This is founded on a
 
 Sect. X- OF MORALS. ' 327 
 
 very singular quality of our thought and imagination. When SECT. 
 a king forfeits his authority, his heir ought naturally to re- ._ ^ — . 
 main in the same situation, as if the king were remov'd by Of the 
 death ; unless by mixing himself in the tyranny, he forfeit allegiance. 
 it for himself. But tho' this may seem reasonable, we easily 
 comply with the contrary opinion. The deposition of a king, 
 in such a government as ours, is certainly an act beyond all 
 common authority, and an illegal assuming a power for 
 public good, which, in the ordinary course of government, 
 can belong to no member of the constitution. When the 
 public good is so great and so evident as to justify the action, 
 the commendable use of this licence causes us naturally to 
 attribute to the parliament a right of using farther licences ; 
 and the antient bounds of the laws being once transgressed 
 with approbation, we are not apt to be so strict in confining 
 ourselves precisely within their limits. The mind naturally 
 runs on with any train of action, which it has begun ; nor do 
 we commonly make any scruple concerning our duty, after 
 the first action of any kind, which we perform. Thus at the 
 revolution, no one who thought the deposition of the father 
 justifiable, esteem'd themselves to be confin'd to his infant 
 son ; tho' had that unhappy monarch died innocent at that 
 time, and had his son, by any accident, been convey'd beyond 
 seas, there is no doubt but a regency wou'd have been ap- 
 pointed till he shou'd come to age, and cou'd be restor'd to 
 his dominions. As the slightest properties of the imagination 
 have an effect on the judgments of the people, it shews the 
 wisdom of the laws and of the parliament to take advantage 
 of such properties, and to chuse the magistrates either in or 
 out of a line, according as the vulgar will most naturally 
 attribute authority and right to them. 
 
 Secondly, Tho' the accession of the Prince of Orange to the 
 throne might at first give occasion to many disputes, and his 
 title be contested, it ought not now to appear doubtful, but 
 must have acquir'd a sufiicient authority from those three 
 princes, who have succeeded him upon the same title. 
 Nothing is more usual, tho' nothing may, at first sight, 
 appear more unreasonable, than this way of thinking. 
 Princes often seem to acquire a right from their successors, 
 as well as from their ancestors ; and a king, who during his 
 life-time might justly be deem'd an usurper, will be regarded 
 by posterity as a lawful prince, because he has had the gooJ
 
 328 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Tart H. 
 
 PART fortune to settle his family on the throne, and entirely change 
 
 ^ the antient form of goveniment. Julius Caesar is regarded as 
 
 Of jijstice the first Roman emperor ; while Sylla and Marius, whose 
 
 ^uBtice 'titles were really the same as his, are treated as tyrants and 
 
 usurpers. Time and custom give authority to all forms of 
 
 governnaent, and all successions of princes ; and that power, 
 
 which at first was founded only on injustice and violence, 
 
 becomes in time legal and obligatory. Nor does the mind 
 
 rest there ; but returning back upon its footsteps, transfers 
 
 to their predecessors and ancestors that right, which it 
 
 naturally ascribes to the posterity, as being related together, 
 
 and united in the imagination. The present hing of France 
 
 makes Hugh Capet a more lawful prince than Cromwell ; as 
 
 the establish'd liberty of the Dutch is no inconsiderable 
 
 apology for their obstinate resistance to Philip the second. 
 
 Sect. XI. — Of the laws of nations 
 
 "When civil government has been establish'd over the 
 greatest part of mankind, and different societies have been 
 forni'd contiguous to each other, there arises a new set of 
 duties among the neighbouring states, suitable to the nature 
 of that commerce, which they carry on with each other. 
 Political writers tell us, that in every kind of intercourse, a 
 body politic is to be consider'd as one person ; and indeed 
 this assertion is so far just, that different nations, as well as 
 private persons, require mutual assistance; at the same time 
 that their selfishness and ambition are perpetual sources of 
 war and discord. But tho' nations in this particular resemble 
 individuals, yet as they are veiy different in other respects, 
 no wonder they regulate themselves by different maxims, 
 and give rise to a new set of rules, which we call the laws of 
 nations. Under this head we may comprize the sacredness 
 of the persons of ambassadors, the declaration of war, the 
 abstaining Irom poison'd arms, with other duties of that 
 kind, which are evidently calculated for the commerce, that 
 is peculiar to different societies. 
 
 But tho' these rules be super-added to the laws of nature, 
 the former do not entirely abolish the latter ; and one may 
 safely affirm, that the three fundamental rules of justice, the 
 stability of possession, its transference by consent, and the 
 performance of promises, are duties of princes, as well as of
 
 Sect. XI. OF MOKALS. 329 
 
 subjects. The same interest produces the same effect in both SECT, 
 cases. Where possession has no stability, there must be _ — __ 
 I>erpetual war. Where property is not transferr'd by con- of the 
 sent, there can be no commerce. Where promises are not '^^-^"^ 
 observ'd, there can be no leagues nor alliances. The advan- 
 tages, therefore, of peace, commerce, and mutual succour, 
 make us extend to different kingdoms the same notions of 
 justice, which take place among individuals. 
 
 There is a maxim very current in the world, which few 
 politicians are willing to avow, but which has been authoriz'd 
 by the practice of all ages, that there is a system of morals 
 calculated for 'princes, much 'more free than that ivhich O'ught 
 to govern private persons. 'Tis evident this is not to be un- 
 derstood of the lesser extent of public duties and obligations ; 
 nor will any one be so extravagant as to assert, that the 
 most solemn ti-eaties ought to have no force among princes. 
 For as princes do actually form treaties among themselves, 
 they must propose some advantage from the execution of 
 them ; and the prospect of such advantage for the future 
 must engage them to perform their part, and must establish 
 that law of nature. The meaning, therefore, of this political 
 maxim is, that tho' the morality of princes has the same 
 extent, yet it has not the same force as that of private per- 
 sons, and may lawfully be transgress'd from a more trivial 
 motive. However shocking such a proposition may appear 
 to certain philosophers, 'twill be easy to defend it upon those 
 principles, by which we have accounted for the origin of 
 justice and equity. 
 
 When men have found by experience, that 'tis impossible 
 to subsist without society, and that 'tis impossible to maintain 
 society, while they give free course to their appetites ; so 
 urgent an interest quickly restrains their actions, and im- 
 poses an obligation to observe those rules, which we call the 
 laws of justice. This obligation of interest rests not here ; 
 but by the necessary course of the passions and sentiments, 
 gives rise to the moral obligation of duty ; while we approve 
 of such actions as tend to the peace of society, and dis- 
 approve of such as tend to its disturbance. The same natural 
 obligation of interest takes place among independent king- 
 doms, and gives rise to the same 7uorality ; so that no one of 
 ever so corrupt morals will appi'ove of a prince, who volun- 
 tarily, and of his own accord, breaks his word, or violates any
 
 3n0 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part H. 
 
 PART treaty. But here we may observe, tbat tho' the intercourse 
 
 ._ , of different states be advantageous, and even sometimes 
 
 Of justice necessary, yet it is not so necessary nor advantageous as that 
 
 and in- among individuals, without which 'tis utterly impossible for 
 
 human nature ever to subsist. Since, therefore, the natural 
 
 obligation to justice, among different states, is not so strong 
 
 as among individuals, the moral obligation, which arises from 
 
 it, must partake of its weakness; and we must necessarily 
 
 give a greater indulgence to a prince or minister, who 
 
 deceives another ; than to a private gentleman, who breaks 
 
 his word of honour. 
 
 Shou'd it be ask'd, what proportion these two species of 
 morality hear to each other ? I wou'd answer, that this is a 
 question, to which we can never give any precise answer ; 
 nor is it possible to reduce to numbers the proportion, which 
 we ought to fix betwixt them. One may safely affirm, that 
 this proportion finds itself, without auy art or study of men ; 
 as we may observe on many other occasions. The practice 
 of the world goes farther in teaching us the degrees of our 
 dut}^ than the most subtile philosophy, which was ever yet 
 invented. And this may serve as a convincing proof, that all 
 men have an implicit notion of the foundation of those moral 
 rules concerning natural and civil justice, and are sensible, 
 that they arise merely from humaii conventions, and from the 
 interest, which we have in the preservation of peace and 
 order. For otherwise the diminution of the interest wou'd 
 never produce a relaxation of the morality, and reconcile us 
 more easil}' to any transgression of justice among princes 
 and republics, than in the private commerce of one subject 
 with another. 
 
 Sect. XII. — Of chastity and modesty. 
 
 If any difficulty attend this system concerning the laws 
 of nature and nations, 'twill be with regard to the universal 
 approbation or blame, which follows their observance or trans- 
 gression, and which some may not think sufficiently explain'd 
 from the general interests of society. To remove, as far as 
 possible, all scru])les of this kind, I shall here consider 
 another set of duties, viz. the modesty and chastity which 
 belong to the fair sex : And I doubt not but these virtues 
 will be found to be still more conspicuous instances of the 
 operation of those principles, which I have insisted on.
 
 Skct. XII. OF MORALS. 331 
 
 There are some philosophers, who attack the female virtues SECT, 
 ■with great vehemence, and fancy they have gone very far in ._ ^ '_,. 
 detecting popular errors, when they can show, that there is Of chastity 
 no foundation in nature for all that exterior modesty, which 'i°tlmo- 
 we require in the expressions, and dress, and behaviour of 
 the fair sex. I believe I may spare myself the trouble of 
 insisting on so obvious a subject, and may proceed, without 
 farther preparation, to examine after what manner such 
 notions arise from education, from the voluntary conventions 
 of men, and from the interest of society. 
 
 Whoever considers the length and feebleness of human 
 infancy, with the concern which both sexes naturally have for 
 their offspring, will easily perceive, that there must be an 
 union of male and female for the education of the young, 
 and that this union must be of considerable duration. But 
 in order to induce the men to impose on themselves this 
 restraint, and undergo chearfully all the fatigues and ex-- 
 pences, to which it subjects them, they must believe, that the 
 children are their own, and that their natural instinct is not 
 directed to a wrong object, when they give a loose to love 
 and tenderness. Now if we examine the structure of the 
 human body, we shall find, that this security is very difficult 
 to be attain'd on our part ; and that since, in the copulation 
 of the sexes, the principle of generation goes from the man 
 to the woman, an error may easily take place on the side of 
 the former, tho' it be utterly impossible with regard to the 
 latter. From this trivial and anatomical observation is 
 deriv'd that vast difference betwixt the education and duties 
 of the two sexes. 
 
 Were a philosopher to examine the matter a priori, he 
 wou'd reason after the following manner. Men are induc'd 
 to labour for the maintenance and education of their children, 
 b}'^ the persuasion that they are really their own ; and there- 
 fore 'tis reasonable, and even necessary, to give them some 
 security in this particular. This security cannot consist en- 
 tirely in the imposing of severe punishments on any trans- 
 gressions of conjugal fidelity on the part of the wife ; since 
 the public punishments cannot be inflicted without legal 
 proof, which 'tis difficult to meet with in this subjecti 
 What restraint, therefore, shall we impose on women, in 
 order to counter-balance so strong a temptation as they have 
 to infidelity ? There seems to be no restraint possible, but
 
 332 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part H. 
 
 PART in the punishment of bad fame or reputation ; a punishment, 
 
 , ,: which has a niip^hty influence on the human mind, and at the 
 
 Of justice same time is inflicted by the world upon surmizes, and con- 
 hikI in- jectures, and proofs, that wou'd never be receiv'd in any 
 court of judicature. In order, therefore, to impose a due 
 restraint on the female sex, we must attach a peculiar degree 
 of shame to their infidelity, above what arises merely from 
 its injustice, and must bestow proportionable praises on their 
 chastity. 
 
 But tho' this be a very strong- motive to fidelity, our phi- 
 losopher wou'd quickly discover, that it wou'd not alone be 
 sufficient to that purpose. All human creatures, especially 
 of the female sex, are apt to over-look remote motives in 
 favour of any present temptation : The temptation is here 
 the strongest imaginable : Its approaches are insensible and 
 seducing : And a woman easily finds, or flatters herself she 
 shall find, cei'tain means of securing her reputation, and pre- 
 venting all the pernicious consequences of her pleasures. 
 'Tis necessary, therefore, that, beside the infamy attending 
 such licences, there shou'd be some preceding backwardness 
 or dread, which may prevent their first approaches, and may 
 give the female sex a repugnance to all expressions, and pos- 
 tures, and liberties, that have an immediate relation to that 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Such wou'd be the reasonings of our speculative philoso- 
 pher : But I am persuaded, that if he had not a perfect 
 knowledge of human nature, he wou'd be apt to regard them 
 as mere chimerical speculations, and wou'd consider the in- 
 famy attending infidelity, and backwardness to all its ap- 
 proaches, as principles that were rather to be wish'd than 
 hop'd for in the world. For what means, wou'd he say, of 
 persuading mankind, that the transgressions of conjugal 
 duty are more infamous than any other kind of injustice, 
 when 'tis evident they are more excusable, upon account of 
 the greatness of the temptation ? And what possibility of 
 giving a backwardness to the approaches of a pleasure, to 
 which nature has inspir'd so strong a propensity ; and a 
 propensity that 'tis absolutely necessary in the end to comply 
 with, for the support of the species ? 
 
 But speculative reasonings, which cost so much pains to 
 philosophers, are often form'd by the world naturally, and 
 without reflection : As difficulties, which seem imsurmount-
 
 Skot. XTI. of morals. UtiA 
 
 able in theory, are easily got over in practice. Those, who SECT, 
 have an interest in the fidelity of v^^oinen, naturally dis- . _ y .^ 
 approve of their infidelity, and all the approaches to it. ofchastity 
 Those, who have no interest, are carried alonsr with the '^^-^ ™^- 
 stream. Education takes possession of the ductile minds of 
 the fair sex in their infancy. And when a general rule of 
 this kind is once establish'd, men are apt to extend it beyond 
 those principles, from which it first arose. Thus batchelors, 
 however debauch'd, cannot clmse but be shock'd with any 
 instance of lewdness or impudence in women. And tho' all 
 these maxims have a plain reference to generation, yet 
 women past child-bearing have no more privilege in this 
 respect than those who are in the flower of their youth 
 and beauty. Men have undoubtedly an implicit notion, that 
 all those ideas of modesty and decency have a regard to 
 generation ; since they impose not the same laws, with the 
 same force, on the male sex, where that reason takes not 
 place. The exception is there obvious and extensive, and 
 founded on a remarkable difference, which produces a clear 
 separation and disjunction of ideas. But as the case is not 
 the same with regard to the different ages of women, for 
 this reason, tho' men know, that these notions are founded 
 on the public interest, yet the general rule carries us beyond 
 the original principle, and makes us extend the notions of 
 modesty over the whole sex, from their earliest infancy to 
 their extremest old-age and infirmity. 
 
 Courage, which is the point of honour among men, derives 
 its merit, in a great measure, from artifice, as well as the 
 chastit}^ of women ; tho' it has also some foundation in 
 nature, as we shall see afterwards. 
 
 As to the obligations which the male sex lie under, with 
 regard to chastity, we may observe, that according to the 
 general notions of the world, they bear nearly the same pro- 
 portion to the obligations of women, as the obligations of 
 tlie law of nations do to those of the law of nature. 'Tis 
 contrary to the interest of civil societ}^, that men shou'd have 
 an entire liberty of indulging their appetites in venereal en- 
 joyment : But as this interest is weaker than in the case of 
 the female sex, the moral obligation, arising from it, must 
 be proportionably weaker. And to prove this we need only 
 appeal to the practice and sentiments of all nations and 
 a«res.
 
 834 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part TTl. 
 
 PAET in. 
 
 OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES. 
 
 Sect. I. — Of the origin of the natural virtues and vices. 
 
 We come now to the examination of sucli virtues and 
 vices as are entirely natural, and have no dependance on 
 the artifice and contrivance of men. The examination of 
 these will conclude this system of morals. 
 
 Tlie chief spring or actuating principle of the human mind 
 is pleasure or pain ; and when these sensations are remov'd 
 both from our thought and feeling, we are, in a great 
 measure, incapable of passion or action, of desu-e or volition. 
 The most immediate effects of pleasure and pain are the 
 prepense and averse motions of the mind ; which are diver- 
 sified into volition, into desire and aversion, grief and joy, 
 hope and fear, according as the pleasure or pain changes its 
 situation, and becomes probable or improbable, certain or 
 uncertain, or is consider'd as out of our power for the present 
 moment. But when along with this, the objects, that cause 
 pleasure or pain, acquire a relation to ourselves or others ; 
 they still continue to excite desire and aversion, grief and 
 joy : But cause, at the same time, the indirect passions of 
 pride or humility, love or hatred, which in this case have a 
 double relation of impressions and ideas to the pain or 
 pleasure. 
 
 We have already observ'd, that moral distinctions depend 
 entirely on certain peculiar sentiments of pain and pleasure, 
 and that whatever mental quality in ourselves or others gives 
 us a satisfaction, by the survey or reflection, is of course 
 virtuous ; as everything of this nature, that gives uneasiness, 
 is vicious. Now since every quality in ourselves or others, 
 which gives pleasure, always causes pride or love ; as every 
 one, that produces uneasiness, excites humility or hatred :
 
 Sect. I. OF MORALS. 335 
 
 It follows, that these two particulars are to be coneider'd as sect. 
 equivalent, with regard to our mental qualities, virtue and . ^- 
 
 the power of producing love or pride, vice and the power of of the 
 producing humility or hatred. In every case, therefore, we origin of 
 
 ,.,„,, 1 i 1 i.-! -I tlie natural 
 
 must judge or the one by the other; and may pronounce any virtuesand 
 quality of the mind virtuous, which causes love or pride ; vices. 
 and any one vicious, which causes hatred or humility. 
 
 If any action be either virtuous or vicious, 'tis only a sign 
 of some quality or character. It must depend upon durable 
 principles of the mind, which extend over the whole conduct, 
 and enter into the personal character. Actions themselves, 
 not proceeding from any constant principle, have no influence 
 on love or hatred, pride or humility ; and consequently are 
 never consider'd in morality. 
 
 This reflection is self-evident, and deserves to be attended 
 to, as being of the utmost importance in the present subject. 
 We are never to consider any single action in our enquiries 
 concerning the origin of morals ; but only the quality or 
 character from which the action proceeded. These alone are 
 durable enough to affect our sentiments concerning the person. 
 Actions are, indeed, better indications of a character than 
 words, or even wishes and sentiments ; but 'tis only so far as 
 they are such indications, that they are attended with love 
 or hatred, praise or blame. 
 
 To discover the true origin of morals, and of that love or 
 hatred, which arises from mental qualities, we must take the 
 matter pretty deep, and compare some principles, which have 
 been already examin'd and explain'd. 
 
 We may begin with considering anew the nature and 
 force of sympathy.^ The minds of all men are similar in their 
 feelings and operations ; nor can any one be actuated by any 
 affection, of which all others are not, in some degree, suscep- 
 tible. As in strings equally wound up, the motion of one 
 communicates itself to the rest ; so all the affections readily 
 pass from one person to another, and beget correspondent 
 movements in every human creature. When I see the effects 
 of passion in the voice and gesture of any person, my mind 
 immediately passes from these effects to their causes, and 
 forms such a lively idea of the passion, as is presently con- 
 verted into the passion itself. In like manner, when I 
 perceive the causes of any emotion, my mind is convey'd to 
 
 [' Introd. sect. 52. — Ed.]
 
 386 A TREATISE OF IIUxMAN NATURE. Part III. 
 
 PART the effects, and is actuated with a like emotion. Were I 
 
 ^_ ^^^- present at any of the more terrible operations of surgery, 'tis 
 
 Of the certain, that even before it begun, the preparation of the 
 
 other instruments, the laying of the bandages in order, the heating 
 
 anclTiees of the irons, with all the signs of anxiet}' and concern in the 
 
 patient and assistants, wou'd have a great effect upon my 
 
 mind, and excite the strongest sentiments of pity and terror. 
 
 No passion of another discovers itself immediately to the 
 
 mind. We are only sensible of its causes or effects. From 
 
 these we infer the passion : And consequently these give rise 
 
 to our sympathy. 
 
 Our sense of beauty depends very much on this principle ; 
 and where any object has a tendency to produce pleasure in 
 its possessor, it is always regarded as beautiful ; as every 
 object, that has a tendency to produce pain, is disagreeable 
 and deform'd. Thus the conveniency of a house, the fertility 
 of a field, the strength of a horse, the capacity, security, and 
 swift-sailing of a vessel, form the principal beauty of these 
 several objects. Here the object, which is denominated 
 beautiful, pleases only by its tendency to produce a certain 
 effect. That effect is the pleasure or advantage of some 
 other person. Now the pleasure of a stranger, for whom we 
 have no friendship, pleases us only by sympathy. To this 
 principle, therefore, is owing the beauty, which we find in 
 every thing that is useful. How considerable a part this is 
 of beauty will easily appear upon reflection. Wherever an 
 object has a tendency to produce pleasure in the possessor, 
 or in other words, is the proper ccmse of pleasure, it is sure 
 to please the spectator, by a delicate sympathy with the 
 possessor. Most of the works of art are esteem'd beautiful, 
 in proportion to their fitness for the use of man, and even 
 many of the productions of nature derive their beauty from 
 that source. Handsome and beautiful, on most occasions, 
 is not an absolute but a relative quality, and pleases us 
 by nothing but its tendency to produce an end that is 
 agreeable.' 
 
 The same principle produces, in many instances, our sen- 
 timents of morals, as well as those of beauty. No virtue is 
 more esteem'd than justice, and no vice more detested than 
 
 ' Decentior cquus ciijus astrieta sunt Nunquam vero species ab ntUitate divi- 
 
 ilia ; sed idem velocior. Pulcheraspectu ditur. Sed hoc qnidem discernere, 
 
 sit iithleta, cujus lacertos exercittitio modici judicii est. 
 exprts^it ; Idiin certamini paratior, Qnbicf. lib. 8.
 
 Si;cr. T. OF MORALS. 337 
 
 injustice ; nor are there any qualities, which go farther to SECT, 
 tlie fixing the character, either as amiable or odious. Now ._ ^' 
 justice is a moral virtue, merely because it has that tendency of the 
 to the good of mankind ; and, indeed, is nothing but an o^'g'° "^ 
 artificial invention to that purpose. The same may be said virtues ami 
 of allegiance, of the laws of nations, of modesty, and of good- vices. 
 manners. All these are mere human contrivances for the 
 interest of society. And since there is a very strong senti- 
 ment of morals, which in all nations, and all nges, has 
 attended them, we must allow, that the reflecting on the 
 tendency of characters and mental qualities, is sufficient to 
 give us the sentiments of approbation and blame. Now as 
 the means to an end can only be agreeable, where the end is 
 agreeable ; and as the good of society, where our own interest 
 is not concern'd, or that of our friends, pleases only by sym- 
 pathy : It follows, that sympathy is the source of the esteem, 
 which we pay to all the artificial virtues. 
 
 Thus it appears, that sympathy is a very powerful principle 
 in human nature, that ii has a great influence on our taste of 
 beauty, and that it produces our sentiment of morals in all 
 the artificial virtues. From thence we may presume, that it 
 also gives rise to many of the other virtues ; and that quali- 
 ties acquire our approbation, because of their ten.' enc}^ to the 
 good of mankind. This presumption must become a cer- 
 tainty, when we find that most of those qualities, which we 
 naturally approve of, have actually that tendency, and render 
 a man a proper member of society : While the qualities, 
 which we naturally disapprove of, have a contrary tendency, 
 and render any intercourse with the person dangerous or 
 disagreeable. For having found, that such tendencies have 
 force enough to produce the strongest sentiment of morals, 
 we can never reasonably, in these cases, look for any other 
 cause of approbation or blame ; it being an inviolable maxim 
 in philosophy, that where any particular cause is sufficient for 
 an effect, we ought to rest satisfied with it, and ought not 
 to multiply causes without necessity. We have happily 
 attain'd experiments in the artificial virtues, where the ten- 
 dency of qualities to the good of society, is the sole cause of 
 oui* approbation, without any suspicion of the concurrence of 
 another principle. From thence we learn the force of that 
 principle. And Avhere that principle may take place, and 
 the quality approv'd of is really beneficial to society, a true 
 
 VOL. II. z
 
 338 A THEATISE OF IIIBIAN NATURE. Part III. 
 
 PART philosopher will never require any other principle to account 
 _ ^y- . for the strongest approbation and esteem. 
 ot tha That many of the natural virtues have this tendency to 
 
 oLher -tiie good of society, no one can doubt of. Meekness, bene- 
 
 aiuWkes. ficence, charity, generosity, clemency, moderation, equity, 
 bear the greatest figiire among the moral qualities, and are 
 commonly denominated the social virtues, to mark their ten- 
 dency to the good of society. This goes so far, that some 
 philosophers have represented all moral distinctions as the 
 effect of artifice and education, when skilful politicians en- 
 deavour'd to restrain the turbulent passions of men, and 
 make them operate to the public good, by the notions of 
 honour and shame. This system, however, is not consistent 
 with experience. For, first, there are other virtues and vices 
 beside those which have this tendency to the public advan- 
 tage and loss. Secondly, had not men a natural sentiment 
 of approbation and blame, it cou'd never be excited by poli- 
 ticians ; nor wou'd the words laudable and praise-worthy, 
 hlameahle and odious, be any more intelligible, than if they 
 were a language perfectly unknown to us, as we have already 
 observ'd. But tho' this system be erroneous, it may teach 
 us, that moral distinctions arise, in a great measure, from 
 the tendency of qualities and characters to the interests of 
 society, and that 'tis our concern for that interest, which 
 makes us approve or disapprove of them. Now we have no 
 such extensive concern for society but from sympathy ; and 
 consequently 'tis that principle, which takes us so far out of 
 ourselves, as to give us the same pleasure or uneasiness in 
 the characters of others, as if they had a tendency to our 
 own advantage or loss. 
 
 The only difference betwixt the natural virtues and jus- 
 tice lies in this, that the good, which results from the 
 former, arises from every single act, and is the object of 
 some natural passion : Whereas a single act of justice, con- 
 sider'd in itself, may often be contrary to the public good ; 
 and 'tis only the concurrence of mankind, in a general scheme 
 or system of action, which is advantageous. When I relieve 
 persons in distress, my natural humanity is my motive ; and 
 so far as my succour extends, so far have I promoted the 
 happiness of my fellow-creatures. But if we examine all the 
 questions, that come before any tribunal of justice, we shall 
 find, that, considering each case apart, it wou'd as often be
 
 Sect, I. OF MOEALS. 339 
 
 an instance of humanity to decide contrary to the laws of SECT. 
 
 justice as conformable to them. Judges take from a poor man . {' . 
 
 to give to a rich ; they bestow on the dissolute the labour of of the 
 the industrious ; and put into the hands of the vicious the "'"'S'" "^ 
 means of harming both themselves and others. The whole vrtuts"mi 
 scheme, however, of law and justice is advantageous to the "rices. 
 society ; and 'twas with a view to this advantage, that men, 
 by their voluntary conventions, establish'd it. After it is 
 once establish'd by these conventions, it is naturally attended 
 with a strong sentiment of morals ; which can proceed from 
 nothing but our sympathy with the interests of society. 
 We need no other explication of that esteem, which attends 
 such of the natural virtues, as have a tendency to the public 
 good.* 
 
 I must farther add, that there are several circumstances, 
 which render this hypothesis much more probable with regard 
 to the natural than the artificial virtues. 'Tis certain, that 
 the imagination is more affected by what is particular, than 
 by what is general ; and that the sentiments are always 
 mov'd with difficulty, where their objects are, in any degree, 
 loose and undetermin'd : Now every particular act of justice 
 is not beneficial to society, but the whole scheme or system : 
 And it may not, perhaps, be any individual person, for whom 
 we are concern'd, who receives benefit from justice, but the 
 whole society alike. On the contrary, every particular act 
 of generosity, or relief of the industrious and indigent, is 
 beneficial ; and is beneficial to a particular person, who is 
 not undeserving of it. 'Tis more natural, therefore, to think, 
 that the tendencies of the latter virtue will affect our senti- 
 ments, and command our approbation, than those of the 
 former ; and therefore, since v/e find, that the approbation of 
 the former arises from their tendencies, we may ascribe, with 
 better reason, the same cause to the approbation of the latter. 
 In any number of similar effects, if a cause can be discover'd 
 for one, we ought to extend that cause to all the other effects, 
 which can be accounted for by it: But much more, if these 
 other effects be attended with peculiar circumstances, which 
 facilitate the operation of that cause. 
 
 Before I proceed farther, I must observe two remarkable 
 circumstances in this affair, which may seem objections to 
 the present system. The first may be thus explain'd. When 
 
 [• Introfl. seet. .53 nncl 54.— Ei>.] 
 a 2
 
 340 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part UI. 
 
 PART any quality, or character, has a tendency to the good of nian- 
 
 ^_^j . kind, we are pleas'd with it, and approve of it ; because it 
 
 Of the presents the lively idea of pleasure ; which idea affects us by 
 otlier sympathy, and is itself a kind of pleasure. But as this sym- 
 
 and vices, pathy is very variable, it may be thought, that our sentiments 
 of morals must admit of all the same variations. We sym- 
 pathize more with persons contiguous to us, than with 
 persons remote from us : With our acquaintance, than with 
 strangers : With our countrymen, than with foreigners. But 
 notwithstanding this variation of our sympathy, we give the 
 same approbation to the same moral qualities in China as in 
 England. They appear equally virtuous, and recommend 
 themselves equally to the esteem of a judicious spectator. 
 The sympathy varies without a variation in our esteem. Our 
 esteem, therefore, proceeds not from sympathy. 
 
 To this I answer : The approbation of moral qualities 
 most certainly is not deriv'd from reason, or any comparison 
 of ideas ; but proceeds entirely from a moral taste, and from 
 certain sentiments of pleasure or disgust, which arise upon 
 the contemplation and view of particular qualities or cha- 
 racters. Now 'tis evident, that those sentiments, whence- 
 ever they are deriv'd, must vary according to the distance or 
 contiguity of the objects ; nor can I feel the same lively 
 pleasure from the virtues of a person, who liv'd in Greece 
 two thousand years ago, that I feel from the virtues of a 
 familiar friend and acquaintance. Yet I do not say, that I 
 esteem the one more than the other : And therefore, if the 
 variation of the sentiment, without a variation of the esteem, 
 be an objection, it must have equal force against every other 
 system, as against that of sympathy. But to consider the 
 matter a- right, it has no force at all ; and 'tis the easiest 
 matter in the world to account for it. Our situation, with 
 regard both to persons and things, is in continual fluctuation ; 
 and a man, that lies at a distance from us, may, in a little 
 time, become a familiar acquaintance. Besides, every par- 
 ticular man has a peculiar position with regard to others ; and 
 'tis impossible we cou'd ever converse together on any reason- 
 able terms, were each of us to consider characters and 
 persons, only as they appear from his peculiar point of view. 
 In order, therefore, to prevent those continual contradictions^ 
 and arrive at a more stable judgment of things, we fix on 
 some steady and general points of view; and always, in our
 
 SucT. I. OF MORALS. »U 
 
 thoughts, place ourselves in them, whatever may be our pre- 
 sent situation. In like manner, external beauty is determin'd 
 merely by pleasure; and 'tis evident, a beautiful countenance t)i"fh" 
 
 . rt origin ()i 
 
 cannot give so much pleasure, when seen at the distance of thenatural 
 twenty paces, as when it is brought nearer us. We say not, virtues aad 
 however, that it appears to us less beautiful : Because we "'^''^• 
 know what effect it will have in such a position, and by that 
 reflection we correct its momentary appearance. 
 
 In general, all sentiments of blame or praise are variable, 
 according to our situation of nearness or remoteness, with 
 regard to the person blam'd or prais'd, and according to the 
 present disposition of our mind. But these variations we 
 regard not in our general decisions, but still apply the terms 
 expressive of oui* liking or dislike, in the same manner, as if 
 we remain'd in one point of view. Experience soon teaches 
 us this method of correcting our sentiments, or at least, of 
 correcting our language, where the sentiments are more 
 stubborn and inalterable. Our servant, if diligent and faith- 
 ful, may excite stronger sentiments of love and kindness than 
 Marcus Brutus, as represented in history ; but we say not 
 upon that account, that the former character is more laudable 
 than the latter. We know, that were we to approach equally 
 near to that renown'd patriot, he wou'd command a much 
 higher degree of affection and admiration. Such corrections 
 are common with regard to all the senses ; and indeed 'twere 
 impossible we cou'd ever make use of language, or com- 
 municate our sentiments to one another, did we not correct 
 the momentary appearances of things, and overlook our pre- 
 sent situation.' 
 
 'Tis therefore from the influence of characters and qualities, 
 upon those who have an intercourse with any person, that we 
 blame or praise him. We consider not whether the persons, 
 affected by the qualities, be our acquaintance or strangers, 
 countrymen or foreigners. Nay, we over-look our own in- 
 terest in those general judgments ; and blame not a man for 
 opposing us in any of our pretensions, when his own interest 
 is particularly concern'd. We make allowance for a certain 
 degree of selfishness in men ; because we know it to be in- 
 separable from human nature, and inherent in our frame and 
 constitution. By this reflection we correct those sentiments 
 of blame, which so naturally arise upon any opposition. 
 
 [' Introd. sect. 53 and 54. — Ed.]
 
 342 
 
 A TREATISE OF IIUaLlN NATURE. 
 
 I'AKT ni. 
 
 But however the general principle of our blame or praise 
 may be corrected by those other principles, 'tis certain, they 
 are not altogether efficacious, nor do our passions often cor- 
 respond entirely to the present theory. 'Tis seldom men 
 heartily love what lies at a distance from them, and what no 
 way redounds to their particular benefit ; as 'tis no less rare 
 to meet with persons, who can pardon another any opposition 
 he makes to their interest, however justifiable that opposition 
 may be by the general rules of morality. Here we are con- 
 tented with saying, that reason requires such an impartial 
 conduct, but that 'tis seldom we can bring ourselves to it, and 
 that our passions do not readily follow the determination of 
 our judgment. This language will be easily understood, if 
 we consider what we formerly said concerning that reason, 
 which is able to oppose our passion ; and which we have 
 found to be nothing but a general calm determination of th.\ 
 passions, founded on some distant view or reflection. When 
 we form our judgments of persons, merely from the tendency 
 of their characters to our own benefit, or to that of our 
 friends, we find so many contradictions to our sentiments in 
 society and conversation, and such an uncertainty from the 
 incessant changes of our situation, that we seek some other 
 standard of merit and demerit, which may not admit of so 
 great variation. Being thus loosen'd from our first station, 
 we cannot afterwards fix ourselves so commodiously by any 
 means as by a sympathy with those, who have any commerce 
 with the person we consider. This is far from being as 
 lively as when our own interest is concern'd, or that of our 
 particular friends ; nor has it such an influence on our love 
 and hatred : But being equally conformable to our calm and 
 general principles, 'tis said to have an equal authority over 
 our reason, and to command our judgment and opinion. We 
 blame equally a bad action, which we read of in history, 
 with one perform'd in our neighbourhood t'other day : The 
 meaning of which is, that we know from reflection, that the 
 former action wou'd excite as strong sentiments of disap- 
 probation as the latter, were it plac'd in the same position. 
 
 I now proceed to the second remarkable circumstance, 
 which I propos'd to take notice of. Where a person is 
 possess'd of a character, that in its natural tendency is 
 beneficial to society, we esteem him virtuous, and are de- 
 lighted with the view of his character, even tlio' particular
 
 Sect. I. OF MOKALS. .'J4.'J 
 
 accidents prevent its operation, and incapacitate liim from 
 being serviceable to his friends and country. Virtue in 
 rags is still virtue ; and tlie love, Avliich it procures, attends of the 
 a man into a dungeon or desart, where the virtue can no ongm of 
 
 • • 1 • 1 J 11 j_i 11 the natural 
 
 longer be exerted m action, and is lost to all the world, virtues and 
 Now this may be esteem'd an objection to the present vices. 
 system. Sympathy interests us in the good of mankind ; 
 and if sympathy were the source of our esteem for virtue, 
 that sentiment of approbation cou'd only take place, where 
 the virtue actually attain'd its end, and was beneficial to 
 mankind. Where it fails of its end, 'tis only an imperfect 
 means ; and therefore can never acquire any merit from that 
 end. The goodness of an end can bestow a merit on such 
 means alone as are compleat, and actually produce the end. 
 
 To this we may reply, that where any object, in all its 
 parts, is fitted to attain any agreeable end, it naturally gives 
 us pleasure, and is esteem'd beautiful, even tho' some ex- 
 ternal circumstances be wanting to render it altogether 
 efiectual. 'Tis sufficient if every thing be compleat in the 
 object itself. A house, that is contriv'd with great judgment 
 for all the commodities of life, pleases us upon that account ; 
 tho' perhaps we are sensible, that no-one will ever dwell in 
 it. A fertile soil, and a happy climate, delight us by a re- 
 flection on the happiness which they wou'd afford the inhabi- 
 tants, tho' at present the country be desart and uninhabited. 
 A man, whose limbs and shape promise strength and activity, 
 is esteem'd handsome, tho' condemn'd to perpetual imprison- 
 ment. The imagination has a set of passions belonging to 
 it, upon which our sentiments of beauty much depend. 
 These passions are mov'd by degrees of liveliness and 
 strength, which are inferior to belief, and independent of the 
 real existence of their objects. Where a character is, in 
 every respect, fitted to be beneficial to society, the imagina- 
 tion passes easily from the cause to the effect, without con- 
 sidering that there are still some circumstances wanting to 
 render the cause a compleat one. General rules create a 
 species of probability, which sometimes influences the judg- 
 ment, and always the imagination. 
 
 'Tis true, when the cause is compleat, and a good disposi- 
 tion is attended with good fortune, which renders it really 
 beneficial to society, it gives a stronger pleasure to the 
 spectator, and is attended with a more lively sympathy.
 
 344 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Vxt.t UI. 
 
 We are more affected by it ; and yet we do not say that it is 
 more virtuous, or that we esteem it more. We know, that 
 an alteration of fortune may render the benevolent disposition 
 entirely impotent; and therefore we separate, as much as 
 possible, the fortune from the disposition. The case is the 
 same, as when we correct the different sentiments of virtue, 
 which proceed from its different distances from ourselves. 
 The passions do not always follow our corrections ; but these 
 corrections serve sufficiently to regulate our abstract notions, 
 and are alone regarded, when we pronounce in general con- 
 cerning the degrees of vice and virtue. 
 
 'Tis observ'd by critics, that all words or sentences, which 
 are difficult to the pronunciation, are disagreeable to the ear. 
 There is no difference, whether a man hear them pronounc'd, 
 or read them silently to himself. When I run over a book 
 with my eye, I imagine I hear it all ; and also, by the force 
 of imagination, enter into the uneasiness, which the delivery 
 of it wou'd give the speaker. The uneasiness is not real ; 
 but as such a composition of words has a natural tendency 
 to produce it, this is sufficient to affect the mind with a 
 painful sentiment, and render the discourse harsh and dis- 
 agreeable. 'Tis a similar case, where any real quality is, by 
 accidental circumstances, render'd impotent, and is depriv'd 
 of its natural influence on society. 
 
 Upon these principles we may easily remove any contra- 
 diction, which may appear to be betwixt the extensive sym- 
 pathy, on which our sentiments of virtue depend, and that 
 limited generosity which I have frequently observ'd to be 
 natural to men, and which justice and proj^erty suppose, 
 according to the precedent reasoning. My sympathy with 
 another may give me the sentiment of pain and disapproba- 
 tion, when any object is presented, that has a tendency to 
 give him uneasiness ; tho' I may not be willing to sacrifice 
 any thing of my own interest, or cross any of my passions, 
 for his satisfaction. A house may displease me by being 
 ill-contriv'd for the convenience of the owner ; and yet 1 
 may refuse to give a shilling towards the rebuilding of it. 
 Sentiments must touch the heart, to make them controul our 
 passions : But they need not extend beyond the imagination, 
 to make them influence our taste. When a building seems 
 clumsy and tottering to the eye, it is ugly and disagreeable ; 
 tho' we be fully assur'd of the solidity of the workmanship.
 
 Sect. I. OF MORALS. 345 
 
 'Tis a kind of fear, which causes this sentiment of disappro- 
 bation ; but the passion is not the same with that which we 
 feel, when oblig'd to stand under a wall, that we really think of the 
 tottering: and insecure. The seeminq tendencies of obiects origin of 
 
 tnG nfittiriil 
 
 afiect the mind : And the emotions they excite are of a like virtues and 
 sj)ecies with those, which proceed from the real consequences vices. 
 of objects, but their feeling is different. Nay, these emotions 
 are so different in their feeling, that they may often be con- 
 trary, without destroying each other ; as when the fortifica- 
 tions of a city belonging to an enemy are esteem'd beautiful 
 upon account of their strength, tho' we cou'd wish that they 
 were entirely destroy'd. The imagination adheres to the 
 general views of things, and distinguishes the feelings they 
 produce, from those which arise from our particular and 
 momentary situation.^ 
 
 If we examine the panegyrics that are commonly made of 
 great men, we shall find, that most of the qualities, which 
 are attributed to them, may be divided into two kinds, viz. 
 such as make them perform their part in society ; and such 
 as render them serviceable to themselves, and enable them 
 to promote their own interest. Their prudence, tempera^ice, 
 frugality, industry, assiduity, enterprize, dexterity, are cele- 
 brated, as well as their generosity and humanity. If we ever 
 give an indulgence to any qualitj^, that disables a man from 
 making a figure in life, 'tis to that of indolence, which is not 
 suppos'd to deprive one of his parts and capacity, but only 
 suspends their exercise ; and that without any inconvenience 
 to the person himself, since 'tis, in some measure, from his 
 own choice. Yet indolence is always allow'd to be a fault, 
 and a very great one, if extreme : Nor do a man's friends 
 ever acknowledge him to be subject to it, but in order to save 
 his character in more material articles. He cou'd make a 
 figure, say they, if he pleas'd to give application : His un- 
 derstanding is sound, his conception quick, and his memory 
 tenacious ; but he hates business, and is indifferent about 
 his fortune. And this a man sometimes may make even a 
 subject of vanity ; tho' with the air of confessing a fault : 
 Because he may think, that this incapacity for business 
 implies much more noble qualities ; such as a philosophical 
 spirit, a fine taste, a delicate wit, or a relish for pleasure and 
 
 [,' Introd. sect. 53 and 54. — Eu.l
 
 34(5 A TllEATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. rAur ITI. 
 
 society. But take any other case : Suppose a quality, that 
 without being an indication of any other good qualities, inca- 
 pacitates a man always for business, and is destructive to his 
 interest ; such as a blundering understanding, and a wrong 
 judgment of every thing in life ; inconstancy and irresolution ; 
 or a want of address in the management of men and business : 
 These are all allow'd to be imperfections in a character ; and 
 many men wou'd rather acknowledge the greatest crimes, than 
 have it suspected, that they are, in any degree, subject to them. 
 "Tis very happy, in our philosophical researches, when we 
 find the same phsenomenon diversified by a variety of circum- 
 stances ; and by discovering what is common among them, 
 can the better assure ourselves of the truth of any hypothesis 
 we may make use of to explain it. Were nothing esteem'd 
 virtue but what were beneficial to society, I am per- 
 suaded, that the foregoing explication of the moral sense 
 ought still to be receiv'd, and that upon sufficient evidence : 
 But this evidence must grow upon us, when we find other 
 kinds of virtue, which will not admitof any explication except 
 from that hypothesis. Here is a man, who is not remarkably 
 defective in his social qualities ; but what principally recom- 
 mends him is his dexterity in business, by which he has ex- 
 tricated himself from the greatest difficulties, and conducted 
 the most delicate affairs with a singular address and prudence. 
 I find an esteem for him immediately to arise in me : His 
 company is a satisfaction to me ; and before I have any 
 farther acquaintance with him, I wou'd rather do him a 
 service than another, whose character is in every other 
 respect equal, but is deficient in that particular. In this 
 case, the qualities that please me are all consider'd as useful 
 to the person, and as having a tendency to promote his in- 
 terest and satisfaction. They are only regarded as means to 
 an end, and please me in proportion to their fitness for that 
 end. The end, therefore, must be agreeable to me. But 
 what makes the end agreeable "? The person is a stranger : 
 I am no way interested in him, nor lie under any obligation 
 to him : His happiness concerns not me, farther than the 
 happiness of every human, and indeed of every sensible crea- 
 ture : Tiiat is, it afi'octs me only by sympathy. From that 
 principle, whenever I discover his happiness and good, 
 whether in its causes or effects, I enter so deeply into it, 
 that it gives rae a sensible emotion. The appearance of
 
 Sect. I. OF MORALS. 347 
 
 qualities, that have a tendency to promote it, have an agree- SECT. 
 
 able effect upon my imagination, and command my love and ; , 
 
 esteem. Of the 
 
 This theory may serve to explain, why the same qualities, o"S>i of 
 in all cases, produce both pride and love, humility and hatred; virtues and 
 and the same man is always virtuous or vicious, accomplish'd vices. 
 or despicable to others, who is so to himself. A person, in 
 whom we discover any passion or habit, which originally is 
 only incommodious to himself, becomes always disagreeable 
 to us, merely on its account ; as on the other hand, one whose 
 character is only dangerous and disagreeable to others, can 
 never be satisfied with himself, as long as he is sensible of 
 that disadvantage. Nor is this observable only with regard 
 to characters and manners, but may be remark'd even in the 
 most minute circumstances. A violent cough in another 
 gives us uneasiness ; tho' in itself it does not in the least 
 affect us. A man will be mortified, if you tell him he has a 
 stinking breath ; tho' 'tis evidently no annoyance to himself. 
 Our fancy easily changes its situation ; and either surveying 
 ourselves as we appear to others, or considering others as 
 they feel themselves, we enter, by that means, into senti- 
 ments, which no way belong to us, and in which nothing but 
 sympathy is able to interest us. And this sympathy we 
 sometimes carry so far, as even to be displeas'd with a quality 
 commodious to us, merely because it displeases others, and 
 makes us disagreeable in their eyes ; tho' perhaps we never 
 can have any interest in rendering ourselves agreeable to 
 them. 
 
 Til ere have been many systems of morality advanc'd by 
 j)liilosophcrs in all ages ; but if they are strictly examin'd, 
 they may be reduc'd to two, which alone merit our attention. 
 Moral good and evil are certainly distinguish'd by our sentl- 
 tnents, not by reason : But these sentiments may arise either 
 from the mere species or appearance of characters and pas- 
 sions, or from reflections on their tendency to the happiness of 
 mankind, and of particular persons. My opinion is, that 
 both these causes are intermix'd in our judgments of morals ; 
 after the same manner as they are in our decisions concerning 
 most kinds of external beauty : Tho' I am also of opinion, 
 that reflections on the tendencies of actions have by far the 
 greatest influence, and determine all the great lines of our 
 duty. Tliore are, however, instances, in cases of less moment.
 
 348 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 rAKT III. 
 
 PART 
 JIT. 
 
 Of the 
 other 
 virtues 
 and ■vaces. 
 
 wlierein this immediate taste or sentiment produces our 
 approbation. Wit, and a certain easy and disengag'd be- 
 haviour, are qualities imTnediately agreeable to others, and 
 command their love and esteem. Some of these qualities 
 produce satisfaction in others by particular original principles 
 of human nature, which cannot be accounted for : Others 
 may be resolv'd into principles, which are more general. 
 This will best appear upon a particular enquiry. 
 
 As some qualities acquire their merit from their being im- 
 Tnediately agreeable to others, without any tendency to public 
 interest; so some are denominated virtuous from their being 
 immediately agreeable to the person himself, who possesses 
 them. Each of the passions and opera tions of the mind has 
 a particular feeling, which must be either agreeable or dis- 
 agreeable. The first is virtuous, the second vicious. This 
 particular feeling constitutes the very nature of the passion ; 
 and therefore needs not be accounted for. 
 
 But however directly the distinction of vice and virtue may 
 seem to flow from the immediate j)leasure or uneasiness, 
 which particular qualities cause to ourselves or others ; 'tis 
 easy to observe, that it has also a considerable dependence 
 on the principle of sympathy so often insisted on. We ap- 
 prove of a person, who is possess'd of qualities immediately 
 agreeable to those, with whom he has any commerce ; tho' 
 perhaps we ourselves never reap'd any pleasure from them. 
 We also approve of one, who is possess'd of qualities, that 
 are immediately agreeable to himself ; tho' they be of no ser- 
 vice to any mortal. To account for this we must have 
 recourse to the foregoing principles. 
 
 Thus, to take a general review of the present hypothesis : 
 Every quality of the mind is denominated virtuous, which 
 gives pleasure by the mere survey ; as every quality, which 
 produces pain, is call'd vicious. This pleasure and this pain 
 may arise from four different sources. For we reap a pleasure 
 from the view of a character, which is naturally fitted to be 
 useful to others, or to the person himself, or which is agree- 
 able to others, or to the person himself. One may, perhaps, 
 be surpriz'd, that amidst all these interests and pleasures, we 
 shou'd forget our own, which touch us so nearly on every 
 other occasion. But we shall easily satisfy ourselves on this 
 head, when we consider, that every particular person's plea- 
 sure and interest being different, 'tis impossible men cou'd
 
 Sect. I. OF MORALS. 349 
 
 ever agree ia their sentiments and judgments, unless they SECT. 
 
 chose some common point of view, from which they might ._ ; 
 
 survey their object, and which might cause it to appear the of the 
 
 same to all of them. Now in iudg^inff of characters, the origin of 
 
 the natural 
 
 only interest or pleasure, which appears the same to every virtues and 
 spectator, is that of the person himself, whose character is vices. 
 examin'd ; or that of persons, who have a connexion with 
 him. And tho' such interests and pleasures touch us more 
 faintly than our own, yet being more constant and universal, 
 they counter-ballance the latter even in practice, and are 
 alone admitted in speculation as the standard of virtue and 
 morality. They alone produce that particular feeling or 
 sentiment, on which moral distinctions depend.' 
 
 As to the good or ill desert of virtue or vice, *tis an evident 
 consequence of the sentiments of pleasure or uneasiness. 
 These sentiments produce lore or hatred; and love or hatred, 
 by the original constitution of human passion, is attended 
 with benevolence or anger ; that is, with a desire of making 
 happy the person we love, and miserable the person we hate. 
 We have treated of this more fully on another occasion. 
 
 Sect. II. — Of greatness of mind. 
 
 It may now be proper to illustrate this general system of 
 morals, by applying it to particular instances of virtue and 
 vice, and shewing how their merit or demerit arises from the 
 four sources here explain'd. We shall begin with examining 
 the passions of 'pride and humility, and shall consider the 
 vice or virtue that lies in their excesses or just proportion. 
 An excessive pride or over-weaning conceit of ourselves is 
 always esteem'd vicious, and is universally hated ; as modesty, 
 or a just sense of our weakness, is esteem'd virtuous, and 
 procures the good- will of every- one. Of the four sources of 
 moral distinctions, this is to be ascrib'd to the tJm-d ; viz. the 
 immediate agreeableness and disagreeableness of a quality to 
 others, without any reflections on the tendency of that 
 quality. 
 
 In order to prove this, we must have recourse to two 
 principles, which are very conspicuous in human nature. 
 The first of these is the sympathy, and communication of 
 sentiments and passions above-mention'd. So close and in- 
 
 [' Introd. sect. 53 and 54.— Ed.]
 
 350 
 
 A TREATISE OF IIUM.VN NATUIIE. 
 
 r.viiT III. 
 
 timate is the correspondence of human souls, that no sooner 
 any person approaches me, than he diffuses on me all his 
 opinions, and draws along my judgment in a greater or 
 lesser degree. And tho', on many occasions, my sympathy 
 with him goes not so far as entirely to change my sentiments, 
 and way of thinking ; yet it seldom is so weak as not to dis- 
 turb the easy course of my thought, and give an authority 
 to that opinion, which is recommended to me by his assent 
 and approbation. ISIor is it any way material upon what 
 subject he and I employ our thoughts. Whether we judge 
 of an indifferent person, or of my own character, my sym- 
 pathy gives equal force to his decision : And even his 
 sentiments of his own merit make me consider him in the 
 same light, in which he regards himself. 
 
 This principle of sympathy is of so powerful and insinua- 
 ting a nature, that it enters into most of our sentiments and 
 passions, and often takes place under the appearance of its 
 contrary. For 'tis remarkable, that when a person opposes 
 me in any thuig, which I am strongly bent upon, and rouzes 
 up my passion by contradiction, I have always a degree of 
 sympathy with him, nor does my commotion proceed from 
 any other origin. We may here observe an evident conflict 
 or rencounter of opposite principles and passions. On the 
 one side there is that passion or sentiment, which is natural 
 to me ; and 'tis observable, that the stronger this passion is, 
 the srreater is the commotion. There must also be some 
 passion or sentiment on the other side ; and this passion can 
 proceed from nothing but sympathy. The sentiments of 
 others can never affect us, but by becoming, in some measure, 
 our own; in which case they operate upon us, by opposing 
 and encreasing our passions, in the very same manner, as if 
 they had been originally deriv'd from our own temper and 
 disposition. While they remain conceal'd in the minds of 
 others, they can never have any influence upon us : And 
 even when they are known, if they went no farther than the 
 imagination, or conception ; that faculty is so accustom'd to 
 objects of every different kind, that a mere idea, tho' con- 
 trary to our sentiments and inclinations, wou'd never alone 
 be able to affect us. 
 
 The second principle I shall take notice of is that of com- 
 parison, or the variation of our judgments concerning objects, 
 according to the proportion they bear to those with which
 
 Sect. U. OF MORALS. :m 
 
 we compare uhem. We judge more of objects by comparison, SECT. 
 than by their intrinsic worth and value ; and regard every . , , 
 
 thing as mean, when set in opposition to what is superior of Of great- 
 the same kind. But no comparison is more obvious than that '^e^^ of 
 with ourselves ; and hence it is that on all occasions it takes 
 place, and mixes with most of our passions. This kind of 
 comparison is directly contrary to sympathy in its operation, 
 as we have observ'd in treating of compassion and malice. 
 ^In all kinds of comparison an object makes us always receive 
 from another, to which it is compared, a sensation contrary to 
 what arises from itself in its direct and immediate survey. The 
 direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us pleasure ; 
 and therefore produces pain, when compared with our oivn. His 
 pain, consider'' d in itself, is painful ; hut augments the idea of 
 oiir own happiness, and gives us pleasure. 
 
 Since then those principles of sympathy, and a comparison 
 with ourselves, are directly contrary, it may be worth while 
 to consider, what general rules can be form'd, beside the 
 particular temper of the person, for the prevalence of the 
 one or the other. Suppose I am now in safety at land, and 
 wou'd willingly reap some pleasure from this consideration : 
 I must think on the miserable condition of those who are at 
 sea in a storm, and must endeavour to render this idea as 
 strong and lively as possible, in order to make me more 
 sensible of my own haj^piness. But whatever pains I may 
 take, the comparison will never have an equal efficacy, as if 
 ] were really on^ the shore, and saw a ship at a distance, 
 iost by a tempest, and in danger every moment of perishing 
 on a rock or sand-bank. But suppose this idea to become 
 still more lively. Suppose the ship to be driven so near me, 
 that I can perceive distinctly the horror, painted on the 
 countenance of the seamen and passengers, hear their 
 lamentable cries, see the dearest friends give their last adieu, 
 or embrace with a resolution to perish in each other's arms : 
 No man has so savage a heart as to reap any pleasure from 
 such a spectacle, or withstand the motions of the tenderest 
 compassion and sympathy. 'Tis evident, therefore, there is 
 a medium in this case ; and that if the idea be too faint, it 
 
 ' Book II. Part II. Sect. VIII. 
 
 * Suave mari magno txirbantibus fequora ventis 
 E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem ; 
 Non quia voxari quenqxiam est jucunda voluptas, 
 Sed quibus ipse malis careasquia cernere .suav' est. — Lucrd.
 
 352 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part HI. 
 
 lias no influence by comparison ; and on the other hand, if it 
 be too strong, it operates on us entirel}' by sympathy, which 
 is the contrary to comparison. Sympathy being the conver- 
 sion of an idea into an impression, demands a greater force 
 and vivacity in the idea than is requisite to comparison. 
 
 All this is easily applied to the present subject. We sink 
 very much in our own eyes, when in the presence of a great 
 man, or one of a superior genius ; and this humility makes 
 a considerable ingredient in that respect, which we pay our 
 superiors, according to our' foregoing reasonings on that 
 passion. Sometimes even envy and hatred arise from the 
 comparison ; but in the greatest j)art of men, it rests at 
 respect and esteem. As sympathy has such a powerful in- 
 fluence on the human mind, it causes pride to have, in some 
 measure, the same effect as merit ; and by making us enter 
 into those elevated sentiments, which the proud man enter- 
 tains of himself, presents that comparison, Avhich is so mor- 
 tifying and disagreeable. Our judgment does not entirely 
 accompany him in the flattering conceit, in which he pleases 
 himself; but still is so shaken as to receive the idea it pre- 
 sents, and to give it an influence above the loose conceptions 
 of the imagination. A man, who, in an idle humour, wou'd 
 form a notion of a person of a merit very much superior to 
 his own, wou'd not be mortified by that fiction : But when a 
 man, whom we are really persuaded to be of inferior merit, 
 is presented to us ; if we observe in him any extraordinary 
 degree of pride and self-conceit ; the finn persuasion he has 
 of his own merit, takes hold of the imagination, and 
 diminishes us in our own eyes, in the same manner, as if he 
 were really possess'd of all the good qualities which he so 
 liberally attributes to himself. Our idea is here precisely in 
 that medium, which is requisite to make it operate on us by 
 comparison. Were it accompanied with belief, and did the 
 person appear to have the same merit, which he assumes to 
 himself, it wou'd have a contrary effect, and wou'd operate 
 on us by sympathy. The influence of that principle 
 wou'd then be superior to that of comparison, contrary to 
 what happens where the person's merit seems below his 
 pretensions. 
 
 The necessary consequence of these principles is, that 
 pride, or an over-weaning conceit of ourselves, must be 
 ' Book II. Part II. Sect. X.
 
 Sect, H, OF MORALS. 353 
 
 vicious ; since it causes uneasiness in all men, and presents SECT, 
 them every moment with a disagreeable comparison. 'Tis . ' 
 a trite observation in philosophy, and even in common life of great 
 and conversation, that 'tis our own pride, which makes us so "ess of 
 much displeas'd with the pride of other people ; and that 
 vanity becomes insupportable to us merely because we are 
 vain. The gay naturally associate themselves with the gay, 
 and the amorous with the amorous : But the proud never 
 can endure the proud, and rather seek the company of those 
 who are of an opposite disposition. As we are, all of us, 
 proud in some degree, j)ride is universally blam'd and con- 
 demn'd by all mankind ; as having a natural tendency to 
 cause uneasiness in others by means of comparison. And 
 this effect must follow the more naturally, that those, Avho 
 have an ill-grounded conceit of themselves, are for ever 
 making those comparisons, nor have they any other method 
 of supporting their vanity. A man of sense and merit is 
 pleas'd with himself, independent of all foreign considera- 
 tions : But a fool must always find some person, that is more 
 foolish, in order to keep himself in good humour with his 
 own parts and understanding. 
 
 But tho' an over-weaning conceit of our own merit be 
 vicious and disagreeable, nothing can be more laudable, than 
 to have a value for ourselves, where we really have qualities 
 that are valuable. The utility and advantage of any quality 
 to ourselves is a source of virtue, as well as its agreeableness 
 to others ; and 'tis certain, that nothing is more useful to us 
 in the conduct of life, than a due degree of pride, which 
 makes us sensible of our own merit, and gives us a confidence 
 and assurance in all our projects and enter[Drizes. Whatever 
 capacity any one may be endow'd with, 'tis entirely useless 
 to him, if he be not acquainted with it, and form not designs 
 suitable to it. 'Tis requisite on all occasions to know our 
 own force ; and were it allowable to err on either side, 
 'twou'd be more advantageous to over-rate our merit, than to 
 form ideas of it, below its just standard. Fortune commonly 
 favours the bold and enterprizing ; and nothing inspires us 
 with more boldness than a good opinion of ourselves. 
 
 Add to this, that tho' pride, or self-applause, be sometimes 
 disagreeable to others, 'tis always agreeable to ourselves ; as 
 on the other hand, modesty, tho' it give pleasure to every 
 
 VOL. II. A A
 
 354 
 
 A TREATISE OF HIIMAN NATURE. 
 
 Tart III. 
 
 PAET 
 III. 
 
 Of the 
 other 
 vinues 
 find vices. 
 
 one, who observes it, produces often uneasiness in the person 
 endow'd with it. Now it has been observ'd, that our own 
 sensations determine the vice and virtue of any quality, as 
 well as those sensations, which it may excite in others. 
 
 Thus self-satisfaction and vanity may not only be allow- 
 able, but requisite in a character. 'Tis, however, certain, 
 that good-breeding and decency require that we shou'd avoid 
 all signs and expressions, which tend directly to show that 
 passion. We have, all of us, a wonderful partiality for our- 
 selves, and were we always to give vent to our sentiments in 
 this particular, we shou'd mutually cause the greatest indig- 
 nation in each other, not only by the immediate presence of 
 so disagreeable a subject of comparison, but also by the con- 
 trariety of our judgments. In like manner, therefore, as we 
 establish the laws of nature, in order to secure property in 
 society, and prevent the opposition of self-interest ; we esta- 
 blish the rules of good-breeding, in order to prevent the 
 opposition of men's pride, and render conversation agreeable 
 and inoffensive. Nothing is more disagreeable than a man's 
 over-weaning conceit of himself: Every one almost has a 
 strong propensity to this vice : No one can well distinguish 
 in himself betwixt the vice and virtue, or be certain, that his 
 esteem of his own merit is well-founded : For these reasons, 
 all direct expressions of this passion are condemn'd ; nor do 
 we make any exception to this rule in favour of men of sense 
 and merit. They are not allow'd to do themselves justice 
 openly, in w^ords, no more than other people ; and even if 
 they show a reserve and secret doubt in doing themselves 
 justice in their own thoughts, they will be more applauded. 
 That impertinent, and almost universal propensity of men, 
 to over- value themselves, has given us such a, prejudice against 
 self-applause, that we are apt to condemn it, by a general 
 rule, wherever we meet with it ; and 'tis with some difficulty 
 we give a privilege to men of sense, even in their most secret 
 thoughts. At least, it must be own'd, that some disguise in 
 this particular is absolutely requisite ; and that if we harbour 
 pride in our breasts, we must carry a fair outside, and have 
 the appearance of modesty and mutual deference in all our 
 conduct and behaviour. We must, on every occasion, be 
 ready to prefer others to ourselves ; to treat them with a kind 
 of deference, even tho' they be our equals ; to seem always 
 the lowest and least in the company, where we are not very
 
 Sect. H. OF MORALS. 355 
 
 much distinofuisli'd above them : And if we observe these SECT. 
 
 • • II 
 
 rules in our conduct, men will have more indulgence for , / _ 
 
 our secret sentiments, when we discover them in an oblique Of great- 
 manner, ness of 
 
 I believe no one, who has any practice of the world, and 
 can penetrate into the inward sentiments of men, will assert, 
 that the humility, which g(X)d- breeding and decency require 
 of us, goes beyond the outside, or that a thorough sincerity 
 in this particular is esteem'd a real part of our duty. On 
 the contrary, we may observe, that a genuine and hearty 
 pride, or self-esteem, if well conceal'd and weU founded, is 
 essential to the character of a man of honour, and that there 
 is no quality of the mind, which is more indispensibly re- 
 quisite to procure the esteem and approbation of mankind. 
 There are certain deferences and mutual submissions, which 
 custom requires of the different ranks of men towards each 
 other ; and whoever exceeds in this particular, if thro' 
 interest, is accus'd of meanness, if thro' ignorance, of sim- 
 plicity. 'Tis necessary, therefore, to know our rank and 
 station in the world, whether it be fix'd by our birth, fortune, 
 employments, talents or reputation. 'Tis necessary to feel 
 the sentiment and passion of pride in conformity to it, and 
 to regulate our actions accordingly. And shou'd it be said, 
 that prudence may suffice to regalate our actions in this 
 particular, without any real pride, I wou'd observe, that 
 here the object of prudence is to conform our actions to the 
 general usage and custom ; and that 'tis impossible those 
 tacit airs of superiority shou'd ever have been establish'd 
 and authoriz'd by custom, unless men were generally proud, 
 and unless that passion were generally approv'd, when well- 
 grounded. 
 
 If we pass from common life and conversation to history, 
 this reasoning acquires new force, when we observe, that all 
 those great actions and sentiments, which have become the 
 admiration of mankind, are founded on nothing but pride 
 and self-esteem. Go, says Alexander the Great to his sol- 
 diers, when they refus'd to follow him to the Indies, go tell 
 your countrymen, that you left Alexander com/pleating the con- 
 quest of the world. This passage was always particularly 
 admir'd by the prince of Conde, as we learn from St. Evre- 
 mond. ' Alexander,'' said that prince, ' abandon'd by h.\^ 
 ' soldiers, among barbarians, not yet fully subdu'd, felt in 
 
 A A 2
 
 856 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part III. 
 
 * himself such a dignity and right of empire, that he cou'd 
 ' not believe it possible any one cou'd refuse to obey him. 
 ' Whether in Europe or in Asia, among Greeks or Persians, 
 ' all was indifferent to him : Wherever he found men, he 
 
 * fancied he had found subjects.' 
 
 In general we may observe, that whatever we call heroic 
 virtue, and admire under the character of greatness and 
 elevation of mind, is either nothing but a steady and well- 
 establish'd pride and self-esteem, or partakes largely of that 
 /)assion. Courage, intrepidity, ambition, love of glory, mag- 
 nanimity, and all the other shining virtues of that kind 
 have plainly a strong mixture of self-esteem in them, and 
 derive a great part of their merit from that origin. Accord- 
 ingly we find, that many religious declaimers decry those 
 virtues as purely pagan and natural, and represent to us the 
 excellency of the Ohristian religion, which places humility 
 in the rank of virtues, and corrects the judgment of the 
 world, and even of philosophers, who so generally admire all 
 the efforts of pride and ambition. Whether this virtue of 
 humility has been rightly understood, I shall not pretend to 
 determine. I am content with the concession, that the 
 world naturally esteems a well-regulated pride, which 
 secretly animates our conduct, without breaking out into 
 such indecent expressions of vanity, as may offend the vanity 
 of others. 
 
 The merit of pride or self-esteem is deriv'd from two cir- 
 cumstances, viz. its utility and its agi-eeableness to our- 
 selves ; by which it capacitates us for business, and, at the 
 same time, gives us an immediate satisfaction. When it 
 goes beyond its just bounds, it loses the first advantage, and 
 even becomes prejudicial ; which is the reason why we con- 
 demn an extravagant pride and ambition, however regulated 
 by the decorums of good-breeding and politeness. But as 
 such a passion is still agreeable, and conveys an elevated 
 and sublime sensation to the person, who is actuated by it, 
 the sympathy with that satisfaction diminishes considerably 
 the blame, which naturally attends its dangerous influence 
 on his conduct and behaviour. Accordingly we may observe, 
 that an excessive courage and magnanimity, especially when 
 it displays itself under the frowns of fortune, contributes, in 
 a great measure, to the character of a horo, and will render 
 a person the admiration of posterity ; at the same time, that
 
 Sect. II, OF MORALS. 357 
 
 it ruins his affairs, and leads liim into danorers and diffi- SECT. 
 
 II 
 culties, with which otherwise he wou'd never have been ac- / . 
 
 quainted. Of great- 
 
 Heroism, or military glory, is much admir'd by the gene- ne^s of 
 yality of mankind. They consider it as the most sublime 
 kind of merit. Men of cool reflection are not so sanguine in 
 their praises of it. The infinite confusions and disorder, 
 which it has caus'd in the world, diminish much of its merit 
 in their eyes. When they wou'd oppose the popular notions 
 on this head, they always paint out the evils, which this 
 suppos'd virtue has produc'd in human society ; the subver- 
 sion of empires, the devastation of provinces, th6 sack of 
 cities. As long as these are present to us, we are more 
 inclin'd to hate than admire the ambition of heroes. But 
 when we fix our view on the person himbelf, who is the 
 author of all this mischief, there is something so dazling in 
 his character, the mere contemplation of it so elevates the 
 mind, that we cannot refuse it our admiration. The pain^ 
 which we receive from its tendency to the prejudice of 
 society, is over-power'd by a stronger and more immediate 
 sympathy. 
 
 Thus our explication of the merit or demerit, which 
 attends the degrees of pride or self-esteem, may serve as a 
 strong argument for the preceding hypothesis, by shewing 
 the effects of those principles above explain'd in all the 
 variations of our judgments concerning that passion. Nor 
 will this reasoning be advantageous to us only by shewing, 
 that the distinction of vice and virtue arises from the four 
 principles of the advantage and of the pleasure of the 'person 
 himself, and of others : But may also afford us a strong proof 
 of some under-parts of that hypothesis. 
 
 No one, who duly considers of this matter, will make any 
 scruple of allowing, that any piece of ill-breeding, or any ex- 
 pression of pride and haughtiness, is displeasing to us, 
 merely because it shocks our own pride, and leads us by 
 sympathy into a comparison, which causes the disagreeable 
 passion of humility. Now as an insolence of this kind is 
 blam'd even in a person who has always been civil to our- 
 selves in particular : nay, in one, whose name is only known 
 to us in history ; it follows, that our disapprobation proceeds 
 from a sympathy with others, and from the reflection, that
 
 358 A TREATISE OF IIUjVIAN NATURE. Paut Til. 
 
 such a character is highly displeasing and odious to every 
 one, who converses or has any intercourse with the person 
 possest of it. We sympathize with those people in their un- 
 easiness ; and as their uneasiness proceeds in part from a 
 sympathy with the person who insults them, we may here 
 observe a double rebound of the sympathy; which is a principle 
 very similar to what we have observ'd on another occasion.' 
 
 Sect. III. — Of goodness and benevolence. 
 
 Having thus explain'd the origin of that praise and appro- 
 bation, which attends every thing we call great in human 
 affections ; we now proceed to give an account of their 
 goodness, and shew whence its merit is deriv'd. 
 
 When experience has once given us a competent knowledge 
 of human affairs, and has taught us the proportion they bear 
 to human passion, we perceive, that the generosity of men is 
 very limited, and that it seldom extends beyond their friends 
 and family, or, at most, beyond their native country. Being 
 thus acquainted with the nature of man, we expect not any 
 impossibilities from him ; but confine our view to that narrow 
 circle, in which any person moves, in order to form a judg- 
 ment of his moral character. When the natural tendency of 
 his passions leads him to be serviceable and useful within his 
 sphere, we approve of his character, and love his person, by 
 a sympathy with the sentiments of those, who have a more 
 particular connexion with him. We are quickly oblig'd to 
 forget our own interest in our judgments of this kind, by 
 reason of the jjerpetual contradictions, we meet with in 
 society and conversation, from persons thu.t are not plac'd in 
 the same situation, and have not the same interest with our- 
 selves. The only point of view, in which our sentiments 
 concur with those of others, is, when we consider the ten- 
 dency of any passion to the advantage or harm of those, who 
 have any immediate connexion or intercourse with the person 
 possess'd of it. Arid tho' this advantage or harm be often 
 very remote from ourselves, yet sometimes 'tis very near us, 
 jind interests us strongly by sympathy. This concern we 
 readily extend to other cases, that are resembling; and when 
 these are very remote, our sympathy is i)r()portional)ly weaker, 
 
 ' Book II. I\u-t II. Sect. V.
 
 Sbx^t. III. OF MORALS. ">->0 
 
 and our praise or blame fainter and more doubtful. The case sect 
 
 is here the same as in our judgments concerning external .^ ^:_ 
 
 bodies. All objects seem to diminish by their distance : But of good- 
 tho' the appearance of objects to our senses be the original J^^^^^^*^ 
 standard, by which we judge of them, yet we do not say, that lence. 
 they actually diminish by the distance ; but correcting the 
 appearance by reflection, arrive at a more constant and 
 establish'd judgment concerning them. In like manner, tho' 
 sympathy be much fainter than our concern for ourselves, 
 and a sympathy with persons remote from us much fainter 
 than that with persons near and contiguous ; yet we neglect 
 all these differences in our calm judgments concerning the 
 characters of men. Besides, that we ourselves often change 
 our situation in this particular, we every day meet with per- 
 sons, who are in a different situation from ourselves, and who 
 cou'd never converse with us on any reasonable terms, were 
 we to remain constantly in that situation and point of view, 
 which is peculiar to us. The intercourse of sentiments, 
 therefore, in society and conversation, makes us form some 
 general inalterable standard, by which we may approve or 
 disapprove of characters and manners. And tho' the heart 
 does not always take part with those general notions, or re- 
 gulate its love and hatred by them, yet are they sufficient for 
 discourse, and serve all our purposes in company, in the 
 pulpit, on the theatre, and in the schools. 
 
 From these principles we may easily account for that merit, 
 which is commonly ascrib'd to generosity , himianUy, cotn- 
 passion, gratitude, friendship, fidelity, zeal, disinterededness, 
 liberality, and all those other qualities, which form the cha- 
 racter of good and benevolent. A propensity to the tender 
 passions makes a man agreeable and useful in all the parts 
 of life ; and gives a just direction to all his other qualities, 
 which otherwise may become prejudicial to society. Courage 
 and ambition, when not regulated by benevolence, are lit 
 only to make a tyrant and public robber. ^Tis the same case 
 with judgment and capacity, and all the qualities of that 
 kind. They are indifferent in themselves to the interests of 
 society, and have a tendency to the good or ill of mankind, 
 according as they are directed by these other passions. 
 
 As love is immediately agreeable to the person, who is ac- 
 tuated by it, and hatred immediately disagreeable ; this may 
 also be a considerable reason, why we praise all llu' passions
 
 3G0 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATUllE. Part IH. 
 
 that partake of the former, and blame all those that have 
 any considerable share of the latter. 'Tis certain we are in- 
 finitely touch'd with a tender sentiment, as well as with a 
 great one. The tears naturally start in our eyes at the con- 
 ception of it ; nor can we forbear giving a loose to the same 
 tenderness towards the person who exerts it. All this seems 
 to me a proof, that our approbation has, in those cases, an 
 origin different from the prospect of utility and advantage, 
 either to ourselves or others. To which we may add, that 
 men naturally, without reflection, approve of that character, 
 which is most like their own. The man of a mild disposition 
 and tender affections, in forming a notion of the most per- 
 fect virtue, mixes in it more of benevolence and humanity, 
 than the man of courage and enterprize, who naturally looks 
 upon a certain elevation of mind as the most accomplish'd 
 character. This must evidently proceed from an immediate 
 sympathy, which men have with characters similar to their 
 own. They enter with more warmth into such sentiments, 
 and feel more sensibly the pleasure, which arises from them. 
 
 'Tis remarkable, that nothing touches a man of humanity 
 more than any instance of extraordinary delicacy in love or 
 friendship, where a person is attentive to the smallest con- 
 cerns of his friend, and is willing to sacrifice to them the 
 most considerable interest of his own. Such delicacies hare 
 little influence on society ; because they make us regard the 
 greatest trifles : But they are the more engaging, the more 
 minute the concern is, and are a proof of the highest merit 
 in any one, who is capable of them. The passions are so 
 contagious, that they pass with the greatest facility from one 
 person to another, and produce correspondent movements in 
 all human breasts. Where friendship appears in very signal 
 instances, my heart catches the same passion, and is warm'd 
 by those warm sentiments, that display themselves before me. 
 Such agreeable movements must give me an aflection to every 
 one that excites them. This is the case with every thing that 
 is agreeable in any person. The transition from pleasure to 
 love is easy : But the transition must here be still more easy ; 
 since the agreeable sentiment, which is excited by sympathy, 
 is love itself; and there is nothing requir'd but to change the 
 object. 
 
 Hence the peculiar merit of benevolence in all its shapes 
 and appearances. Hence even its weaknesses are virtuous
 
 Sect. ^^ OF MORALS. 861 
 
 and amiable ; and a person, whose grief upon the loss of a SECT, 
 friend were excessive, wou'd be esteem'd upon that account. ._ / ^ 
 His tenderness bestows a merit, as it does a pleasure, on his Of good- 
 melancholy, nesaaud 
 
 We are not, however, to imagine, that all the angry pas- lanco. 
 eions are vicious, tho' they are disagreeable. There is a 
 certain indulgence due to human nature in this respect. 
 Anger and hatred are passions inherent in our very frame 
 and constitution. The want of them, on some occasions, 
 may even be a proof of weakness and imbecillity. And 
 where they appear only in a low degree, we not only excuse 
 them because they are natural ; but even bestow our apj)lauses 
 on them, because they are inferior to what appears in the 
 greatest part of mankind. 
 
 Where these angry passions rise up to cruelty, they form 
 the most detested of all vices. All the pity and concern 
 which we have for the miserable sufferers by this vice, turns 
 against the person guilty of it, and produces a stronger 
 hatred than we are sensible of on any other occasion. 
 
 Even when the vice of inhumanity rises not to this ex- 
 treme degree, our sentiments concerning it are very much 
 influenc'd by reflections on the harm that results from it. 
 And we may observe in general, that if we can find any 
 quality in a person, which renders him incommodious to 
 those, who live and converse with him, we always allow it to 
 be a fault or blemish, without any farther examination. On 
 the other hand, when we enumerate the good qualities of any 
 person, we always mention those parts of his character, 
 which render him a safe companion, an easy friend, a gentle 
 master, an agreeable husband, or an indulgent father. We 
 consider him with all his relations in society ; and love or 
 hate him, according as he afiects those, who have any im- 
 mediate intercourse with him. And 'tis a most certain rule, 
 that if there be no relation of life, in which I cou'd not wish 
 to stand to a particular person, his character must so fur be 
 allow'd to be perfect. If he be as little wanting to himself 
 as to others, his character is entirely perfect. This is the 
 ultimate test of merit and virtue. 
 
 Sect. IV. — Of natural abilities. 
 
 No distinction is more usual in all systems of ethics, than 
 that betwixt natural abilities and moral virtues; where the
 
 362 
 
 A TREATISE OF HU]^L4.N NATURE. 
 
 Part HI. 
 
 former are plac'd on the same footing with bodily endowments, 
 and are suppos'd to have no merit or moral worth annex'd to 
 them. Whoever considers the matter accurately, will find, 
 that a dispute upon this head wou'd be merely a dispute of 
 words, and that tho' these qualities are not altogether of the 
 same kind, yet they agree in the most material circumstances. 
 They are both of them equally mental qualities : And both 
 of them equally produce pleasure ; and have of course an 
 equal tendenc}^ to procure the love and esteem of mankind. 
 There are few, who are not as jealous of their character, with 
 regard to sense and knowledge, as to honour and courage ; 
 and much more than with regard to temperance and sobriety. 
 Men are even afraid of passing for good-natur'd ; lest that 
 shou'd be taken for want of understanding : And often boast 
 of more debauches than they have been really engag'd in, to 
 give themselves airs of fire and spirit. In short, the figure 
 a man makes in the world, the reception he meets with in 
 company, the esteem paid him by his acquaintance ; all these 
 advantages depend almost as much upon his good sense and 
 judgment, as upon any other part of his character. Let a man 
 have the best intentions in the world, and be the farthest from 
 all injustice and violence, he will never be able to make him- 
 self be much regarded, without a moderate share, at least, of 
 parts and understanding. Since then natural abilities, tho', 
 perhaps, inferior, yet are on the same footing, both as to 
 their causes and effects, with those qualities which we call 
 moral virtues, why shou'd we make any distinction betwixt 
 them ? 
 
 Tho' we refuse to natural abilities the title of virtues, we 
 must allow, that they procure the love and esteem of man- 
 kind ; that they give a new lustre to the other virtues ; and 
 that a man possess'd of them is much more intitled to our 
 good-will and services, than one entirely void of them. It 
 may, indeed, be pretended, that the sentiment of approbation, 
 which those qualities produce, besides its being inferior, is 
 also somewhat different from that, which attends the other 
 virtues. But this, in my opinion, is not a sufficient reason 
 for excluding them from the catalogue of virtues. Each of 
 the virtues, even benevolence, justice, gratitude, integrity, 
 excites a different sentiment or feeling in the spectator. 
 The characters of Coesar and Cato, as drawn by Sallust, are 
 both of them virtuous, in the strictest sense of the word ;
 
 SwT. rV, OF MORALS. ' 363 
 
 but in a different way : Nor are the sentiments entirely the SECT. 
 same, which arise from them. The one produces love ; the . _ . " . 
 other esteem : The one is amiable ; the other awful : We of natnm? 
 cou'd wish to meet with the one character in a friend ; the fibihuoa. 
 other character we wou'd be ambitious of in ourselves. In 
 like manner, the approbation, which attends natural abilities, 
 may be somewhat different to the feeling from that, which 
 arises from the other virtues, without makinj:^ them entirely 
 of a different species. And indeed we may observe, that the 
 natural abilities, no more than the other virtues, produce not, 
 all of them, the same kind of approbation. Good sense and 
 genius beget esteem : Wit and humour excite love.' 
 
 Those, who represent the distinction betwixt natural 
 abilities and moral virtues as very material, may say, that 
 the former are entirely involuntary, and have therefore no 
 merit attending them, as having no dependence on liberty 
 and free-will. But to this I answer, first, that many of those 
 qualities, which all moralists, especially the antients, com- 
 prehend under the title of moral virtues, are equally involun- 
 tary and necessary, with the qualities of the judgment and 
 imagination. Of this nature are constancy, fortitude, mag- 
 nanimity ; and, in short, all the qualities which form the 
 great man. I might say the same, in some degree, of the 
 others ; it being almost impossible for the mind to change 
 its character in any considerable article, or cure itself of a 
 passionate or splenetic temper, when they are natural to it. 
 The greater degree there is of these blaraeable qualities, the 
 more vicious they become, and yet they are the less voluntarj^. 
 Secondly, I wou'd have any one give me a reason, why virtue 
 and vice may not be involuntary, as well as beauty and 
 deformity. These moral distinctions arise from the natural 
 distinctions of pain and pleasm^e ; and when we receive tliose 
 feelings from the general consideration of any quality or cha- 
 racter, we denominate it vicious or virtuous. Now I believe 
 no one will assert, that a quality can never produce pleasure 
 or pain to the person who considers it, unless it be perfectly 
 
 ' Love and esteem are at the bottom where it produces any degree of humi- 
 
 the same passions, and arise from like litv and awe : In all these cases, the 
 
 causes. The qualities, that produce passion, which arises from the pleasure, 
 
 l)oth, are ajfreeable, and give pleasure. is more properly denominated esteem 
 
 I)ut where this pleasure is severe and than love. Benevolence attends both : 
 
 serious ; or wh^>re its object is great, But is connected with love in a more 
 
 and makes a strong impression ; or eminent degree.
 
 304 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUI^LVN NATtJRE. 
 
 Paet m. 
 
 PAKT 
 III. 
 
 Of the 
 
 other 
 virtues 
 aud vices. 
 
 voluntary, in the person who possesses it. Thirdly, As to 
 free-will, we have shewn that it has no place with regard to 
 the actions, no more than the qualities of men. It is not a 
 just consequence, that what is voluntary is free. Our actions 
 are more voluntary than our judgments ; but we have not 
 more liberty in the one than in the other. 
 
 But tho' this distinction betwixt voluntary and involuntary 
 be not sufficient to justify the distinction betwixt natural 
 abilities and moral virtues, yet the former distinction will 
 afford us a plausible reason, why morahsts have invented the 
 latter. Men have observ'd, that tho' natural abilities and 
 moral qualities be in the main on the same footing, tliere is, 
 however, this difference betwixt them, that the former are 
 almost invariable by any art or industry ; while the latter, or 
 at least, the actions, that proceed from them, may be chang'd 
 by the motives of rewards and punishments, praise and 
 blame. Hence legislators, and divines, and moralists, have 
 principally applied themselves to the regulating these volun- 
 tary actions, and have endeavour'd to produce additional 
 motives for being virtuous in that particular. They knew, 
 that to punish a man for folly, or exhort him to be prudent 
 and sagacious, wou'd have but little effect ; tho' the same 
 punishments and exhortations, with regard to justice and in- 
 justice, might have a considerable influence. But as men, 
 in common life and conversation, do not carry those ends in 
 view, but naturally praise or blame whatever pleases or 
 displeases them, they do not seem much to regard this 
 distinction, but consider prudence under the character of 
 virtue as well as benevolence, and penetration as well as 
 iustice. Nay, we find, that all moralists, whose judgment is 
 not perverted by a strict adherence to a system, enter into 
 the same way of thinking ; and that the antient moralists in 
 particular made no scruple of placing prudence at the head 
 of the cardinal virtues. There is a sentiment of esteem and 
 approbation, which may be excited, in some degree, by any 
 faculty of the mind, in its perfect state and condition; and 
 to account for this sentiment is the business of Philosophers. 
 It belongs to Grammarians to examine what qualities are 
 entitled to the denomination of virtue ; nor will they find, 
 upon trial, that this is so easy a task, as at first sight they 
 may be apt to imagine. 
 
 The principal reason why natural abilities are esteem'd, is
 
 Sect. IV. OF MORALS. 365 
 
 because of their tendency to be useful to the person, wbo is SECT. 
 
 possess'd of them. 'Tis impossible to execute any design ^ i^j . 
 
 with success, where it is not conducted with prudence and Of natural 
 discretion ; nor will the goodness of our intentions alone ^il^ilities. 
 suffice to procure us a happy issue to our enterprizes. Men 
 are superior to beasts principally by the superiority of their 
 reason ; and they are the degrees of the same faculty, which 
 set such an infinite difference betwixt one man and a,nother. 
 All the advantages of art are owing to human reason ; and 
 where fortune is not very capricious, the most considei-able 
 part of these advantages must fall to the share of the prudent 
 and sagacious. 
 
 When it is ask'd, whether a quick or a slow apprehension 
 be most valuable ? whether one, that at first view penetrates 
 into a subject, but can perform nothing upon study ; or a 
 contrary character, which must work out every thing by dint 
 of application ? whether a clear head, or a copious invention ? 
 whether a profound genius, or a sure judgment? in short, 
 what character, or peculiar understanding, is more excellent 
 than another ? 'Tis evident we can answer none of these 
 questions, without considering which of those qualities capa- 
 citates a man best for the world, and carries him farthest in 
 any of his undertakings. 
 
 There are many other qualities of the mind, whose merit 
 is deriv'd from the same origin. Industry, perseverance, 
 patience, activity, vigilance, application, consta7icy, with other 
 virtues of that kind, which 'twill be easy to recollect, are 
 esteem'd valuable upon no other account, than their advan- 
 tage in the conduct of life. 'Tis the same case with temper- 
 ance, frugality, ceconomy, resolution ; As on the other hand, 
 prodigality, luxury, irresolution, u/ncertainty, are vicious, 
 merely because they draw ruin upon us, and incapacitate us 
 for business and action. 
 
 As wisdom and good -sense are valued, because they are 
 useful to the person possess'd of them ; so wit and eloquence 
 are valued, because they are immediately agreeable to others. 
 On the other hand, good humour is lov'd and esteem'd, because 
 it is immediately agreeable to the person himself. 'Tis evident, 
 that the conversation of a man of wit is very satisfactory ; 
 as a chearful good-humour'd companion diffuses a joy over 
 the whole company, from a sympathy with his gaiety. 
 Those qualities, therefore, being agreeable, they naturally
 
 SOG 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Pakt hi. 
 
 PART 
 III. 
 
 Of the 
 
 other 
 virtues 
 and rices. 
 
 beget love and esteem, and answer to all the characters of 
 virtue. 
 
 'Tis difficult to tell, on many occasions, what it is that 
 renders one man's conversation so agreeable and entertaining, 
 and another's so insipid and distasteful. As conversation is 
 a transcript of the mind as well as books, the same qualities, 
 which render the one valuable, must give us an esteem for 
 the other. This we shall consider afterwards. In the mean 
 time it may be affirm'd in general, that all the merit a man 
 may derive from his conversation (which, no doubt, may be 
 very considerable) arises from nothing but the pleasure it 
 conveys to those who are present. 
 
 In this view, cleanliness is also to be regarded as a virtue ; 
 since it naturally renders us agreeable to others, and is a very 
 considerable source of love and affection. No one will deny, 
 that a negligence in this particular is a fault ; and as faults 
 are nothing but smaller vices, and this fault can have no 
 other origin than the uneasy sensation, which it excites in 
 others, we may in this instance, seemingly so trivial, clearly 
 discover the origin of the moral distinction of vice and virtue 
 in other instances. 
 
 Besides all those qualities, which render a person lovely or 
 valuable, there is also a certain je-ne-sgai-quoi of agreeable 
 and handsome, that concurs to the same effect. In this case, 
 as well as in that of wit and eloquence, we must have re- 
 course to a certain sense, which acts without reflection, and 
 regards not the tendencies of qualities and characters. Some 
 moralists account for all the sentiments of virtue by this 
 sense. Their hypothesis is very plausible. Nothing but a 
 particular enquiry can give the preference to any other hy- 
 pothesis. When we find, that almost all the virtues have 
 such particular tendencies ; and also find, that these tenden- 
 cies are sufficient alone to give a strong sentiment of appro- 
 bation : We cannot doubt, after this, that qualities are 
 approv'd of, in propoi'tion to the advantage, which results 
 from them. 
 
 The decorum or indecorum of a quality, with regard to the 
 age, or character, or station, contributes also to its praise or 
 blame. This decorum depends, in a great measure, upon 
 experience. 'Tis usual to see men lose their levity, as they 
 advance in years. Such a degree of gravity, therefore, and 
 such years, are connected together in our thoughts. When
 
 Skct, rV. OF MORALS. 307 
 
 we observe them separated in any person's character, this SECT. 
 
 imposes a kind of violence on our imagination, and is dis- ^ 
 
 agreeable. Of natural 
 
 That faculty of the soul, which, of all others, is of the al^ilities. 
 least consequence to the character, and has the least virtue 
 or vice in its several degrees, at the same time that it admits 
 of a great variety of degrees, is the memory. Unless it rise 
 up to that stupendous height as to surprize us, or sink so 
 low as, in some measure, to affect the judgment, we com- 
 monly take no notice of its variations, nor ever mention them 
 to the praise or dispraise of any person. 'Tis so far from 
 being a virtue to have a good memory, that men generally 
 affect to complain of a bad one ; and endeavouring to persuade 
 the world, that what they say is entirely of their own inven- 
 tion, sacrifice it to the praise of genius and judgment. Yet 
 to consider the matter abstractedly, 'twou'd be difficult to 
 give a reason, why the faculty of recalling past ideas with 
 truth and clearness, shou'd not have as much merit in it, as 
 the faculty of placing our present ideas in such an order, as 
 to form true prepositions and opinions. The reason of the 
 difference certainly must be, that the memory is exerted 
 without any sensation of pleasure or pain ; and in all its 
 middling degrees serves almost equally well in business and 
 affairs. But the least variations in the judgment are 
 sensibly felt in their consequences ; while at the same time 
 that faculty is never exerted in any eminent degree, with- 
 out an extraordinary delight and satisfaction. The sympathy 
 with this utility and pleasure bestows a merit on the under- 
 standing ; and the absence of it makes us consider the memory 
 as a faculty very indifferent to blame or praise. 
 
 Before I leave this subject of natural abilities, I must 
 observe, that, perhaps, one source of the esteem and affection, 
 which attends them, is deriv'd from the importance and 
 weight, which they bestow on the person possess'd of them. 
 He becomes of greater consequence in life. His resolutions 
 and actions affect a greater number of his fellow-creatures. 
 Both his friendship and enmity are of moment. And 'tis 
 easy to observe, that whoever is elevated, after this manner, 
 above the rest of mankind, must excite in us the sentiments 
 of esteem and approbation. Whatever is important engages 
 our attention, fixes our thought, and is contemplated with 
 satisfaction. The histories of kingdoms are more interesting
 
 368 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Ram III 
 
 than domestic stories : The histories of great empires more 
 than those of small cities and principalities : And the his- 
 tories of wars and revolutions more than those of peace and 
 order. We sympathize with the persons that suffer, in all 
 the various sentiments which belong to their fortunes. The 
 mind is occupied by the multitude of the objects, and by the 
 strong passions, that display themselves. And this occupa- 
 tion or agitation of the mind is commonly agreeable and 
 amusing. The same theory accounts for the esteem and 
 regard we pay to men of extraordinary parts and abilities. 
 The good and ill of multitudes are connected with their 
 actions. Whatever they undertake is important, and chal- 
 lenges our attention. Nothing is to be over-look 'd and 
 despis'd, that regards them. And where any person can 
 excite these sentiments, he soon acquires our esteem ; unless 
 other circumstances of his character render him odious and 
 disagrreeable. 
 
 Sect. Y. — Some farther reflections concerning the natural 
 
 virtues. 
 
 It has been observ'd, in treating of the passions, that pride 
 and humility, love and hatred, are excited by any advantages 
 or disadvantages of the mind, body, or fortune ; and that these 
 advantages or disadvantages have that effect by producing a 
 separate impression of pain or pleasure. The pain or pleasure, 
 which arises from the general survey or view of any action 
 or quality of the mind, constitutes its vice or virtue, and 
 gives rise to our approbation or blame, which is nothing but 
 a fainter and more imperceptible love or hatred. We have 
 assign'd four different sources of this pain and pleasure ; 
 and in order to justify more fully that hypothesis, it may 
 here be proper to observe, that the advantages or disadvan- 
 tages of the body and of fortune, produce a pain or pleasure 
 from the very same principles. The tendency of any object 
 to be useful to the person possess'd of it, or to others ; to 
 convey pleasure to him or to others ; all these circumstances 
 convey an immediate pleasure to the person, who considers 
 the object, and command his love and approbation. 
 
 To begin with the advantages of the body ; we may observe 
 a pha3nomenon, which might appear somewhat trivial and 
 ludicrous, if any thing cou'd be trivial, which fortified a con-
 
 virtues. 
 
 Sect. V. OF MORALS. 309 
 
 elusion of such importance, or ludicrous, whicli was employ 'd SECT. 
 in a philosophical reasoning. 'Tis a general remark, that ^ ^' ^ 
 those we call good women's men, who have either signaliz'd Some 
 themselves by their amorous exploits, or whose make of body farther re- 
 promises any extraordinary vigour of that kind, are well re- concerning 
 ceived by the fair sex, and naturally engage the affections ^.he natural 
 even of those, whose virtue prevents any design of ever giving 
 employment to those talents. Here 'tis evident, that the 
 ability of such a person to give enjoyment, is the real source 
 of that love and esteem he meets with among the females ; 
 at the same time that the women, who love and esteem him, 
 have no prospect of receiving that enjoyment themselves, and 
 can only be affected by means of their sympathy with one, 
 that has a commerce of love with him. This instance is 
 singular, and merits our attention. 
 
 Another source of the pleasure we receive from considering 
 bodily advantages, is their utility to the person himself, who 
 is possess'd of them. 'Tis certain, that a considerable part 
 of the beauty of men, as well as of other animals, consists in 
 such a conformation of members, as we find by experience to 
 be attended with strength and agility, and to capacitate the 
 creature for any action or exercise. Broad shoulders, a lank 
 belly, firm joints, taper legs ; all these are beautiful in our 
 species, because they are signs of force and vigour, which 
 being advantages we naturally sympathize with, they convey 
 to the beholder a share of that satisfaction they produce in 
 the possessor. 
 
 So far as to the utility, which may attend any quality of the 
 body. As to the immediate ^pleasure, 'tis certain, that an air 
 of health, as well as of strength and agility, makes a consi- 
 derable part of beauty ; and that a sickly air in another is 
 alwa,ys disagreeable, upon account of that idea of pain and 
 uneasiness, which it conveys to us. On the other hand, we 
 are pleas'd with the regularity of our own features, tho' it be 
 neither useful to ourselves nor others ; and 'tis necessary for 
 us, in some measure, to set ourselves at a distance, to make 
 it convey to us any satisfaction. We commonly consider our- 
 selves as we appear in the eyes of others, and sympathize 
 with the advantageous sentiments they entertain with regard 
 to us. 
 
 How far the advantages of fortune produce esteem and 
 approbation from the same principles, we may satisfv our- 
 
 VOL. II. B B
 
 370 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUM.\N NATURE. 
 
 Part III. 
 
 selves by reflecting on our precedent reasoning on that 
 subject. We have observ'd, that our approbation of those, 
 who are possess'd of the advantages of fortune, may be 
 ascrib'd to three different causes. First, To that immediate 
 pleasure, which a rich man gives us, by the view of the 
 beautiful cloaths, equipage, gardens, or houses, which he 
 possesses. Secondly, To the advantage, which we hope to 
 reap from him by his generosity and liberality. Thirdly, To 
 the pleasure and advantage, which he himself reaps from his 
 possessions, and which produce an agreeable sympathy in us. 
 Whether we ascribe our esteem of the rich and great to one 
 or all of these causes, we may clearly see the traces of those 
 principles, which give rise to the sense of vice and virtue. I 
 believe most people, at first sight, will be inclin'd to ascribe 
 our esteem of the rich to self-interest, and the prospect of 
 advantage. But as 'tis certain, that our esteem or deference 
 extends beyond any prospect of advantage to ourselves, 'tis 
 evident, that that sentiment must proceed from a sympathy 
 with those, who are dependent on the person we esteem and 
 respect, and who have an immediate connexion with him. 
 We consider him as a person capable of contributing to the 
 happiness or enjoyment of his fellow-creatures, whose senti- 
 ments, with regard to him, we naturally embrace. And this 
 consideration will serve to justify my hypothesis in preferring 
 the third principle to the other two, and ascribing our esteem 
 of the rich to a sympathy with the pleasure and advantage, 
 which they themselves receive from their possessions. For 
 as even the other two principles cannot operate to a due ex- 
 tent, or account for all the phtenomena, without having re- 
 course to a sympathy of one kind or other ; 'tis much more 
 natural to chuse that sympathy, which is immediate and 
 direct, than that which is remote and indirect. To which we 
 may add, that where the riches or power are very great, and 
 render the person considerable and important in the world, 
 the esteem attending them, may, in part, be ascrib'd to 
 another source, distinct from these three, viz. their interesting 
 the mind by a prospect of the multitude, and importance of 
 their consequences : Tho', in order to account for the opera- 
 tion of this principle, we must also have recourse to sympathy; 
 as we have observ'd in the preceding section. 
 
 It may not be amiss, on this occasion, to remark the flex- 
 ibility of our sentiments, and the several changes they so
 
 Sect. VI. OF MORALS. 371 
 
 readily receive from the objects, with which thej are con- SECT. 
 join'd. All the sentiments of approbation, which attend any ^• 
 
 particular species of objects, have a great resemblance to Some 
 each other, tho' deriv'd from different sources ; and, on the farther re- 
 other hand, those sentiments, when directed to different 
 
 concernina 
 
 virtues. 
 
 objects, are different to the feeling, tho' deriv'd from the the natural 
 same source. Thus the beauty of all visible objects causes 
 a pleasure i)retty much the same, tho' it be sometimes de- 
 riv'd from the mere species and appearance of the objects ; 
 sometimes from sympathy, and an idea of their utility. In 
 like manner, whenever we survey the actions and characters 
 of men, without any particular interest in them, the pleasure, 
 or pain, which arises from the survey (with some minute 
 differen(ies) is, in the main, of the same kind, tho' perhaps 
 there be a great diversity in the causes, from which it is de- 
 riv'd. On the other hand, a convenient house, and a virtuous 
 character, cause not the same feeling of approbation ; even 
 tho' the source of our approbation be the same, and flow from 
 sympathy and an idea of their utility. There is something 
 very inexplicable in this variation of our feelings ; but 'tis 
 what we have experience of with regard to all our passions 
 and sentiments. 
 
 Sect. VI. — Conclusion of this hooJe. 
 
 Thus upon the whole I am hopeful, that nothing is want- 
 ing to an accurate proof of this system of ethics. We are 
 certain, that sympathy is a very powerful principle in human 
 nature. We are also certain, that it has a great influence on 
 our sense of beauty, when we regard external objects, as well 
 as when we judge of morals. We find, that it has force 
 sufficient to give us the strongest sentiments of appro- 
 bation, when it operates alone, without the concurrence 
 of any other principle ; as in the cases of justice, allegiance, 
 chastity, and good-manners. We may observe, that all the 
 circumstances requisite for its operation are found in most 
 of the virtues ; which have, for the most part, a tendency to 
 the good of society, or to that of the person possess'd of 
 them. If we compare all these circumstances, we shall not 
 doubt, that sympathy is the chief source of moral distinc- 
 tions ; especially when we reflect, that no objection can be 
 rais'd against this hypothesis in one case, which will not 
 
 B B i"
 
 S72 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. Part IIL 
 
 PART extend to all cases. Justice is certainly approv'd of for no 
 
 ]^^ , other reason, than because it has a tendency to the public 
 
 Of the good : And the public good is indifferent to us, except so fai 
 other a^g sympathy interests us in it. We may presume the like 
 
 and vices, with regard to all the other virtues, which have a like ten- 
 dency to the public good. They must derive all their merit 
 from our sympathy with those, who reap any advantage from 
 them : As the virtues, which have a tendency to the good of 
 the person possess'd of them, derive their merit from our 
 sympath}"^ with him. 
 
 Most people will readily allow, that the useful qualities of 
 the mind are virtuous, because of their utility. This way of 
 thinking is so natural, and occurs on so many occasions, 
 that few will make any scruple of admitting it. Now this 
 being once admitted, the force of sympathy must necessarily 
 be acknowledg'd. Virtue is consider'd as means to an end. 
 Means to an end are only valued so far as tbe end is valued. 
 But the happiness of strangers affects us by sympathy alone. 
 To that principle, therefore, we are to ascribe the sentiment 
 of approbation, which arises from the survey of all those 
 virtues, that are useful to society, or to the person possess'd 
 of them. These form the most considerable part of mo- 
 rality. 
 
 Were it proper in such a subject to bribe the reader's as- 
 sent, or employ any thing but solid argument, we are here 
 abundantly supplied with topics to engage the affections. 
 AU lovers of virtue (and such we all are in speculation, how- 
 ever we may degenerate in practice) must certainly be 
 pleas'd to see moral distinctions deriv'd from so noble a 
 source, which gives us a just notion both of the generosity 
 and capacity of human nature. It requires but very little 
 knowledge of human affairs to perceive, that a sense of 
 morals is a principle inherent in the soul, and one of the 
 most powerful that enters into the composition. But this 
 sense must certainly acquire new force, when reflecting on 
 itself, it approves of those principles, from whence it is 
 deriv'd, and finds nothing but what is great and good in its 
 rise and origin. Those who resolve the sense of morals into 
 original instincts of the human mind, may defend the cause 
 of virtue with sufficient authority ; but want the advantage, 
 which those possess, who account for that sense by an ex-
 
 Sect. VI. OF MOIIALS. 
 
 tensive sympathy with mankind. According to their system, SECT. 
 
 VI. 
 
 not only virtue must be approv'd of, but also the sense of 
 virtue : And not only that sense, but also the principles, Conclusion 
 from whence it is deriv'd. So that nothing is presented ^q^^'^ 
 on any side, but what ?'s laudable and good. 
 
 This observation may be extended to justice, and the other 
 virtues of that kind. Tho' justice be artificial, the sense of its 
 morality is natural. 'Tis the combination of men, in a sys- 
 tem of conduct, which renders any act of justice beneficial to 
 society. But when once it has that tendency, we naturally 
 approve of it ; and if we did not so, 'tis impossible any com- 
 bination or convention cou'd ever produce that sentiment. 
 
 Most of the inventions of men are subject to change. They 
 depend upon humour and caprice. They have a vogue for a 
 time, and then sink into oblivion. It may, perhaps, be ap- 
 prehended, that if justice were allow'd to be a human inven- 
 tion, it must be plac'd on the same footing. But the cases 
 are widely different. The interest, on which justice is 
 founded, is the greatest imaginable, and extends to all times 
 and places. It cannot possibly be serv'd by any other in- 
 vention. It is obvious, and discovers itself on the very first 
 formation of society. All these causes render the rules of 
 justice stedfast and immutable ; at least, as immutable as 
 human nature. And if they were founded on original in- 
 stincts, cou'd they have any greater stability? 
 
 The same system may help us to form a just notion of the 
 happiness, as well as of the dignity of virtue, and may interest 
 every principle of our nature in the embracing and cherishing 
 that noble quality. Who indeed does not feel an accession of 
 alacrity in his pursuits of knowledge and ability of every 
 kind, when he considers, that besides the advantage, which 
 immediately result from these acquisitions, they also give 
 him a new lustre in the eyes of mankind, and are universally 
 attended with esteem and approbation ? And who can think 
 any advantages of fortune a sufficient compensation for the 
 least breach of the social virtues, when he considers, that not 
 only his character with regard to others, but also his peace 
 and inward satisfaction entirely depend upon his strict ob- 
 servance of them ; and that a mind will never be able to 
 bear its own survey, that has been wanting in its part to 
 mankind and society ? But I forbear insisting on this sub- 
 ject. Such reflections require a work a-part, very different
 
 374 
 
 A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 Part HI 
 
 PART 
 III. 
 
 Of the 
 
 other 
 virtues 
 and vices. 
 
 from the genius of the present. The anatomist ought never 
 to emulate the painter ; nor in his accurate dissections and 
 portraitures of the smaller parts of the human body, pre- 
 tend to give his figures any graceful and engaging attitude 
 or expression. There is even something hideous, or at least 
 minute in the views of things, which he presents ; and 'tis 
 necessary the objects shou'd be set more at a distance, and 
 be more cover'd up from sight, to make them engaging to 
 the eye and imagination. An anatomist, however, is ad- 
 mirably j&tted to give advice to a painter ; and 'tis even im- 
 practicable to excel in the latter art, without the assistance 
 of the former. We must have an exact knowledge of the 
 parts, their situation and connexion, before we can design 
 with any elegance or correctness. And thus the most abstract 
 speculations concerning human nature, however cold and 
 un entertaining, become subservient to practical morality ; 
 and may render this latter science more correct in its pre- 
 cepts, and more persuasive in its exhortations.
 
 DIALOGUES 
 
 CONCKRNINO 
 
 NATURAL EELIGIOK
 
 DIALOGUES 
 
 CONCERNmO 
 
 NATUEAL EELIGION. 
 
 PAMPHILUS TO HERMIPPUS. 
 
 It has been remarked, my Hermippus, that, though the 
 ancient philosophers conveyed most of their instruction in 
 the form of dialogue, this method of composition has been 
 little practised in later ages, and has seldom succeeded in the 
 hands of those, who have attempted it. Accurate and regular 
 argument, indeed, such as is now expected of philosophical 
 enquirers, naturally throws a man into the methodical and 
 didactic manner ; where he can immediately, without pre- 
 paration, explain the point, at which he aims ; and thence 
 proceed, without interruption, to deduce the proofs, on which 
 it is established. To deliver a System in conversation scarcely 
 appears natural ; and while the dialogue-writer desires, by 
 departing from the direct style of composition, to give a 
 freer air to his performance, and avoid the appearance of 
 Author and Reader, he is apt to run into a worse incon- 
 venience, and convey the image of Pedagogue and Pupil. Or 
 if he carries on the dispute in the natural spirit of good 
 company, by throwing in a variety of topics, and preserving 
 a proper balance among the speakers ; he often loses so much 
 time in preparations and transitions, that the reader will 
 scarcely think himself compensated, by all the graces of 
 dialogue, for the order, brevity, and precision, which are 
 sacrificed to them. 
 
 There are some subjects, however, to which dialogue- 
 writing is peculiarly adapted, and where it is still preferable 
 to the direct and simple method of composition.
 
 878 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 Any point of doctrine, wliich is so obvious, that it scarcely 
 admits of dispute, but at the same time so important, that 
 it cannot be too often inculcated, seems to require some such 
 method of handling it; where the novelty of the manner 
 may compensate the triteness of the subject, where the 
 vivacity of conversation may enforce the precept, and where 
 the variety of lights, presented by various personages and 
 characters, may appear neither tedious nor redundant. 
 
 Any question of philosophy, on the other hand, which is 
 so obscure and uncertain, that human reason can reach no 
 fixed determination with regard to it ; if it should be treated 
 at all ; seems to lead us naturally into the style of dialogue 
 and conversation. Reasonable men may be allowed to difl'er, 
 where no one can reasonably be positive : Opposite senti- 
 ments, even without any decision, afford an agreeable 
 amusement : and if the subject be curious and interesting, 
 the book carries us, in a manner, into company ; and unites 
 the two greatest and purest pleasures of human life, study 
 and society. 
 
 Happily, these circumstances are all to be found in the 
 subject of NATURAL RELIGION. What truth so obvious, so 
 certain, as the being of a God, which the most ignorant ages 
 have acknowledged, for which the most refined geniuses have 
 ambitiously striven to produce new proofs and arguments ? 
 What truth so important as this, which is the ground of 
 all our hopes, the surest foundation of morality, the firmest 
 support of society, and the only principle, which ought never 
 to be a moment absent from our thoughts and meditations ? 
 But in treating of this obvious and important truth ; what 
 obscure questions occur, concerning the nature of that 
 divine being ; his attributes, his decrees, his plan of pro- 
 vidence ? These have been always subjected to the disputa- 
 tions of men : Concerning these, human reason has not 
 reached any certain determination : But these are topics so 
 interesting, that we cannot restrain our restless enquiry with 
 regard to them ; though nothing but doubt, uncertainty and 
 contradiction, have, as yet, been the result of our most 
 accurate researches. 
 
 This I had lately occasion to observe, while I passed, as 
 usual, part of the summer season with Cleanthes, and was 
 present at those conversations of his with Philo and Demea, 
 of which T gave you lately some imperfect account. Your
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 379 
 
 curiosity, you then told me, was so excited, that I must of 
 necessity enter into a more exact detail of their reasonings, 
 and display those various systems, which they advanced with 
 regard to so delicate a subject as that of Natural Eeligion. 
 The remarkable contrast in their characters still farther 
 raised your expectations ; while you opposed the accurate 
 philosophical turn of Cleanthes to the careless scepticism 
 of Philo, or compared either of their dispositions with the 
 rigid inflexible orthodoxy of Demea. My youth rendered me 
 a mere auditor of their disputes ; and that curiosity, natural 
 to the early season of life, has so deeply imprinted in my 
 memory the whole chain and connection of their argu- 
 ments, that, I hope, I shall not omit or confound any con- 
 siderable part of them in the recital.
 
 880 DIALOGUES CONCERNDsG 
 
 PART I. 
 
 After I joined the company, whom I found sitting m 
 Cleanthes's library, Demea paid Cleanthes some com- 
 pliments, on the gi'eat care, which he took of my education, 
 and on his unwearied perseverance and constancy in all his 
 friendships. The father of Pamphilus, said he, was your 
 intimate friend : The son is your pupil, and may indeed be 
 regarded as your adopted son ; were we to judge by the pains 
 which you bestow in conveying to him every useful branch 
 of literature and science. You are no more wanting, I am 
 persuaded, in prudence than in industry. I shall, therefore, 
 communicate to you a maxim, which I have observed with 
 regard to my own children, that I may learn how far it agrees 
 with your practice. The method I foUow in their education 
 is founded on the saying of an ancient, ' That students of phi- 
 losophy ought first to learn Logics, then Ethics, next Physics, 
 last of all, the Nature of the Gods.' • This science of Natural 
 Theology, according to him, being the most profound and 
 abstruse of any, required the maturest judgment in its stu- 
 dents ; and none but a mind, enriched with all the other 
 sciences, can safely be entrusted with it. 
 
 Are you so late, says Philo, in teaching your children the 
 principles of religion ? Is there no danger of their neglecting 
 or rejecting altogether those opinions, of which they have 
 heard so little, during the whole course of their education ? 
 It is only as a science, replied Demea, subjected to human 
 reasoning and disputation, that I postpone the study of 
 Natural Theology. To season their minds with early piety 
 is my chief care ; and by continual precept and instruction, 
 and I hope too, by example, I imprint deeply on their tender 
 minds an habitual reverence for all the principles of religion. 
 While they pass through every other science, I still remark 
 the uncertainty of each part, the eternal disputations of 
 
 ' Chrysippus apud Plut. de repug. Stoicorum.
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 381 
 
 men, the obscurity of all philosophy, and the strange, 
 ridiculous conclusions, which some of the greatest geniuses 
 have derived from the principles of mere human reason. 
 Having thus tamed their mind to a proper submission and 
 self-diffidence, I have no longer any scruple of opening to 
 them the greatest mysteries of religion, nor apprehend any 
 danger from that assuming arrogance of philosophy, which 
 may lead them to reject the most established doctrines and 
 opinions. 
 
 Your precaution, says Philo, of seasoning your children's 
 minds with early piety, is certainly very reasonable ; and no 
 more than is requisite, in this profane and irreligious age. 
 But what I chiefly admire in your plan of education, is your 
 method of drawing advantage from the very principles of 
 philosophy and learning, which, by inspiring pride and self- 
 sufficiency, have commonly, in all ages, been found so de- 
 structive to the principles of religion. The vulgar, indeed, 
 we may remark, who are unacquainted with science and pro- 
 found enquiry, observing the endless disputes of the learned, 
 have commonly a thorough contempt for Philosophy; and 
 rivet themselves the faster, by that means, in the great 
 points of Theology, which have been taught them. Those, 
 who enter a little into study and enquiry, finding many ap- 
 pearances of evidence in doctrines the newest and most 
 extraordinary, think nothing too difficult for human reason ; 
 and presumptuously breaking through all fences, profane the 
 inmost sanctuaries of the temple. But Cleanthes will, I 
 hope, agree with me, that, after we have abandoned ignorance, 
 the surest remedy, there is still one expedient left to prevent 
 this profane liberty. Let Demea's principles be improved 
 and cultivated : Let us become thoroughly sensible of the 
 weakness, blindness, and narrow limits of human reason : 
 Let us duly consider its imcertainty and endless contrarieties, 
 even in subjects of common life and practice : Let the errors 
 and deceits of our very senses be set before us ; the insuper- 
 able difficulties, which attend first principles in all systems ; 
 the contradictions, which adhere to the very ideas of matter, 
 cause and effect, extension, space, time, motion; and in a 
 word, quantity of all kinds, the object of the only science, 
 that can fairly pretend to any certainty or evidence. When 
 these topics are displayed in their full light, as they are by 
 some philosophers and almost all divines ; who can retain
 
 882 DIALOGUES COXCERNIXG. 
 
 such confidence in this frail faculty of reason as to pay any 
 regard to its determinations in points so sublime, so abstruse, 
 so remote from common life and experience? When the 
 coherence of the parts of a stone, or even that composition 
 of parts, which renders it extended ; when these familiar 
 objects, I say, are so inexplicable, and contain circumstances 
 so repugnant and contradictory ; with what assurance can 
 we decide concerning the origin of worlds, or trace their 
 history from eternity to eternity ? 
 
 While Philo pronounced these words, I could observe a 
 smile in the countenance both of Demea and Cleanthes. 
 That of Demea seemed to imply an unreserved satisfaction 
 in the doctrines delivered : But in Cleanthes's features, I 
 could distinguish an air of finesse ; as if he perceived some 
 raillery or artificial malice in the reasonings of Philo. 
 
 You propose then, Philo, said Cleanthes, to erect reli- 
 gious faith on philosophical scepticism ; and you think, that 
 if certainty or evidence be expelled from every other subject 
 of enquiry, it will all retire to these theological doctrines, 
 and there acquire a superior force and authority. Whether 
 your scepticism be as absolute and sincere as you pretend, 
 we shall learn by and by, when the company breaks up : We 
 shall then see, whether you go out at the door or the window ; 
 and whether you really doubt, if your body has gravity, or 
 can be injured by its fall ; according to popular opinion, de- 
 rived from our fallacious senses and more fallacious experi- 
 ence. And this consideration, Demea, may, I think, fairly 
 serve to abate our ill-will to this humourous sect of the 
 sceptics. If they be thoroughly in earnest, they will not long 
 trouble the world with their doubts, cavils, and disputes : If 
 they be only in jest, they are, perhaps, bad ralliers, but can 
 never be very dangerous, either to the state, to philosophy, 
 or to religion. 
 
 In reality, Philo, continued he, it seems certain, that 
 though a man, in a flush of humour, after intense reflection 
 on the many contradictions and imperfections of human 
 reason, may entirely renounce all belief and opinion; it is 
 impossible for him to persevere in this total scepticism, or 
 make it appear in his conduct for a few hours. External 
 objects press in upon him : Passions solicit him : His philo- 
 sophical melancholy dissipates ; and even the utmost violence 
 upon his own temper will not be able, during any time, to
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 383 
 
 preserve the poor appearance of scepticism. And for what 
 reason impose on himself such a violence ? This is a point, 
 in which it will be impossible for him ever to satisfy himself, 
 consistently with his sceptical principles : So that upon the 
 whole nothing could be more ridiculous than the principles 
 of the ancient Pterhonians ; if in reality they endeavoured, 
 as is pretended, to extend throughout, the same scepticism, 
 which they had learned from the declamations of their 
 schools, and which they ought to have confined to them. 
 
 In this view, there appears a great resemblance between 
 the sects of the Stoics and Pyrrhonians, though perpetual 
 antagonists : and both of them seem founded on this erro- 
 neous maxim, That what a man can perform sometimes, and 
 in some dispositions, he can perform always, and in every 
 disposition. When the mind, by Stoical reflections, is ele- 
 vated into a sublime enthusiasm of virtue, and strongly smit 
 with any species of honour or public good, the utmost bodily 
 pain and suiferance will not prevail over such a high sense of 
 duty ; and 'tis possible, perhaps, by its means, even to smile 
 and exult in the midst of tortures. If this sometimes may 
 be the case in fact and reality, much more may a philosopher, 
 in his school, or even in his closet, work himself up to such 
 an enthusiasm, and support in imagination the acutest pain 
 or most calamitous event, which he can possibly conceive. 
 But how shall he support this enthusiasm itself? The bent 
 of his mind relaxes, and cannot be recalled at pleasure : Avoca- 
 tions lead him astray : Misfortunes attack him unawares : 
 and the philosopher sinks by degrees into the plebeian. 
 
 I allow of your comparison between the Stoics and Scep- 
 tics, replied Philo. But you may observe, at the same time, 
 that though the mind cannot, in Stoicism, support the highest 
 flights of philosophy, yet even when it sinks lower, it still 
 retains somewhat of its former disposition ; and the effects of 
 the Stoic's reasoning will appear in his conduct in common 
 life, and through the whole tenor of his actions. The ancient 
 schools, particularly that of Zeno, produced examples of 
 virtue and constancy which seem astonishing to present 
 times. 
 
 Vain Wisdom all and false Philosophy. 
 Yet with a pleasing sorcery could charm 
 Pain, for a while, or anguish, and excite 
 Fallacious Hope, or arm the obdurate breast 
 With stubborn Patience, as with triple steel.
 
 884 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 In like manner, if a man has accustomed himself to sceptical 
 considerations on the uncertainty and narrow limits of reason, 
 he will not entirely forget them when he turns his reflection 
 on other subjects ; but in all his philosophical principles and 
 reasoning, I dare not say, in his common conduct, he will be 
 found different from those, who either never formed any 
 opinions in the case, or have entertained sentiments more 
 favourable to human reason. 
 
 To whatever length any one may push his speculative 
 principles of scepticism, he must act, I own, and live, and 
 converse like other men ; and for tliis conduct he is not 
 obliged to give any other reason, than the absolute necessity 
 he lies under of so doing. K he ever carries his speculations 
 farther than this necessity constrains him, and philosophises, 
 either on natural or moral subjects, he is allured by a certain 
 pleasure and satisfaction, which he finds in employing him- 
 self after that manner. He considers besides, that every one, 
 even in common life, is constrained to have more or less of 
 this philosophy ; that from our earliest infancy we make 
 continual advances in forming more general jjrinciples of 
 conduct and reasoning; that the larger experience we 
 acquire, and the stronger reason we are endued vdth, we 
 always render our principles the more general and compre- 
 hensive ; and that wliat we call philosojyhy is nothing but a 
 more regular and methodical operation of the same kind. 
 To philosophise on such subjects is nothing essentially dif- 
 ferent from reasoning on common life ; and we may only 
 expect greater stability, if not greater truth, from our philo- 
 sophy, on account of its exacter and more scrupulous method 
 of proceeding. 
 
 But when we look beyond human affairs and the properties 
 of the siu-rounding bodies : When we carry our speculations 
 into the two eternities, before and after the present state of 
 things ; into the creation and formation of the universe ; the 
 existence and properties of spirits ; the powers and opera- 
 tions of one universal spirit, existing without beginning and 
 without end ; omnipotent, omniscient, immutable, infinite, 
 and incomprehensible : We must be far removed from the 
 smallest tendency to scepticism not to be apprehensive, 
 that we have here got quite beyond the reach of our facul- 
 ties. So long as we confine our speculations to trade, or 
 morals, or politicsj or criticism, we make appeals, every
 
 NATURAL RELIGION 385 
 
 moment, to common sense and experience, wliicli strengthen 
 our philosophical conclusions, and remove (at least, in part) 
 the suspicion, which we so justly entertain with regard to 
 every reasoning, that is very subtile and refined. But in 
 theological reasonings, we have not this advantage ; while at 
 the same time we are employed upon objects, which, we must 
 be sensible, are too large for our grasp, and of all others, 
 require most to be familiarised to our apprehension. We 
 are like foreigners in a strange country, to whom every 
 thing must seem suspicious, and who are in danger every 
 moment of transgressing against the laws and customs of 
 the people, with whom they live and converse. We know 
 not how far we oujjfht to trust our vulofar methods of reason- 
 ing in such a subject ; since, even in common life and in that 
 province, which is peculiarly appropriated to them, we cannot 
 account for them, and are entirely guided by a kind of instinct 
 or necessity in employing them. 
 
 All sceptics pi'etend, that, if reason be considered in an 
 abstract view, it furnishes invincible arguments against 
 its df, and that we could never retain any conviction or 
 assurance, on any subject, were not the sceptical reasonings 
 so refined and subtile^ that they are not able to counterpoise 
 the more solid and more natural arguments, derived from 
 the senses and experience. But it is evident, whenever our 
 argfuments lose this advantage, and run wide of common lifie, 
 that the most refined scepticism conies to be upon a footing 
 with them, and is able to oppose and counterbalance them. 
 The one has no more weight than the other. The mind must 
 remain in suspense between them ; and it is that very sus- 
 pense or balance, which is the triumph of scepticism. 
 
 But I observe, says Cleanthes, with regard to you, Philo, 
 and all speculative sceptics, that your doctrine and practice 
 are as much at variance in the most abstruse points of theory 
 as in the conduct of common life. Where-ever evidence dis- 
 covers itself, you adhei'e to it, notwithstanding your pre- 
 tended scepticism; and I can observe too some of your sect 
 to be as decisive as those, who make greater professions of 
 certainty and assurance. In reality, would not a man be 
 ridiculous, who pretended to reject Newton's explication of 
 the wonderful phenomenon of the rainbow, because that ex- 
 plication gives a minute anatomy of the rays of light ; a 
 Bubject, forsooth, too refined for human comprehension ? 
 
 VOL. II. c c
 
 886 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 And what would you say to one, who having nothing parti- 
 cular to object to the arguments of Copeenicus and Galileo 
 for the motion of the earth, should with-hold his assent, on 
 that general principle. That these subjects were too magni- 
 ficent and remote to be explained by the narrow and fallacious 
 reason of mankind ? 
 
 There is indeed a kind of brutish and ignorant scepticism, 
 as you well observed, which gives the vulgar a general pre- 
 judice against what they do not easily understand, and makes 
 them reject every principle, which requires elaborate reason- 
 ing to prove and establish it. This species of scepticism is 
 fatal to knowledge, not to religion ; since we find, that those 
 who make greatest profession of it, give often their assent, 
 not only to the great truths of Theism, and natural theology, 
 but even to the most absurd tenets, which a traditional 
 superstition has recommended to them. They firmly believe 
 in witches ; though they will not believe nor attend to the 
 most simple proposition of Euclid. But the refined and 
 philosophical sceptics fall into an inconsistence of an oppo- 
 site nature. They push their researches into the most ab- 
 struse corners of science ; and their assent attends them in 
 every step, proportioned to the evidence which they meet 
 with. They are even obliged to acknowledge, that the most 
 abstruse and remote objects are those, which are best explained 
 by philosophy. Light is in reality anatomized : The true 
 system of the heavenly bodies is discovered and ascertained. 
 But the nourishment of bodies by food is still an inexplicable 
 mystery : The cohesion of the parts of matter is still incom- 
 prehensible. These sceptics, therefore, are obliged, in every 
 question, to consider each particular evidence apart, and pro- 
 portion their assent to the precise degree of evidence, which 
 occurs. This is their practice in all natural, mathematical, 
 moral, and political science. And why not the same, I ask, 
 in the theological and religious ? Why must conclusions of 
 this nature be alone rejected on the general presumption of 
 the insufficiency of human reason, without any particular 
 discussion of the evidence ? Is not such an unequal conduct 
 a plain proof of prejudice and passion ? 
 
 Our senses, you say, are fallacious, our understanding 
 erroneous, our ideas even of the most familiar objects, exten- 
 sion, duration, motion, full of absurdities and contradictions. 
 You defy me to solve the difficulties, or reconcile the repug-
 
 NATUBAL RELIGION. 887 
 
 nancies, wliich you discover in them. I have not capacity 
 for so great an undertaking : I have not leisure for it : I 
 perceive it to be superfluous. Your own conduct, in every 
 circumstance, refutes your principles ; and shows the firmest 
 reliance on all the received maxims of science, morals, pru- 
 dence, and behaviour. 
 
 I shall never assent to so harsh an opinion as that of a 
 celebrated writer,' who says, that the sceptics are not a sect 
 of philosophers : They are only a sect of liars. I may, how- 
 ever, affirm, (I hope without offence) that they are a sect of 
 jesters or ralliers. But for my part, whenever I find myself 
 disposed to mirth and amusement, I shall certainly chuse 
 my entertainment of a less perplexing and abstruse nature. 
 A comedy, a novel, or at most a history, seems a more 
 natural recreation than such metaphysical subtilties and ab- 
 stractions. 
 
 In vain would the sceptic make a distinction between 
 science and common life, or between one science and another. 
 The arguments, employed in all, if just, are of a similar 
 nature, and contain the same force and evidence. Or if 
 there be any difference among them, the advantage lies 
 entirely on the side of theology and natural religion. Many 
 principles of mechanics are founded on very abstruse reason- 
 ing ; yet no man, who has any pretensions to science, even 
 no speculative sceptic, pretends to entertain the least doubt 
 with regard to them. The Copernican system contains the 
 most surprising paradox, and the most contrary to our na- 
 tural conceptions, to appearances, and to our very senses : 
 yet even monks and inquisitors are now constrained to with- 
 draw their opposition to it. And shall Philo, a man of so 
 liberal a genius, and extensive knowledge, entertain any 
 general undistinguished scruples with regard to the religious 
 hypothesis, which is founded on the simplest and most ob- 
 vious arguments, and, unless it meets with artificial obstacles, 
 has such easy access and admission into the mind of man? 
 
 And here we may observe, continued he, turning himself 
 towards Demea, a pretty curious circumstance in the history 
 of the sciences. After the union of philosophy with the 
 popular religion, upon the first establishment of Christianity, 
 nothing was more usual, among all religious teachers, than 
 declamations against reason, against the senses, against every 
 
 " L'art de penser. 
 c c 2
 
 888 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 principle, derived merely from human researcli and enquiry. 
 All the topics of the ancient Academics were adopted by the 
 Fathers; and thence propagated for several ages in every school 
 and pulpit throughout Christendom. The Reformers embraced 
 the same principles of reasoning, or rather declamation ; and 
 all panegyrics on the excellency of faith were sure to be 
 interlarded with some severe strokes of satire against natural 
 reason. A celebrated prelate too,' of the Romish communion, 
 a man of the most extensive learning, who wrote a demon- 
 stration of Christianity, has also composed a treatise, which 
 contains all the cavils of the boldest and most determined 
 Pyrrhonism. Locke seems to have been the first Christian, 
 who ventured openly to assert, that faith was nothing but a 
 species of reason^ that religion was only a branch of philo- 
 sophy, and that a chain of arguments, similar to that which 
 established any truth in morals, politics, or physics, was 
 always employed in discovering all the principles of theolog}', 
 natural and revealed. The ill use, which Batle and other 
 libertines made of the philosophical scepticism of the fathers 
 and first reformers, still farther propagated the judicious 
 sentiment of Mr. Locke : and it is now, in a manner, avowed, 
 by all pretenders to reasoning and philosophy, that Atheist 
 and Sceptic are almost synonymous. And as it is certain, 
 that no man is in earnest, when he professes the latter prin- 
 ciple ; I would fain hope that there are as few, who seriously 
 maintain the former. 
 
 Don't you remember, said Philo, the excellent saying of 
 Lord Bacon on this head? That a little philosophy, replied 
 Cleanthes, makes a man an Atheist : a great deal converts 
 him to religion. That is a very judicious remark too, said 
 Philo. But what I have in my eye is another passage, 
 where, having mentioned David's fool, who said in his heart 
 there is no God, this great philosopher observes, that the 
 Atheists now a days have a double share of folly: for they 
 are not contented to say in their hearts there is no God, but 
 they also utter that impiety with their lips, and are thereby 
 guilty of multiplied indiscretion and imprudence. Such 
 people, though they were ever so much in earnest, caimot, 
 methinks, be veiy formidable. 
 
 But though you should rank me in this class of fools, I 
 cannot forbear communicating a remark, that occurs to me, 
 
 ' ilons. Huet.
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 389 
 
 from the history of the religious and irreligious scepticism, 
 with which you have entertained us. It appears to me, that 
 there are strong symptoms of priestcraft in the whole pro- 
 gress of this affair. During ignorant ages, such as those 
 which followed the dissolution of the ancient schools, the 
 priests perceived, that Atheism, Deism, or heresy of any 
 kind, could only proceed from the presumptuous questioning 
 of received opinions, and from a belief, that human reason 
 was equal to everything. Education had then a mighty 
 influence over the minds of men, and was almost equal in 
 force to those suwo-estions of the senses and common under- 
 standing, by which the most determined sceptic must allow 
 himself to be governed. But at present, when the influence 
 of education is much diminished, and men, from a more open 
 commerce of the world, have learned to compare the popular 
 principles of different nations and ages, our sagacious divines 
 have changed their whole system of philosophy, and talk the 
 language of Stoics, Platonists, and Peripatetics, not that 
 of Ptrrhonians and Academics. If we distrust human 
 reason, we have now no other princijDle to lead us into reli- 
 gion. Thus, sceptics in one age, dogmatists in another ; 
 whichever system best suits the purpose of these reverend 
 gentlemen, in giving them an ascendant over mankind, they 
 are sure to make it their favourite principle, and established 
 tenet. 
 
 It is very natural, said Cleanthes, for men to embrace 
 those principles, by which they find they can best defend 
 their doctrines ; nor need we have any recourse to priestcraft 
 to account for so reasonable an expedient. And surely 
 nothing can afford a stronger presumption, that any set of 
 principles are true, and ought to be embraced, than to 
 observe, that they tend to the confirmation of true religion, 
 and serve to confound the cavils of Atheists, Libertines, and 
 Freethinkers of all denominations. 
 
 PAET II. 
 
 I MUST own, Cleanthes, said Demea, that nothing can 
 more surprise me, than the light, in which you have, all 
 along, put this argument. By the whole tenor of your dis-
 
 890 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 course, one would imagine that you were maintaining tha 
 Being of a God, against the cavils of Atheists and Infidels ; 
 and were necessitated to become a champion for that funda- 
 mental principle of all religion. But this, I hope, is not by 
 any means a question among us. No man ; no man, at least, 
 of common sense, I am persuaded, ever entertained a serious 
 doubt with regard to a truth, so certain and self-evident. 
 The question is not concerning the being, but the nature of 
 God. This, I affirm, from the infirmities of human under- 
 standing, to be altogether incomprehensible and unknown 
 to us. The essence of that supreme mind, his attributes, 
 the manner of his existence, the very nature of his duration ; 
 these and every particular, which regards so divine a Being, 
 are mysterious to men. Finite, weak, and blind creatures, 
 we ought to humble ourselves in his august presence, and, 
 conscious of our frailties, adore in silence his infinite perfec- 
 tions, which eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, neither 
 hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive. They are 
 covered in a deep cloud from human curiosity : It is profane- 
 ness to attempt penetrating through these sacred obscurities : 
 And next to the impiety of denying his existence, is the 
 temerity of prying into his nature and essence, decrees and 
 attributes. 
 
 But lest you should think, that my piety has here got the 
 better of my philosophy, I shall support my opinion, if it 
 needs any support, by a very great authority. I might cite 
 all the divines almost, from the foundation of Christianity, 
 who have ever treated of this or any other theological sub- 
 ject : But I shall confine myself, at present, to one equallj 
 celebrated for piety and philosophy. It is Father. Male- 
 BRANCHE, who, I remember, thus expresses himself.^ ' One 
 ought not so much (says he) to call God a spirit, in order to 
 express positively what he is, as in order to signify that he 
 is not matter. He is a Being infinitely perfect : Of this we 
 cannot doubt. But in the same manner as we ought not to 
 imagine, even supposing him corporeal, that he is clothed 
 with a human body, as the Anthropomorphites asserted, 
 under colour that that figure was the most perfect of any ; 
 so neither ought we to imagine, that the Spirit of God has 
 human ideas, or bears any resemblance to our spirit ; under 
 colour that we know nothing more perfect than a human 
 ' Recherche de la Verite, liv. 3, chap. 9.
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 891 
 
 mind. We ought rather to believe, that as he comprehends 
 
 the perfections of matter without being material 
 
 he comprehends also the perfections of created spirits, with- 
 out being spirit, in the manner we conceive spirit : That his 
 true name is. He that is, or, in other words, Being without 
 restriction. All Being, the Being infinite and universal.' 
 
 After so great an authority, Demea, replied Philo, as that 
 which you have produced, and a thousand more, which you 
 might produce, it would appear ridiculous in me to add my 
 sentiment, or express my approbation of your doctrine. But 
 surely, where reasonable men treat these subjects, the ques- 
 tion can never be concerning the Being, but only the Nature 
 of the Deity. The former truth, as you well observe, is un- 
 questionable and self-evident. Nothing exists without a 
 cause ; and the original cause of this universe (whatever it be) 
 we call God ; and piously ascribe to him every species of per- 
 fection. Whoever scruples this fundamental truth, deserves 
 every punishment, which can be inflicted among philosophers, 
 to wit, the greatest ridicule, contempt and disapprobation. 
 But as all perfection is entirely relative, we ought never to 
 imagine, that we comprehend the attributes of this divine 
 Being, or to suppose, that his perfections have any analogy 
 or likeness to the perfections of a human creature. Wisdom, 
 Thought, Design, Knowledge; these we justly ascribe to 
 him ; because these words are honourable among men, and 
 we have no other language or other conceptions, by which 
 we can express our adoration of him. But let us beware, 
 lest we think, that our ideas any wise correspond to his per- 
 fections, or that his attributes have any resemblance to these 
 qualities among men. He is infinitely superior to our limited 
 view and comprehension ; and is more the object of worship 
 in the temple, than of disputation in the schools. 
 
 In reality, Cleanthes, continued he, there is no need of 
 l)aving recourse to that affected scepticism, so displeasing to 
 you, in order to come at tliis determination. Our ideas reach 
 no farther than our experience : We have no experience of 
 divine attributes and operations : I need not conclude my 
 syllogism : You can draw the inference yourself. And it is 
 a pleasure to me (and I hope to you too) that just reasoning 
 and sound piety here concur in the same conclusion, and both 
 of them establish the adorably mysterious and incomprehen- 
 sible nature of the Supreme Being.
 
 802 DL\L0GUE3 CONCERNING 
 
 Nut to lose any time in circumlocutions, said Cleanthes, 
 addressing himself to Demea, much less in replying to the 
 pious declamations of Philo ; I shall briefly exjilain how I 
 conceive this matter. Look round the world : contemplate 
 the whole and every part of it : You will find it to be nothing 
 but one great machine, subdivided into an infinite number of 
 lesser machines, which again admit of subdivisions, to a 
 degree beyond what human senses and faculties can trace and 
 explain. All these various machines, and even their most 
 minute parts, are adjusted to each other with an accuracy, 
 which ravishes into admiration all men, who have ever con- 
 templated them. The curious adapting of means to ends, 
 throughout all nature, resembles exactly, though it much 
 exceeds, the productions of human contrivance ; of human 
 designs, thought, wisdom, and intelligence. Since therefore 
 the effects resemble each other, we are led to infer, by all 
 the rules of analogy, that the causes also resemble ; and that 
 the Authoi- of Nature is somewhat similar to the mind of 
 man ; though possessed of much larger faculties, propor- 
 tioned to the grandeur of the work, which he has executed. 
 By this argument a posteriori, and by this argument alone, 
 do we prove at once the existence of a Deity, and his simi- 
 larity to human mind and intelligence. 
 
 I shall be so free, Cleanthes, said Demea, as to tell you, 
 that from the beginning, I could not approve of your conclu- 
 sion concerning the similarity of the Deity to men ; still 
 less can I approve of the mediums, by which you endeavour 
 to establish it. What ! No demonstration of the Being of a 
 God ! No abstract arguments ! No proofs a priori ! Are 
 these, which have hitherto been so much insisted on by phi- 
 losophers, all fallacy, all sophism ? Can we reach no farther 
 in this subject than experience and probability ? I will not 
 say, that this is betraying the cause of a Deity : But surely, 
 by this affected candor, you give advantage to Atheists, 
 which they never could obtain, by the mere dint of argument 
 and reasoning. 
 
 What I chiefly scruple in this subject, said Philo, is not so 
 much, that all religious arguments are by Cleanthes reduced 
 to experience, as that they appear not to be even the most 
 certain and irrefragable of that inferior kind. That a stone 
 will fall, that fire will burn, that the earth has solidity, we 
 have observed a thousand and a thousand times : and when
 
 NATURAL KELIGION. 393 
 
 any new instance of this nature is presented, we draw without 
 hesitation the accustomed inference. The exact similarity of 
 the cases gives us a perfect assurance of a similar event ; and 
 a strong-er evidence is never desired nor sought after. But 
 where-ever you depart, in the least, from the similarity of 
 the cases, you diminish proportionably the evidence ; and may 
 at last bring it to a very weak analogy, which is confessedly 
 liable to error and uncertainty. After having experienced the 
 circulation of the blood in human creatures, we make no doubt 
 that it takes place in Titius and Msevius : but from its circu- 
 lation in frogs and fishes, it is only a presumption, though a 
 strong one, from analogy^ that it takes place in men and 
 other animals. The analogical reasoning is much weaker, 
 when we infer the circulation of the sap in vegetables from 
 our experience, that the blood circulates in animals ; and 
 those, who hastily followed that imperfect analogy, are found, 
 by more accurate experiments, to have been mistaken. 
 
 If we see a house, Oleanthes, we conclude, with the 
 greatest certainty, that it had an architect or builder ; because 
 this is precisely that species of effect, which we have expe- 
 rienced to proceed from that species of cause. But surely 
 you will not aflSrm, that the universe bears such a resemblance 
 to a house, that we can with the same certainty infer a similar 
 cause, or that the analogy is here entire and perfect. The 
 dissimilitude is so striking, that the utmost you can here 
 pretend to is a guess, a conjecture, a presumption concerning 
 a similar cause ; and how that pretension will be received in 
 the world, I leave you to consider. 
 
 It would surely be very ill received, replied Cleanthes ; 
 and I should be deservedly blamed and detested, did I allow, 
 that the proofs of a Deity amounted to no more than a guess 
 or conjecture. But is the whole adjustment of means to ends 
 in a house and in the universe so slight a resemblance P The 
 ceconomy of final causes? The order, proportion, and arrange- 
 ment of every part ? Steps of a stair are plainly contrived, that 
 human legs may use them in mounting; and this inference is 
 certain and infallible. Human legs are also contrived for 
 walking and mounting ; and this inference, I allow, is not 
 altogether so certain, because of the dissimilarity which you 
 remark; but does it, therefore, deserve the name only of 
 presumption or conjecture? 
 
 Good God ! cried Demea, interrupting him, where are we?
 
 394 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 Zealous defenders of relij^ion allow, that tlie proofs of a Deity 
 fall short of perfect evidence ! And you, Philo, on whose 
 assistance I depended, in proving the adorable mysteriousnesa 
 of the Divine Nature, do yon assent to all these extravagant 
 opinions of Cleanthes ? For what other name can I give 
 them ? Or why spare my censure, when such principles are 
 advanced, supported by such an authority, before so young a 
 man as PamphilusI^ 
 
 You seem not to apprehend, replied Philo, that I argue 
 with Cleanthes in his own way ; and by showing him the 
 dangerous consequences of his tenets, hope at last to reduce 
 him to our opinion. But what sticks most with you, I observe, 
 is the representation which Cleanthes has made of the argu- 
 ment a posteriori ; and finding, that that argument is likely 
 to escape your hold and vanish into air, you think it so dis- 
 guised, that 3'ou can scarcely believe it to be set in its true 
 light. Now, however much I may dissent, in other respects, 
 from the dangerous principles of Cleanthes, I must allow, 
 that he has fairly represented that argument ; and I shall 
 endeavour so to state the matter to you, that you will enter- 
 tain no farther scruples with regard to it. 
 
 Were a man to abstract from every thing which he knows 
 or has seen, he would be altogether incapable, merely from 
 his own ideas, to determine what kind of scene the universe 
 must be, or to give the preference to one state or situation 
 of things above another. For as nothing which he clearly 
 conceives, could be esteemed impossible or implying a con- 
 tradiction, every chimera of his fancy would be upon an equal 
 footing ; nor could he assign any just reason, why he adheres 
 to one idea or system, and rejects the others, which are equally 
 possible. 
 
 Again ; after he opens his eyes, and contemplates the world, 
 as it really is, it would be impossible for him, at first, to 
 assign the cause of any one event ; much less, of the whole 
 of things or of the universe. He might set his Fancy a 
 rambling ; and she might bring him in an infinite variety 
 of reports and representations. These would all be possible; 
 but being all equally possible, he would never, of himself, 
 give a satisfactory account for his preferring one of them to 
 the rest. Experience alone can point out to him the true 
 cause of any phenomenon. 
 
 Now, according to this method of reasoning, Demea, it
 
 NATURAI^ RELIGION. 896 
 
 follows (and is, indeed, tacitly allowed by Cleanthes himself) 
 that order, arrangement, or the adjustment of final causes is 
 not, of itself, any proof of design ; but only so far as it has 
 been experienced to proceed from that principle. For ought 
 we can know a priori, matter may contain the source or 
 spring of order originally, within itself, as well as mind does; 
 and there is no more difficulty in conceiving, that the several 
 elements, from an internal unknown cause, may fall into the 
 most exquisite arrangement, than to conceive that their 
 ideas, in the great, universal mind, from a like internal, 
 unknown cause, fall into that arrangement. The equal pos- 
 sibility of both these suppositions is allowed. But by expe- 
 rience we find, (according to Cleanthes) that there is a 
 difference between them. Throw several pieces of steel toge- 
 ther, without shape or form ; they will never arrange them- 
 selves so as to compose a watch : Stone, and mortar, and 
 wood, without an architect, never erect a house. But the 
 ideas in a human mind, we see, by an unknown, inexplicable 
 oeconomy, arrange themselves so as to form the plan of a 
 watch or house. Experience, therefore, proves, that there is 
 an original principle of order in mind, not in matter. From 
 similar effects we infer similar causes. The adjustment of 
 means to ends is alike in the universe, as in a machine of 
 human contrivance. The causes, therefore, must be re- 
 sembling. 
 
 I was from the beginning scandalised, 1 must own, with 
 this resemblance, which is asserted, between the Deity and 
 human creatures ; and must conceive it to imply such a de- 
 gradation of the Supreme Being as no sound Theist could 
 endure. With your assistance, therefore, Demea, I shall 
 endeavour to defend what you justly called the adorable 
 mysteriousness of the Divine Nature, and shall refute this 
 reasoning of Cleanthes, provided he allows, that I have 
 made a fair representation of it. 
 
 When Cleanthes had assented, Philo, after a short pause, 
 proceeded in the following manner. 
 
 That all inferences, Cleanthes, concerning fact, are founded 
 on experience, and that all experimental reasonings are 
 founded on the supposition, that similar causes prove similar 
 effects, and similar effects similar causes ; I shall not, at pre- 
 sent, much dispute with you. But observe, I entreat you, 
 with what extreme caution all just reasoners proceed in the
 
 396 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 transferring of experiments to similar cases. Unless the 
 cases be exactly similar, they repose no perfect confidence in 
 applying their past observation to any particular phenomenon. 
 Every alteration of circumstances occasions a doubt concern- 
 ing the event ; and it requires new experiments to prove 
 certainly, that the new circumstances are of no moment or 
 importance. A change in bulk, situation, arrangement, age, 
 disposition of the air, or surrounding bodies ; any of these 
 particulars may be attended with the most unexpected con- 
 sequences : And unless the objects be quite familiar to us, it 
 is the highest temerity to expect with assurance, after any of 
 these changes, an event similar to that which before fell 
 under our observation. The slow and deliberate steps of 
 philosophers, here, if any where, are distinguished from the 
 precipitate march of the vulgar, who, hurried on by the 
 smallest similitudes, are incapable of all discernment or con- 
 sideration. 
 
 But can you think, Cleanthes, that your usual phlegm 
 and philosophy have been preserved in so wide a step as you 
 have taken, when you compared to the universe houses, ships, 
 furniture, machines ; and from their similarity in some cir- 
 cumstances inferred a similarity in their causes? Thought, 
 design, intelligence, such as we discover in men and other 
 animals, is no more than one of the springs and principles of 
 the universe, as well as heat or cold, attraction or repulsion, 
 and a hundred others, which fall under daily observation. It 
 is an active cause, by which some particular parts of nature, 
 we find, produce alterations on other parts. But can a con- 
 clusion, with any propriety, be transferred from parts to the 
 whole ? Does not the great disproportion bar all comparison 
 and inference ? From observing the growth of a hair, can we 
 learn any thing concerning the generation of a man ? Would 
 the manner of a leaf's blowing, even though perfectly known, 
 afford us any instruction concerning the vegetation of a tree? 
 
 But allowing that we were to take the operations of one 
 part of nature upon another for the foundation of our judge- 
 ment concerning the origin of the whole (which never can be 
 admitted) yet why select so minute, so weak, so bounded a 
 principle as the reason and design of animals is found to be 
 upon this planet ? What peculiar privilege has this little 
 agitation of the brain which we call thought, that we must 
 thus make it the model of the whole universe ? Our partiality
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 397 
 
 in our own favour does indeed present it on all occasions ; but 
 sound philosophy ought carefully to guard against so natural 
 an illusion. 
 
 So far from admitting, continued Philo, that the opera- 
 tions of a part can afford us any just conclusion concerning 
 the origin of the whole, I will not allow any one j^art to form 
 a rule for another part, if the latter be very remote from the 
 former. Is there any reasonable ground to conclude, that 
 the inhabitants of other planets possess thought, intelligence, 
 reason, or any thing similar to these faculties in men ? When 
 Nature has so extremely diversified her manner of operation 
 in this small globe ; can we imagine, that she incessantly 
 copies herself throughout so immense a universe ? And if 
 thought, as we may well suppose, be confined merely to this 
 narrow corner, and has even there so limited a sphere of 
 action ; with what propriety can we assign it for the original 
 cause of all things ? The narrow views of a peasant, who 
 makes his domestic oeconomy the rule for the government of 
 kingdoms, is in comparison a pardonable sophism. 
 
 But were we ever so much assured, that a thought and 
 reason, resembling the human, were to be found throughout 
 the whole universe, and were its activity elsewhere vastly 
 greater and more commanding than it appears in this globe; 
 yet I cannot see, why the operations of a world, constituted, 
 arranged, adjusted, can with any jjropriety be extended to a 
 world, whichi is in its embryo-state, and is advancing towards 
 that constitution and arrangement. By observation, we know 
 somewhat of the ceconomy, action, and nourishment of a 
 finished animal ; but we must transfer with great caution 
 that observation to the growth of a foetus in the womb, and 
 still more, in the formation of an animalcule in the loins of 
 its male parent. Nature, we find, even from our limited ex- 
 perience, possesses an infinite number of springs and prin- 
 ciples, which incessantly discover themselves on every change 
 of her position and situation. And what new and unknown 
 principles would actuate her in so new and unknown a situ- 
 ation as that of the formation of a universe, we cannot, 
 without the utmost temerity, pretend to determine. 
 
 A very small part of this great system, during a very short 
 time, is very imperfectly discovered to us : and do we then 
 pronounce decisively concerning the origin of the whole ? 
 
 Admirable conclusion ! Stone, wood, brick, iron, brass.
 
 398 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 have not, at tliis time, in this minute globe of earth, an order 
 or arrangement without human art and contrivance : there- 
 fore the universe could not originally attain its order and 
 arrangement, without something similar to human art. But 
 is a part of nature a rule for another part very wide of the 
 former ? Is it a rule for the whole ? Is a very small part a 
 rule for the universe ? Is nature in one situation, a certain 
 rule for nature in another situation, vastly different from the 
 former ? 
 
 And can you blame me, Cleanthes, if I here imitate the 
 prudent reserve of Simonides, who, according to the noted 
 story, being asked by Hiero, What God was ? desired a day 
 to think of it, and then two days more ; and after that 
 manner continually prolonged the term, without ever 
 bringing in his definition or description? Could you even 
 blame me, if I had answered at first that I did not know, and 
 was sensible that this subject lay vastly beyond the reach of 
 luy faculties ? You might cry out sceptic and rallier as much 
 as you pleased : but having found, in so many other subjects, 
 much more familiar, the imperfections and even contradic- 
 tions of human reason, I never should expect any success 
 from its feeble conjectures, in a subject, so sublime, and so 
 remote from the sphere of our observation. When two species 
 of objects have always been observed to be conjoined together, 
 I can infer, hj custom, the existence of one where-ever I see 
 the existence of the other : and this I call an argument from 
 experience. But how this argument can have place, where 
 the objects, as in the present case, are single, individual, 
 without parallel, or specific resemblance, may be difficult to 
 explain. And will any man tell me with a serious counten- 
 ance, that an orderly universe mvist arise from some thought 
 and art, like the human ; because we have experience of it ? 
 To ascertain this reasoning, it were requisite, that we had 
 experience of the origin of worlds ; and it is not sufficient 
 surely, that we have seen ships and cities arise from human 
 art and contrivance 
 
 Philo was proceeding in this vehement manner, somewhat 
 between jest and earnest, as it appeared to me ; when he ob- 
 served some signs of impatience in Cleanthes, and then 
 immediately stopped short. What I had to suggest, said 
 Cleanthes, is only that you would not abuse terms, or make 
 use of popular expressions to subvert philosophical reason-
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 399 
 
 ings. You know, that the vulgar often distinguish reason 
 from experience, even where the question relates only to 
 matter of fact and existence ; though it is found, where that 
 reason is properly analyzed, that it is nothing but a species 
 of experience. To prove by experience the origin of the 
 universe from mind is not more contrary to common speech 
 than to prove the motion of the earth from the same prin- 
 ciple. And a caviller might raise all the same objections to 
 the CoPERNiCAN system, which you have urged against my 
 reasonings. Have you other earths, might he say, which 
 you have seen to move ? Have .... 
 
 Yes ! cried Philo, interrupting him, we have other earths. 
 Is not the moon another earth, which we see to turn round 
 its centre ? Is not Venus another earth, where we observe 
 the same phenomenon ? Are not the revolutions of the sun 
 also a confirmation, from analogy, of the same theory ? All 
 the planets, are they not earths, which revolve about the sun ? 
 Are not the satellites moons, which move round Jupiter and 
 Saturn, and along with these primary planets, round the sun ? 
 These analogies and resemblances, with others, which I have 
 not mentioned, are the sole proofs of the Copernican system : 
 and to you it belongs to consider, whether you have any ana- 
 logies of the same kind to support your theory. 
 
 In reality, Cleanthes, continued he, the modern system 
 of astronomy is now so much received by all enquirers, and 
 has become so essential a part even of our earliest education, 
 that we are not commonly very scrupulous in examining the 
 reasons upon which it is founded. It is now become a matter 
 of mere curiosity to study the first writers on that subject, 
 who had the full force of prejudice to encounter, and were 
 obliged to turn their arguments on every side, in order to 
 render them popular and convincing. But if we peruse 
 Galileo's famous Dialogues concerning the systcF of the 
 world, we shall find, that that great genius, one of the sub- 
 limest that ever existed, first bent all his endeavours to 
 prove, that there was no foundation for the distinction com- 
 monly made between elementary and celestial substances. 
 The schools, proceeding from the illusions of sense, had 
 carried this distinction very far; and had established the 
 latter substances to be ingenerable, incorruptible, unalter- 
 able, impassible; and had assigned all the opposite qualities to 
 the former. But Galileo, beginning with the moon, proved
 
 400 DIALOGUES CONCERMNG 
 
 its similarity in every particular to the earth ; its convex 
 figure, its natural darkness when not illuminated, its density, 
 its distinction into solid and liquid, the variations of its phases, 
 the mutual illuminations of the earth and moon, their mutual 
 eclipses, the inequalities of the lunar surface, &c. After 
 many instances of this kind, with regard to all the planets, 
 men plainly saw, that these bodies became proper objects of 
 experience ; and that the similarity of their nature enabled 
 us to extend the same arguments and phenomena from one 
 to the other. 
 
 In this cautious proceeding of the astronomers, you may 
 read your own condemnation, Cleanthes ; or rather may 
 see, that the subject in which you are engaged exceeds all 
 human reason and enquiry. Can you pretend to show any 
 such similarity between the fabric of a house, and the gene- 
 ration of a universe '? Have you ever seen nature in any such 
 situation as resembles the first arrangement of the elements? 
 Have worlds ever been formed under your eye ? and have you 
 had leisure to observe the whole progress of the phenomenon, 
 from the first appearance of order to its final consummation ? 
 If you have, then cite your experience, and deliver yonr 
 theory. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Ho"w the most absurd argument, replied Cleanthes, in the 
 hands of a man of ingenuity and invention, may acquire an 
 air of probability ! Are you not aware, Philo, that it became 
 necessary for Copernicus and his first disciples to prove the 
 similarity of the terrestrial and celestial matter; because 
 several philosophers, blinded by old systems, and supported 
 by some sensible appearances, had denied that similarity? 
 But that it is by no means necessary, that Theists should 
 prove the similarity of the works of Nature to those of Art ; 
 because this similarity is self-evident and undeniable ? The 
 same matter, a like form : what more is requisite to show an 
 analogy between their causes, and to ascertain the origin of 
 all things from a divine purpose and intention ? Your ob- 
 jections, I must freely tell you, are no better than the abstruse 
 cavils of those philosophers who denied motion ; and ought
 
 JSATUTvAL RELIGION. 401 
 
 to be refuted in tlie same manner, by illustrations, examples, 
 and instances, rather than by serious argument and philo- 
 sophy. 
 
 Suppose, therefore, that an articulate voice were heard in 
 the clouds, much louder and more melodious than any which 
 human art could ever reach : Suppose, that this voice were 
 extended in the same instant over all nations, and spoke to 
 each nation in its own language and dialect : Suppose, that 
 the words delivered not only contain a just sense and mean- 
 ing, but convey some instruction altogether worthy of a, 
 benevolent being, superior to mankind : could you possibly 
 hesitate a moment concerning the cause of this voice ? and 
 must you not instantly ascribe it to some design or purpose ? 
 Yet I cannot see but all the same objections (if they merit 
 that appellation) which lie against the system of Theism, may 
 also be produced against this inference. 
 
 Might you not say, that all conclusions concerning fact 
 were founded on experience : that when we hear an articu- 
 late voice in the dark, and thence infer a man, it is only the 
 resemblance of the effects, which leads us to conclude that 
 there is a like resemblance in the cause : but that this extra- 
 ordinary voice, by its loudness, extent, and flexibility to all 
 languages, bears so little analogy to any human voice, that 
 we have no reason to suppose any analogy in their causes : 
 and consequently, that a rational, wise, coherent speech pro- 
 ceeded, you know not whence, from some accidental whistling 
 of the winds, not from any divine reason or intelligence? 
 You see clearly your own objections in these cavils ; and I 
 liope too, you see clearly, that they cannot possibly have more 
 force in the one case than in the other. 
 
 But to bring the case still nearer the present one of the 
 universe, I shall make two suppositions, which imply not any 
 absurdity or impossibility. Suppose, that there is a natural, 
 universal, invariable language, common to every individual 
 of human race, and that books are natural productions, which 
 perpetuate themselves in the same manner with animals 
 and vegetables, by descent and propagation. Several ex- 
 pressions of our passions contain a universal language : all 
 brute animals have a natural speech, which, however limited, 
 is very intelligible to their own species. And as there are 
 infinitely fewer parts and less contrivance in the finest cort) • 
 position of eloquence, than in the coarsest organized body, 
 
 VOL. II. D D
 
 402 DIALO(iUES CONCERNING 
 
 the propagation of an Iliad or JEneid is an easier supposition 
 than that of any plant or animal. 
 
 Suppose, therefore, that you enter into your library, thus 
 peopled by natural volumes, containing the most refined 
 reason and most exquisite beauty : could you possibly open 
 one of them, and doubt, that its original cause bore the 
 strongest analogy to mind and intelligence ? When it rea- 
 sons and discourses; when it expostulates, argues, and enforces 
 its views and topics ; when it ajDplies sometimes to the pure 
 intellect, sometimes to the affections ; when it collects, dis- 
 poses, and adorns every consideration suited to the subject : 
 could you persist in asserting, that all this, at the bottom, 
 had really no meaning, and that the first formation of this 
 volume in the loins of its original parent proceeded not from 
 thought and design ? Your obstinacy, I know, reaches not 
 that degree of firmness : even your sceptical play and wanton- 
 ness would be abashed at so glaring an absurdity. 
 
 But if there be any difiference, Philo, between this supposed 
 case and the real one of the universe, it is all to the advan- 
 tage of the latter. The anatomy of an animal affords many 
 stronger instances of design than the perusal of Livt or 
 Tacitus : and any objection which you start in the former 
 case, by carrying me back to so unusual and extraordinary a 
 scene as the first formation of worlds, the same objection has 
 place on the supposition of our vegetating library. Chuse, 
 then, your party, Philo, without ambiguity or evasion ; assert 
 either that a rational volume is no proof of a rational cause, 
 or admit of a similar cause to all the works of nature. 
 
 Let me here observe too, continued Cleanthes, that this 
 religious argument, instead of being weakened by that scep- 
 ticism, so much affected by you, rather acquires force from 
 it, and becomes more firm and undisputed. To exclude all 
 argument or reasoning of every kind is either affectation or 
 madness. The declared profession of every reasonable sceptic 
 is only to reject abstruse, remote and refined arguments ; to 
 adhere to common sense and the plain instincts of nature ; 
 and to assent, where-ever any reasons strike him with so full 
 a force, that he cannot, without the greatest violence, prevent 
 it. Now the arguments for Natural Religion are plainly of 
 this kind ; and nothing but the most perverse, obstinate 
 metaphysics can reject them. Consider, anatomize the eye ; 
 Survey its structure and contrivance ; and tell me, from your
 
 NATURAL RELIGIOX. 4().'i 
 
 own feeling, if the idea of a contriver does not immediately 
 flow in upon you with a force like that of sensation. The 
 most obvious conclusion surely is in favour of design ; and it 
 requires time, reflection and study, to summon up those frivo- 
 lous, though abstruse objections, which can support Infidelity. 
 Who can behold the male and female of each species, the 
 correspondence of their parts and instincts, their passions 
 and whole course of life before and after generation, but 
 must be sensible, that the propagation of the species is in- 
 tended by Nature ? Millions and millions of such instances 
 present themselves through every part of the universe ; and 
 no language can convey a more intelligible, irresistible mean- 
 ing, than the curious adjustment of final causes. To what 
 degree, therefore, of blind dogmatism must one have attained, 
 to reject such natural and such convincing arguments ? 
 
 Some beauties in writing we may meet with, which seem 
 contrary to rules, and which gain the affections, and animate 
 the imagination, in opposition to all the precepts of criticism, 
 and to the authority of the established masters of art. And 
 if the argument for Theism be, as you pretend, contradictory 
 to the principles of logic ; its universal, its irresistible in- 
 fluence proves clearly, that there may be arguments of a like 
 irregular nature. Whatever cavils may be urged ; an orderly 
 world, as well as a coherent, articulate speech, will still be 
 received as an incontestable proof of design and intention. 
 
 It sometimes happens, I own, that the religious arguments 
 have not their due influence on an ignorant savage and bar- 
 barian ; not because they are obscure and difficult, but be- 
 cause he never asks himself any question with regard to 
 them. Whence arises the curious structure of an animal ? 
 From the copulation of its parents. And these whence ? 
 From their parents ? A few removes set the objects at such 
 a distance, that to him they are lost in darkness and con- 
 fusion ; nor is he actuated by any curiosity to trace them 
 farther. But this is neither dogmatism nor scepticism, but 
 stupidity ; a state of mind very diflferent from your sifting, 
 inquisitive disposition, my ingenious friend. You can trace 
 causes from efiects : You can compare the most distant and 
 remote objects : and your greatest errors proceed not from 
 barrenness of thought and invention, but from too luxuriant 
 a fertility, which suppresses your natural good sense, by a 
 profusion of unnecessary scruples and objections. 
 
 B D 2
 
 -104 DLiLOGUES CO^X'ERNING 
 
 Here I could observe, Hermippus, that Philo was a little 
 embarrassed and confounded : But while he hesitated in de- 
 livering an answer, luckily for him, Demea broke in upon 
 the discourse, and saved his countenance. 
 
 Your instance, Cleanthes, said he, drawn from books and 
 language, being familiar, has, I confess, so much more force 
 on that account ; but is there not some danger too in this 
 very circumstance ; and may it not render us presumptuous, 
 by making us imagine we comprehend the Deity, and have 
 some adequate idea of his nature and attributes ? When I 
 read a volume, I enter into the mind and intention of the 
 author : I become him, in a manner, for the instant ; and 
 have an immediate feeling and conception of those ideas 
 which revolved in his imagination while employed in that 
 composition. But so near an approach we never surely can 
 make to the Deity. His ways are not our ways. His attri- 
 butes are perfect, but incomprehensible. And this volume 
 of Nature contains a great and inexplicable riddle, more than 
 any intelligible discourse or reasoning. 
 
 The ancient Platonists, you know, were the most religious 
 and devout of all the Pagan philosophers : yet many of them, 
 particularly Plotinus, expressly declare, that intellect or 
 understanding is not to be ascribed to the Deity, and that 
 our most perfect worship of him consists, not in acts of vene- 
 ration, reverence, gratitude or love ; but in a certain myste- 
 rious self-annihilation or total extinction of all our faculties. 
 These ideas are, perhaps, too far stretched ; but still it must 
 be acknowledged, that, by representing the Deity as so intel- 
 ligible, and comprehensible, and so similar to a human mind, 
 we are guilty of the grossest and most narrow partiality, and 
 make ourselves the model of the whole universe. 
 
 All the sentiments of the human mind, gratitude, resent- 
 ment, love, friendship, approbation, blame, pity, emulation, 
 envy, have a plain reference to the state and situation of 
 man, and are calculated for preserving the existence, and 
 promoting the activity of such a being in such circumstances. 
 It seems therefore unreasonable to transfer such sentiments 
 to a supreme existence, or to suppose him actuated by them ; 
 and the phenomena, besides, of the universe wUl not support 
 us in such a theory. All our ideas, derived from the senses 
 are confusedly false and illusive ; and cannot, therefore, be 
 supposed to have place in a supreme intelligence : And as
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 405 
 
 tlio ideas of internal sentiment, added to tliose of the ex- 
 ternal senses, compose the whole furniture of human under- 
 standing, we may conclude, that none of the materials of 
 thought are in any respect similar in the human and in the 
 divine intelligence. Now, as to the manner of thinking; 
 how can we make any comparison between them, or suppose 
 them anywise resembling? Our thought is fluctuating, un- 
 certain, fleeting, successive, and compounded ; and were we 
 to remove these circumstances, we absolutely annihilate its 
 essence, and it would, in such a case, be an abuse of terms 
 to apply to it the name of thought or reason. At least, if it 
 appear more pious and respectful (as it really is) still to 
 retain these terms, when we mention the Supreme Being, we 
 ought to acknowledge, that their meaning, in that case, is 
 totally incomprehensible; and that the infirmities of our 
 nature do not permit us to reach any ideas, which in the 
 least correspond to the ineffable sublimity of the divine 
 attributes. 
 
 PAET IV. 
 
 It seems strange to me, said Cleanthes, that you, Demea, 
 who are so sincere in the cause of religion, should still main- 
 tain the mysterious, incomprehensible nature of the Deity, 
 and should insist so strenuously, that he has no manner of 
 likeness or resemblance to human creatures. The Deity, I 
 can readily allow, possesses many powers and attributes, of 
 which we can have no comprehension : But if our ideas, so 
 far as they go, be not just and adequate, and correspondent 
 to his real nature, I know not what there is in this subject 
 worth insisting on. Is the name, without any meaning, of 
 such mighty importance? Or how do you Mystics, who 
 maintain the absolute incomprehensibility of the Deity, 
 differ from Sceptics or Atheists, who assert, that the first 
 cause of all is unknown and unintelligible ? Their temerity 
 must be very great, if, after rejecting the production by a 
 mind; I mean, a mind, resembling the human (for I know of 
 no other) they pretend to assign, with certainty, any other 
 specific, intelligible cause : And their conscience must be 
 very scrupulous indeed, if they refuse to call the universal,
 
 406 DIALOGUES CONCERMXG 
 
 unknown cause a God or Deity ; and to bestow on liim as 
 many sublime eulogies and unmeaning epithets, as you shall 
 please to require of them. 
 
 Who could imagine, replied Demea, that Cleanthes, the 
 calm, philosophical Cleanthes, would attempt to refute hia 
 antagonists, by affixing a nick-name to them ; and like the 
 common bigots and inquisitors of the age, have recourse to 
 invective and declamation, instead of reasoning ? Or does 
 he not perceive, that these topics are easily retorted, and 
 that Anthropomorphite is an appellation as invidious, and 
 implies as dangerous consequences, as the epithet of Mystic, 
 with which he has honoured us ? In reality, Cleanthes, 
 consider what it is you assert, when you represent the Deity 
 as similar to a human mind and understanding. What is 
 the soul of man ? A composition of various faculties, pas- 
 sions, sentiments, ideas ; united, indeed, into one self or 
 person, but still distinct from each other. When it reasons, 
 the ideas, which are the parts of its discourse, arrange them- 
 seives in a certain form or order ; which is not preserved 
 entire for a moment, but immediately gives place to another 
 arrangement. New opinions, new passions, new affections, 
 new feelings arise, which continually diversify the mental 
 scene, and produce in it the greatest variety, and most rapid 
 succession imaginable. How is this compatible, with that 
 perfect immutability and simplicity, which all true Theists 
 ascribe to the Deity ? By the same act, say they, he sees 
 past, present, and future : His love and His hatred, his mercy 
 and his justice, are one individual operation : He is entire in 
 every point of space ; and complete in every instant of dura- 
 tion. No succession, no change, no acquisition, no diminu- 
 tion. What he is implies not in it any shadow of distinction 
 or diversity. And what he is, this moment, he ever has 
 been, and ever will be, without any new judgement, sentiment, 
 or operation. He stands fixed in one simple, perfect state ; 
 nor can you ever say, with any propriety, that this act of his 
 is different from that other, or that this judgement or idea 
 has been lately fonned, and will give place, by succession, to 
 any different judgement or idea. 
 
 I can readily allow, said Cleanthes, that those who main- 
 tain the perfect simplicity of the Supreme Being, to the 
 extent in which you have explained it, are complete Mystics, 
 and chargeable with all the consequences which I have drawn
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 407 
 
 from their opinion. They are, in a word. Atheists, without 
 knowing it. For though it be allowed, that the Deity pos- 
 sesses attributes, of which we have no comprehension ; yet 
 ought we never to ascribe to him any attributes, which are 
 absolutely incompatible with that intelligent nature, essential 
 to him. A mind, whose acts and sentiments and ideas are 
 not distinct and successive ; one, that is wholly simple, and 
 totally immutable ; is a mind, which has no thought, no 
 reason, no will, no sentiment, no love, no hatred ; or in a 
 word, is no mind at all. It is an abuse of terms to give it 
 that appellation ; and we may as well speak of limited ex- 
 tension without figure, or of number without composition. 
 
 Pray consider, said Philo, whom you are at present in- 
 veighing against. You are honouring with the appellation 
 of Atheist all the sound, orthodox divines almost, who have 
 treated of this subject ; and you will, at last, be, yourself, 
 found, according to your reckoning, the only sound Theist in 
 the world. But if idolaters be Atheists, as, I think, may 
 justly be asserted, and Christian Theologians the same ; 
 what becomes of the argument, so much celebrated, derived 
 from the universal consent of mankind ? 
 
 But because I know you are not much swayed by names 
 and authorities, I shall endeavour to show you, a little more 
 distinctly, the inconveniences of that Anthropomorphism, 
 which you have embraced ; and shall prove, that there is no 
 ground to suppose a plan of the world to be formed in the 
 divine mind, consisting of distinct ideas, differently arranged ; 
 in the same manner as an architect forms in his head the 
 plan of a house which he intends to execute. 
 
 It is not easy, I own, to see, what is gained by this supposi- 
 tion, whether we judge of the matter by Reason or by Expe- 
 rience. We are still obliged to mount higher, in order to find 
 the cause of this cause, which you had assigned as satisfactory 
 and conclusive. 
 
 If Reason (I mean abstract reason, derived from inquiries 
 a priori) be not alike mute with regard to all questions con- 
 cerning cause and effect ; this sentence at least it will ven- 
 ture to pronounce, That a mental world, or universe of ideas, 
 requires a cause as much, as does a material world, or universe 
 of objects ; and if similar in its arrangement must require a 
 similar cause. For what is there in this subject, which should 
 occasion a different conclusion or inference ? In an abstract
 
 408 DIALOGUES COXCEKNING 
 
 view, they are entirely alike ; and no difficulty attends tlie 
 one supposition, which is not eoninion to both of them. 
 
 Again, when we will needs force Experience to pronounce 
 some sentence, even on these subjects, which lie beyond her 
 sphere ; neither can she perceive any material difference in 
 this particular, between these two kinds of worlds, but finds 
 them to be governed by similar jjrinciples, and to depend 
 upon an equal variety of causes in their operations. We 
 have specimens in miniature of both of them. Our own 
 mind resembles the one : A vegetable or animal body the 
 other. Let Experience, therefore, judge from these samples. 
 Nothing seems more delicate with regard to its causes than 
 thought ; and as these causes never operate in two persons 
 after the same manner, so we never find two persons, who 
 think exactly alike. Nor indeed does the same person think 
 exactly alike at any two difierent periods of time. A dif- 
 ference of age, of the disposition of his body, of weather, of 
 food, of company, of books, of passions ; any of these par- 
 ticulars, or others more minute, are sufficient to alter the 
 curious machinery of thought, and communicate to it very 
 different movements and operations. As far as we can judge, 
 vegetables and animal bodies are not more delicate in their 
 motions, nor depend upon a greater variety or more curious 
 adjustment of springs and principles. 
 
 How therefore shall we satisfy ourselves concerning the 
 cause of that Being, whom you suppose the Author of Nature, 
 or, according to your system of Anthropomorphism, the ideal 
 world, into which you trace the material? Have we not the 
 t^ame reason to trace that ideal world into another ideal 
 world, or new intelligent principle ? But if we stop, and go 
 no farther ; why go so far ? Why not stop at the material 
 world ? How can we satisfy ourselves without going on in 
 infinitum ? And after all, what satisfaction is there in that 
 infinite progression? Let us remember the story of the 
 Indian philosopher and his elephant. It was never more ap- 
 plicable than to the present subject. If the material world 
 rests upon a similar ideal world, this ideal world must rest 
 upon some other ; and so on, without end. It were better, 
 therefore, never to look beyond the present material world. 
 By supposing it to contain the principle of its order within 
 itself, we really assert it to be God ; and the sooner we arrive 
 at that divine Being, so much the better. When you go one
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 409 
 
 step beyond tlie mundane system, you only excite an inquisi- 
 tive humour, which it is impossible ever to satisfy. 
 
 To say, that the different ideas, which compose the reason 
 of the Supreme Being, fall into order, of themselves, and by 
 their own nature, is really to talk without any precise mean- 
 ing. If it has a meaning, I would fain know, why it is not as 
 good sense to say, that the parts of the material world fall 
 into order, of themselves, and by their own nature. Can the 
 one opinion be intelligible, while the other is not so ? 
 
 We have, indeed, experience of ideas, which fall into order, 
 of themselves, and without any known cause : But, I am 
 sure, we have a much larger experience of matter, which 
 does the same ; as, in all instances of generation and vegeta- 
 tion, where the accurate analysis of the cause exceeds all 
 human comprehension. We have also experience of par- 
 ticular systems of thought and of matter, which have no 
 order ; of the first, in madness ; of the second, in corruption. 
 Why then should we think, that order is more essential to 
 one than the other? And if it requires a cause in both, 
 what do we gain by your system, in tracing the universe or 
 objects into a similar universe of ideas ? The first step, 
 which we make, leads us on for ever. It were, therefore, 
 wise in us, to limit all our enquiries to the present world, 
 without looking farther. No satisfaction can ever be attained 
 by these speculations, which so far exceed the narrrow bounds 
 of human understanding. 
 
 It was usual with the Peripatetics, you know, Cleanthes, 
 when the cause of any phenomenon was demanded, to have 
 recourse to ih.Q\v faculties or occult qualities, and to say, for 
 instance, that bread nourished by its nutritive faculty, and 
 senna purged by its purgative : But it has been discovered, 
 that this subterfuge was nothing but the disguise of ignorance ; 
 and that these philosophers, though less ingenuous, really 
 said the same thing with the sceptics or the vulgar, who 
 fairly confessed, that they knew not the cause of these 
 phenomena. In like manner, when it is asked, what cause 
 produces order in the ideas of the Supreme Being, can any 
 other reason be assigned by you, Anthropomorphites, than 
 that it is a rational faculty, and that such is the nature of 
 the Deity ? But why a similar answer will not be equally 
 satisfactory in accounting for the order of the world, without 
 having recourse to any such intelligent creator, as you insist
 
 410 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 on, may be difficult to determine. It is only to say, that such 
 is the nature of material objects, and that they are all 
 originally possessed of a faculty of order and proportion. 
 These are only more learned and elaborate ways of confessing 
 our ignorance ; nor has the one hypothesis any real advan- 
 tage above the other, except in its greater conformity to 
 vulgar prejudices. 
 
 You have displayed this argument with great emphasis, 
 rej)lied Cleanthes : You seem not sensible, how easy it is 
 to answer it. Even in common life, if I assign a cause for 
 any event; is it any objection, Philo, that I cannot assign 
 the cause of that cause, and answer every new question, which 
 may incessantly be started ? And what philosophers could 
 possibly submit to so rigid a rule ? philosophers, who confess 
 ultimate causes to be totally unknown, and are sensible, that 
 the most refined principles, into which they trace the pheno- 
 mena, are still to them as inexplicable as these phenomena 
 themselves are to the vulgar. The order and arrangement 
 of nature, the curious adjustment of final causes, the plain 
 •use and intention of every part and organ ; all these bespeak 
 in the clearest language an intelligent cause or author. The 
 heavens and the earth join in the same testimony: The whole 
 chorus of Nature raises one hymn to the praises of its creator: 
 You alone, or almost alone, disturb this general harmony. 
 You start abstruse doubts, cavils, and objections : You ask 
 me, what is the cause of this cause ? I know not ; I care not ; 
 that concerns not me. I have found a Deity; and here I stop 
 my enquiry. Let those go farther, who are wiser or more 
 enterprising. 
 
 I pretend to be neither, replied Philo : and for that very 
 reason, I should never perhaps have attempted to go so far ; 
 especially when I am sensible, that I must at last be con- 
 tented to sit down with the same answer, which, without 
 farther trouble, might have satisfied me from the beginning. 
 If I am still to remain in utter ignorance of causes, and can 
 absolutely give an explication of nothing, I shall never esteem 
 it any advantage to shove off for a moment a difficulty, which, 
 you acknowledge, must immediately, in its full force, recur 
 upon me. Naturalists indeed very justly explain particular 
 effects by more general causes, though these general causes 
 themselves should remain in the end totally inexplicable : 
 but they never surely thought it satisfactory to explain a par-
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 411 
 
 ticular effect by a particular cause, which was no more to be 
 accounted for than the effect itself. An ideal system, arranged 
 of itself, without a precedent design, is not a whit more expli- 
 cable than a material one, which attains its order in a like 
 manner ; nor is there any more difficulty in the latter supposi- 
 tion than in the former. 
 
 PART V. 
 
 But to show you still more inconveniencies, continued 
 Philo, in your Anthropomorphism ; please to take a new sur- 
 vey of your principles. Like effects 'prove like causes. This is 
 the experimental argument ; and this, you say too, is the sole 
 theological argument. Now it is certain, that the liker the 
 effects are, which are seen, and the liker the causes, which 
 are inferred, the stronger is the argument. Every departure 
 on either side diminishes the probability, and renders the 
 experiment less conclusive. You cannot doubt of the prin- 
 ciple : neither ought you to reject its consequences. 
 
 All the new discoveries in astronomy, which prove the 
 immense grandeur and magnificence of the works of Nature, 
 are so many additional arguments for a Deity, according to 
 the true system of Theism : but according to your hypothesis 
 of experimental Theism, they become so many objections, by 
 removing the effect still farther from all resemblance to the 
 effects of human art and contrivance. For if Lucretius,' 
 even following the old system of the world, could exclaim, 
 
 Quis regere immensi summam, quis habere profundi 
 Indu manii validas potis est moderanter habenas? 
 Quis pariter ecelos omnes convertere ? et omnes 
 Ignibus setheriis terras siiffire feraces ? 
 Omnibus inqiie locis esse omni tempore prsesto? 
 
 If Tully 2 esteemed this reasoning so natural, as to put it 
 into the mouth of his Epicueean. Qvihus enim oculis animi 
 intueri potuit vester Plato fahricam illa,m tanti operis, qua 
 construi a Deo atque wdificari munduni facit? quce ynolitio? 
 quce ferramenta? qui vectes? quce machince ? qui minstri tanti 
 muneris fuerunt ? quemadmodum autem ohedire et parere 
 voluntafi architecti aer, ignis, aqua, terra potuerunt ? If this 
 argument, I say, had any force in former ages ; how much 
 
 ' Lib. ii. 1094. * De Nat. Deor. lib. i.
 
 112 DLVLOGUES COinTERNIXG 
 
 greater must it have at present ; when the bounds of Nature 
 ure so infinitely enlarged, and such a magnificent scene is 
 opened to us ? It is still more unreasonable to form our idea 
 of so unlimited a cause from our experience of the narrow 
 productions of human design and invention. 
 
 The discoveries by microscopes, as they open a new universe 
 in miniature, are still objections, according to you; arguments, 
 according to me. The farther we push our researches of this 
 kind, we are still led to infer the universal cause of all to be 
 vastly different from mankind, or from any object of human 
 experience and observation. 
 
 And what say you to the discoveries in anatomy, chymistry, 
 
 botany ? These surely are no objections, replied 
 
 Cle ANTHES : they only discover new instances of art and con- 
 trivance. It is still the image of mind reflected on us from 
 innumerable objects. Add, a mind like the human, said 
 Philo. I know of no other, replied Cleanthes. And 
 the liker the better, insisted Philo. To be sure, said 
 Cleanthes. 
 
 Now, Cleanthes, said Philo, with an air of alacrity and 
 triumph, mark the consequences. First, By this method of 
 reasoning, you renounce all claim to infinity in any of the 
 attributes of the Deity. For as the cause ought only to be 
 proportioned to the effect, and the effect, so far as it falls 
 under our cognisance, is not infinite ; what pretensions have 
 we, upon your suppositions, to ascribe that attribute to the 
 divine Being ? You will still insist, that, by removing him 
 so much from all similarity to human creatures, we give in to 
 the most arbitrary hypothesis, and at the same time weaken 
 all proofs of his existence. 
 
 Secondly, You have no reason, on your theory, for ascribing 
 perfection to the Deity, even in his finite capacity ; or for 
 supposing him free from every error, mistake, or incoherence 
 in his undertakings. There are many inexplicable difficulties 
 in the works of Nature, which, if we allow a perfect author 
 to be proved a priori, are easily solved, and become only 
 seeming difficulties, from the narrow capacity of man, who 
 cannot trace infinite relations. But according to your method 
 of reasoning, these difficulties become all real ; and perhaps 
 will be insisted on, as new instances of likeness to human art 
 and contrivance. At least, you must acknowledge, that it is 
 impossible for us to tell, from our limited views, whether this
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 413 
 
 system contains any great faults, or deserves any considerable 
 praise, if compared to other possible, and even real systems. 
 Could a peasant, if tbe ^neid were read to him, pronounce 
 that poem to be absolutely faultless, or even assign to it its 
 proper rank among the productions of human wit ; he, who 
 liad never seen any other production ? 
 
 But were this world ever so perfect a production, it must 
 still remain uncertain, whether all the excellences of the 
 work can justly be ascribed to the workman. If we survey 
 a ship, what an exalted idea must we form of the ingenuity of 
 the carpenter, who framed so complicated, useful, and beau- 
 tiful a machine ? And what surprise must we feel, when we 
 ■find him a stupid mechanic, who imitated others, and copied 
 an art, which, through a long succession of ages, after mul- 
 tiplied trials, mistakes, corrections, deliberations, and contro- 
 versies, had been gradually improving ? Many worlds might 
 have been botched and bungled, throughout an eternity, ere 
 this system was struck out : much labour lost : many fruitless 
 trials made : and a slow, but continued improvement carried 
 on during infinite ages in the art of world-making. In such 
 subjects, who can determine, where the truth ; nay, who 
 can conjecture where the probability, lies ; amidst a great 
 number of hypotheses which may be proposed, and a still 
 greater number which may be imagined? 
 
 And what shadow of an argument, continued Philo, can 
 you produce, from your hypothesis, to prove the unity of the 
 Deity ? A great number of men join in building a house or 
 ship, in rearing a city, in framing a commonwealth : why 
 may not several deities combine in contriving and framing a 
 world? This is only so much greater similarity to human 
 affairs. By sharing the work among several, we may so much 
 further limit the attributes of each, and get rid of that exten- 
 sive power and knowledge, which must be supposed in one 
 deity, and which, according to you, can only serve to weaken 
 the proof of his existence. And if such foolish, such vicious 
 creatures as man can yet often unite in framing and executing 
 one plan ; how much more those deities or demons, whom we 
 may suppose several degrees more perfect ? 
 
 To multiply causes, without necessity, is indeed contrary 
 to true philosophy : but this principle applies not to the 
 present case. Were one deity antecedently proved by your 
 theory, who were possessed of every attribute, requisite to
 
 414 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 the production of the universe ; it would be needless, T own 
 (though not absurd) to suppose any other deity existent. 
 But while it is still a question, Whether all these attributes 
 are united in one subject, or dispersed among several inde- 
 pendent beings : by what phenomena in nature can we 
 pretend to decide the controversy 9 Where we see a body 
 raised in a scale, we are sure that there is in the opposite 
 scale, however concealed from sight, some counterpoising 
 weight equal to it : but it is still allowed to doubt, whether 
 that weight be an aggregate of several distinct bodies, or one 
 uniform united mass. And if the weight requisite very much 
 exceeds any thing which we have ever seen conjoined in any 
 single body, the former supposition becomes still more pro- 
 bable and natural. An intelligent being of such vast power 
 and capacity, as is necessary to produce the universe, or, to 
 speak in the language of ancient philosophy, so prodigious 
 an animal, exceeds all analogy, and even comprehension. 
 
 But farther, Cleanthes ; men are mortal, and renew their 
 species by generation ; and this is common to all living 
 creatures. The two great sexes of male and female, says 
 Milton, animate the world. Why must this circumstance, 
 so universal, so essential, be excluded from those numerous 
 and limited deities ? Behold then the theogony of ancient 
 times brought back upon us. 
 
 And why not become a perfect Anthropomorphite ? Why 
 not assert the deity or deities to be corporeal, and to have 
 eyes, a nose, mouth, ears, &c. ? Epicurus maintained, that 
 no man had ever seen reason but in a human figure ; there- 
 fore the gods must have a human figure. And this argu- 
 ment, which is deservedly so much ridiculed by Cicero, 
 becomes, according to you, solid and philosophical. 
 
 In a word, Cleanthes, a man, who follows your hypothesis, 
 is able, perhaps, to assert, or conjecture, that the universe, 
 sometime, arose from something like design : but beyond 
 that position he cannot ascertain one single circumstance, 
 and is left afterwards to fix every point of his theology, by 
 the utmost licence of fancy and hypothesis. This world, for 
 aught he knows, is very faulty and imperfect, compared to a 
 superior standard ; and was only the first rude essay of some 
 infant deity, who afterwards abandoned it, ashamed of his 
 lame performance : it is the work only of some dependent, 
 inferior deity ; and is the object of derision to his superiors :
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 4i5 
 
 it is the production of old age and dotage in some super- 
 annuated deity ; and ever since his death, has run on at 
 adventures, from the first impulse and active force, which it 
 received from him. You justly give signs of horror, Demea, 
 at these strange suppositions : but these, and a thousand 
 more of the same kind, are Cleanthes's suppositions, not 
 mine. From the moment the attributes of the Deity are 
 supposed finite, all these have place. And I cannot, for my 
 part, think, that so v(rild and unsettled a system of theology 
 is, in any respect, preferable to none at all. 
 
 These suppositions I absolutely disown, cried Cleanthes : 
 they strike me, however, with no horror; especially, when 
 proposed in that rambling way in which they drop from you. 
 On the contrary, they give me pleasure, when I see, that, by 
 the utmost indulgence of your imagination, you never get 
 rid of the hypothesis of design in the universe ; but are 
 obliged, at every turn, to have recourse to it. To this con- 
 cession I adhere steadily ; and this I regard as a sufficient 
 foundation for religion. 
 
 PAET VI. 
 
 It must be a slight fabric, indeed, said Demea, which can 
 be erected on so tottering a foundation. While we are un- 
 certain, whether there is one deity or many ; whether the 
 deity or deities, to whom we owe our existence, be perfect or 
 imperfect, subordinate or supreme, dead or alive ; what trust 
 or confidence can we repose in them ? What devotion or 
 Avorship address to them? What veneration or obedience 
 pay them ? To all the purposes of life, the theory of religion 
 becomes altogether useless : and even with regard to specu- 
 lative consequences, its uncertainty, according to you, must 
 reitder it totally precarious and unsatisfactory. 
 
 To render it still more unsatisfactory, said Philo, there 
 occurs to me another hypothesis, which must acquire an air 
 of probability from the method of reasoning so much insisted 
 on by Cleanthes. That like effects arise from like causes : 
 this principle he supposes the foundation of all religion. 
 But there is another principle of the same kind, no less cer- 
 tain, and derived from the same source of experience ; That
 
 41G DLVLOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 where several known circumstances are observed to be similar, 
 the unknown will also be found similar. Thus, if we see the 
 limbs of a human body, we conclude, that it is also attended 
 with a human head, though hid from us. Thus, if we see, 
 through a chink in a wall, a small part of the sun, we con- 
 clude, that, were the wall removed, we should see the whole 
 body. In short, this method of reasoning is so obvious and 
 familiar, that no scruple can ever be made with regard to its 
 Bolidity. 
 
 Now if we survey the universe, so far as it falls under our 
 knowledge, it bears a great resemblance to an animal or 
 organized body, and seems actuated with a like principle of 
 life and motion. A continual circulation of matter in it 
 produces no disorder : a continual waste in every part is in- 
 cessantly repaired : the closest sympathy is perceived through- 
 out the entire system : and each part or member, in perform- 
 ing its proper offices, operates both to its own preservation 
 and to that of the whole. The world, therefore, I infer, is 
 an animal, and the Deity is the soul of the world, actuating 
 it, and actuated by it. 
 
 You have too much learning, Cleanthes, to be at all sur- 
 prised at this opinion, which, you know, was maintained by 
 almost all the Theists of antiquity, and chiefly prevails in 
 their discourses and reasonings. For though sometimes the 
 ancient philosophers reason from final causes, as if they 
 thought the world the workmanship of God ; yet it appears 
 rather their favourite notion to consider it as his body, whose 
 organization renders it subservient to him. And it must be 
 confessed, that as the universe resembles more a human body 
 than it does the works of human art and contrivance ; if our 
 limited analogy could ever, with any propriet}^, be extended 
 to the whole of nature, the inference seems juster in favour 
 of the ancient than the modern theory. 
 
 There are many other advantages too, in the former theoiy, 
 which recommend it to the ancient Theologians. Nothing 
 more repugnant to all their notions, because nothing more 
 repugnant to common experience than mind without body ; 
 a mere spiritual substance, which fell not under their senses 
 nor comprehension, and of which they had not observed one 
 single instance throughout all nature. Mind and body they 
 knew, because they felt both : an order, arrangement, organi- 
 zation, or internal machinery in both they likewise knew,
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. . 417 
 
 after tlie same manner : and it could not but seem reasonable 
 to transfer this experience to the universe, and to suppose 
 the divine mind and body to be also coeval, and to have, both 
 of them, order and arrangement naturally inherent iu them, 
 and inseparable from them. 
 
 Here therefore is a new species of AnthropomorpMsm, 
 Cleanthes, on which you may deliberate; and a theory 
 which seems not liable to any considerable difficulties. You 
 are too much superior surely to systematical prejudices, to find 
 any more difficulty in supposing- an animal body to be, ori- 
 ginally, of itself, or from unknown causes, possessed of order 
 and organization, than in supposing a similar order to belong 
 to mind. But the vulgar prejudice, that body and mind 
 ought always to accompany each other, ought not, one should 
 think, to be entirely neglected ; since it is founded on vulgar 
 experience, the only guide which you j)rofess to follow in all 
 these theological inquiries. And if you assert, that our 
 limited experience is an imequal standard, by which to judge 
 of the unlimited extent of nature ; you entirely abandon your 
 own hypothesis, and must thenceforward adopt our Mysticism, 
 as you call it, and admit of the absolute incomprehensibility 
 of the Divine Nature. 
 
 This theory, I own, replied Cleanthes, has never before 
 % occurred to me, though a pretty natural one ; and I cannot 
 readily, upon so short an examination and reflection, deliver 
 any opinion with regard to it. You a,re very scrupulous, in- 
 deed, said PniLO; were I to examine any system of yours, 
 I should not have acted with half that caution and re- 
 serve, in starting objections and difficulties to it. How- 
 ever, if any thing occur to you, you will oblige us by 
 proposing it. 
 
 Why then, replied Cleanthes, it seems to me, that, 
 though the world does, in many circumstances, resemble an 
 animal body ; yet is the analogy also defective in many 
 circumstances, the most material : no organs of sense ; no 
 seat of thought or reason ; no one precise origin of motion 
 and action. In short, it seems to bear a stronger resem- 
 blance to a vegetable than to an animal, and your inference 
 would be so far inconclusive in favour of the soul of the 
 world. 
 
 But, in the next place, your theory seems to imply the 
 eternity of the world ; and that is a principle, which, I think, 
 
 VOL. II. E E
 
 418 DLVLOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 can be refuted by the strongest reasons and probabilities. T 
 shall suggest an argument to this purpose, -which, I believe, 
 has not been insisted on by any writer. Those, who reason 
 from the late origin of arts and sciences, though their infer- 
 ence wants not force, may perhaps be refuted by considera- 
 tions, derived from the nature of human society, which is 
 in continual revolution between ignorance and knowledge, 
 liberty and slavery, riches and poverty ; so that it is impos- 
 sible for us, from our limited experience, to foretell with 
 assurance what events may or may not be expected. Ancient 
 learning and history seem to have been in great danger of 
 entirely perishing after the inundation of the barbarous 
 nations ; and had these convulsions continued a little longer, 
 or been a little more violent, we should not probably have 
 now known what passed in the world a few centuries before 
 us. Nay, were it not for the superstition of the Popes, who 
 preserved a little jargon of Latin, in order to support the 
 appearance of an ancient and universal church, that tongue 
 must have been utterly lost : in which case, the Western 
 world, being totally barbarous, would not have been in a fit 
 disposition for receiving the Greek language and learning, 
 which was conveyed to them after the sacking of Constanti- 
 nople. When learning and books had been extinguished, 
 even the mechanical arts would have fallen considerably to 
 decay; and it is easily imagined, that fable or tradition 
 might ascribe to them a much later origin than the true one. 
 This vulgar argument, therefore, against the eternity of the 
 world, seems a little precarious. 
 
 But here appears to be the foundation of a better argument. 
 LucuLLUs was the first that brought cherry-trees from Asia 
 to EuEOPE ; though that tree thrives so well in many Euro- 
 pean climates, that it grows in the woods without any culture. 
 Is it possible, that, throughout a whole eternity, no Euiv?- 
 PEAN had ever passed into Asia, and thought of transplanting 
 so delicious a fruit into his own country ? Or if the tree 
 was once transplanted and propagated, how could it ever 
 afterwards perish ? Empires may rise and fall ; liberty and 
 slavery succeed alternately; ignorance and knowledge give 
 place to each other ; but the cherry-tree will still remain in 
 the woods of Greece, Spain and Italy, and will never be 
 affected by the revolutions of human society. 
 
 It is not two thousand years since vines were transplanted
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 419 
 
 into France ; though there is no climate in the world more 
 favourable to them. It is not three centuries since horses 
 cows, sheep, swine, dogs, corn, were known in America. Is 
 it possible, that, during the revolutions of a whole eternity, 
 there never arose a Columbus, who might open the com- 
 munication between Europe and that continent ? We maj as 
 well imagine, that all men would wear stockings for ten 
 thousand years, and never have the sense to think of garters 
 to tie them. All these seem convincing proofs of the youth, 
 or rather infancy of the world ; as being founded on the 
 operation of principles more constant and steady, than those 
 by which human society is governed and directed. Nothing 
 less than a total convulsion of the elements will ever destroy 
 all the European animals and vegetables, which are now to 
 be found in the Western world. 
 
 And what argument have you against such convulsions ? 
 replied Philo. Strong and almost incontestable proofs may 
 be traced over the whole earth, that every part of this globe 
 has continued for many ages entirely covered with water. 
 And though order were supposed inseparable from matter, 
 and inherent in it ; yet may matter be susceptible of many 
 and great revolutions, through the endless periods of eternal 
 duration. The incessant changes, to which every part of it 
 is subject, seem to intimate some such general transforma- 
 tions ; though at the same time, it is observable, that all 
 the changes and corruptions, of which we have ever had ex- 
 perience, are but passages from one state of order to another; 
 nor can matter ever rest in total deformity and confusion. 
 What we see in the parts, we may infer in the whole; at 
 least, that is the method of reasoning on which you rest 
 your whole theory. And were I obliged to defend any par- 
 ticular system of this nature (which I never willingly should 
 do) I esteem none more plausible, than that which ascribes 
 an eternal, inherent principle of order to the world ; though 
 attended with great and continual revolutions and alterations. 
 This at once solves all difficulties ; and if the solution, by 
 being so general, is not entirely complete and satisfactory, 
 it is, at least, a theory, that we must, sooner or later, have 
 recourse to, whatever system we embrace. How could things 
 have been as they are, were there not an original, inherent 
 principle of order somewhere, in thought or in matter ? And 
 it is very indifferent to which of these we give the preference. 
 
 E E 2
 
 420 DLVLOGUES CONCERXEs'G 
 
 Chance has no j)lace, on any hypothesis, sceptical or religious. 
 Every thing is surely governed, by steady, inviolable laws. 
 A.nd were the inmost essence of things laid open to us, we 
 Bhould then discover a scene, of which, at present, we can 
 have no idea. Instead of admiring the order of natural 
 beings, we should clearly see that it was absolutely impos- 
 sible for them, in the smallest article, ever to admit of any 
 other disposition. 
 
 Were any one inclined to revive the ancient Pagan 
 Theology, which maintained, as we learn from Hesiod, that 
 this globe was governed by 30,000 deities, who arose from 
 the unknown powers of nature : you would naturally object, 
 Cleanthes, that nothing is gained by this hypothesis ; and 
 that it is as easy to suppose all men animals, beings more 
 numerous, but less perfect, to have sprung immediately from 
 a like origin. Push the same inference a step farther ; and 
 you will find a numerous society of deities as explicable as 
 one universal deity, who possesses, within himself, the 
 powers and perfections of the whole society. All these sys- 
 tems, then, of Scepticism, Polytheism, and Theism, you must 
 allow, on your principles, to be on a like footing, and that no 
 one of them has any advantage over the others. You may 
 thence learn the fallacy of your principles. 
 
 PAET VII. 
 
 But here, continued Philo, in examining the ancient 
 system of the soul of the world, there strikes me, all on a 
 sudden, a new idea, which, if just, must go near to subvert 
 all your reasoning, and destroy even your first inferences, on 
 which you repose such confidence. If the universe bears a 
 greater likeness to animal bodies and to vegetables, than to 
 the works of human art, it is more probable, that its cause 
 resembles the cause of the former than that of the latter, 
 and its origin ought rather to be ascribed to genei*ation or 
 vegetation than to reason or design. Tour conclusion, 
 even according to your own principles, is therefore lame and 
 defective. 
 
 Pray open up this argument a little farther, said Demea.
 
 NATURAL EELIGIOK 421 
 
 For I do not rig-litly apprehend it, in that concise manner, 
 in which you have ex]3i"essed it. 
 
 Our friend Cleanthes, replied Philo, as you have heard, 
 asserts, that since no question of fact can be proved otherwise 
 than by experience, the existence of a Deity admits not of 
 proof from any other medium. The world, says he, resem- 
 bles the works of human contrivance : Therefore its cause 
 must also resemble that of the other. Here we may remark, 
 that the operation of one very small part of nature, to wit 
 man, upon another very small part, to wit that inanimate 
 matter lying within his reach, is the rule, by which Clean- 
 THES judges of the origin of the whole ; and he measures 
 objects, so widely disproportioned, by the same individual 
 standard. But to wave all objections drawn from this topic ; 
 I affirm, that there are other parts of the universe (besides 
 the machines of human invention) which bear still a greater 
 resemblance to the fahric of the world, and which therefore 
 afford a better conjecture concerning the universal origin of 
 this system. These parts are animals and vegetables. The 
 world plainly resembles more an animal or a vegetable, than 
 it does a watch or a knitting-loom. Its cause, therefore, it 
 is more probable, resembles the cause of the former. The 
 cause of the former is generation or vegetation. The cause, 
 therefore, of the world, we may infer to be something similar 
 or analogous to generation or vegetation. 
 
 But how is it conceivable, said Demea, that the world can 
 arise from any thing similar to vegetation or generation ? 
 
 Very easily, replied Philo. In like manner as a tree 
 sheds its seeds into the neighbouring fields, and produces 
 other trees; so the great vegetable, the world, or this 
 planetary system, produces within itself certain seeds, which, 
 being scattered into the surrounding chaos, vegetate into 
 new worlds. A comet, for instance, is the seed of a world ; 
 and after it has been fully ripened, by passing from sun to 
 sun, and star to star, it is at last tost into the unformed 
 elements, which everywhere surround this universe, and 
 immediately sprouts up into a new system. 
 
 Or if, for the sake of variety (for I see no other advantage) 
 we should suppose this world to be an animal ; a comet is 
 the egg of tills animal ; and in like manner as an ostrich 
 lays its egg in the sand, which, without any farther care, 
 hatches the egg, and produces a new animal ; so I
 
 422 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 understand you, says Demea : But what wild, arbitrary sup- 
 positions are these ? What data have you for such extra- 
 ordinary conckisions ? And is the slight, imaginary resem- 
 blance of the world to a vegetable or an animal sufficient to 
 establish the same inference with regard to both ? Objects, 
 which are in general so widely different ; ought they to be a 
 standard for each other? 
 
 Right, cries Philo : This is the topic on which I have all 
 along insisted. I have still asserted, that we have no data 
 to establish any system of cosmogony. Our experience, so 
 imperfect in itself, and so limited both in extent and dura- 
 tion, can afford us no probable conjecture concerning the 
 whole of things. But if we must needs fix on some hypo- 
 thesis ; by what rule, pray, ought we to determine our 
 choice ? Is there any other rule than the greater similarity 
 of the objects compared ? And does not a plant or an animal, 
 which springs from vegetation or generation, bear a stronger 
 resemblance to the world, than does any artificial machine, 
 which arises from reason and design ? 
 
 But what is this vegetation and generation of which you 
 talk? said Demea. Can you explain their operations, and 
 anatomize that fine internal structure, on which they depend? 
 
 As much, at least, replied Philo, as Cleanthes can ex- 
 plain the operations of reason, or anatomize that internal 
 structure, on which it depends. But without any such ela- 
 borate disquisitions, when I see an animal, I infer, that it 
 sprang from generation ; and that with as great certainty as 
 you conclude a house to have been reared by design. These 
 words, generation, reason, mark only certain powers and 
 energies in nature, whose effects are known, but whose 
 essence is incomprehensible; and one of these principles, 
 more than the other, has no privilege for being made a 
 standard to the whole of nature. 
 
 In reality, Demea, it may reasonably be expected, that the 
 larger the views are which we take of things, the better will 
 they conduct us in our conclusions concerning such extraor- 
 dinary and such magnificent subjects. In this little comer 
 of the world alone, there are four principles. Reason, Instinct, 
 Generation, Vegetation, which are similar to each other, and 
 are the causes of similar effects. "What a number of other 
 principles may we naturally suppose in the immense extent 
 and variety of the universe, could we travel from planet to
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 423 
 
 planet and from system to system, in order to examine each 
 part of this mighty fabric ? Any one of these four principles 
 above mentioned (and a hundred others which lie open to 
 our conjecture) may afford us a theory, by which to judge of 
 the origin of the world ; and it is a palpable and egregious 
 partiality, to confine our view entirely to that principle, by 
 which our own minds operate. Were this principle more 
 intelligent on that account, such a partiality might be some- 
 what excuseable : But reason, in its internal fabric and 
 structure, is really as little known to us as instinct or vege- 
 tation; and "perhaps even that vague, undeterminate word, 
 Nature, to which the vulgar refer every thing, is not at the 
 bottom more inexplicable. The effects of these principles are 
 all known to us from experience : But the principles them- 
 selves, and their manner of operation are totally unknown : 
 Nor is it less intelligible, or less conformable to experience to 
 say, that the world arose by vegetation from a seed shed by 
 another world, than to say that it arose from a divine reason 
 or contrivance, according to the sense in which Cleanthes 
 understands it. 
 
 But methinks, said Demea, if the world had a vegetative 
 quality, and could sow the seeds of new worlds into the infi- 
 nite chaos, this power would be still an additional argument 
 for design in its author. For whence could arise so wonderful 
 a faculty but from design ? Or how can order spring from 
 any thing, which perceives not that order which it bestows f 
 
 You need only look around you, replied Philo, to satisfy 
 yourself with regard to this question. A tree bestows order 
 and organization on that tree, which springs from it, without 
 knowing the order ; an animal, in the same manner, on its 
 offspring: a bird, on its nest: and instances of this kind are 
 even more frequent in the world, than those of order, which 
 arise from reason and contrivance. To say, that all this order 
 in animals and vegetables proceeds ultimately from design, 
 is begging the question ; nor can that great point be ascer- 
 tained otherwise than by proving a priori, both that order is, 
 from its nature, inseparably attached to thought, and that it 
 can never, of itself, or from original unknown principles, 
 belong to matter. 
 
 But farther, Demea ; this objection, which you urge, can 
 never be made use of by Cleanthes, without renouncing 
 a defence, which he has already made against one of mr
 
 424 DIALOGUES CONCERNIXG 
 
 objections. When I enquired concerning the cause of that 
 supreme reason and intelligence, into wliicli he resolves every 
 thing ; he told me, that the impossibility of satisfying such 
 enquiries could never be admitted as an objection in any 
 species of piiilosophy. We must stop someivhere, says he; nor 
 is it ever within the reach of human capacity to explain ulti- 
 mate causes, or show the last connections of any objects. It is 
 sufficient, if any steps, so far as tve go, are supported by experi- 
 ence and observation. Now, that vegetation and generation, 
 as well as reason, are experienced to be principles of order in 
 nature, is undeniable. If I rest my system of cosmogony on 
 the former, preferably to the latter, 'tis at my choice. The 
 matter seems entirely arbitrary. And when Cleanthes asks 
 me "what is the cause of my great vegetative or generative 
 faculty, I am equally entitled to ask him the cause of his 
 great reasoning principle. These questions we have agreed 
 to forbear on both sides ; and it is chiefly his interest on the 
 present occasion to stick to this agreement. Judging by our 
 limited and imperfect experience, generation has some privi- 
 leges above reason : For we see every day the latter arise 
 from the former, never the former from the latter. 
 
 Compare, I beseech you, the consequences on both sides. 
 The world, say I, resembles an animal, therefore it is an 
 animal, therefore it arose from generation. The steps, I 
 confess, are wide ; yet there is some small appearance of 
 analogy in each step. The world, says Cleanthes, resembles 
 a machine, therefore it is a machine, therefore it arose from 
 design. The steps are here equally wide, and the analogy 
 less striking. And if he j)retends to carry on my hj^pothesis 
 a step farther, and to infer design or reason from the great 
 principle of generation, on which I insist ; I may, with better 
 authorit}'-, use the same freedom to push farther his hypo- 
 thesis, and infer a divine generation or theogony from his 
 principle of reason. I have at least some faint shadow of 
 experience, which is the utmost, that can ever be attained in 
 the present subject. Reason, in innumerable instances, is 
 observed to arise from the principle of generation, and never 
 to arise from any other principle. 
 
 H.ESIOD, and all the ancient Mythologists, were so struck 
 with this analogy, that they universally explained the origin 
 of nature from an animal birth, and copulation. Plato too.
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 425 
 
 SO far as he is iixtelligible, seems to have adopted some such 
 notion in his Tim^us. 
 
 The Beahmins assert, that the world arose from an infinite 
 spider, who spun this whole complicated mass from his 
 bowels, and aunihilates afterwards the whole or any part of 
 it, by absorbing- it again, and resolving it into his own 
 essence. Here is a species of cosmogony, which appears to 
 us ridiculous ; because a spider is a little contemptible animal, 
 whose operations we are never likely to take for a model of 
 the whole universe. But still here is a new species of ana- 
 logy, even in our globe. And were there a planet wholly 
 inhabited by spiders, (which is very possible) this inference 
 would there appear as natural and irrefragable as that which 
 in our planet ascribes the origin of all things to design and 
 intelligence, as explained by Cleanthes. Why an orderly 
 system may not be spun from the belly as well as from the 
 brain, it will be difficult for him to give a satisfactory reason. 
 
 I must confess, Philo, replied Cleanthes, that of all men 
 living, the task which you have undertaken, of raising doubts 
 and objections, suits you best, and seems, in a manner, 
 natural and unavoidable to you. So great is your fertility of 
 invention, that I am not ashamed to acknowledge myself 
 unable, on a sudden, to solve regularly such out-of-the-way 
 difficulties as you incessantly start upon me : though I clearly 
 see, in general, their fallacy and error. And I question not, 
 but you are yourself, at present, in the same case, and have 
 not the solution so ready as the objection ; while you must 
 be sensible, that common sense and reason is entirely against 
 you, and that such whimsies as you have delivered, may 
 Duzzle, but never can convince us. 
 
 PAET VIII. 
 
 What you ascribe to the fertility of my invention, replied 
 Philo, is entirely owing to the nature of the subject. In 
 subjects, adapted to the narrow compass of human reason, 
 there is commonly but one determination, which carries 
 probability or conviction with it; and to a man of sound 
 judgement, all other suppositions, but that one, appear
 
 42G DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 entirely absurd and chimerical. But in such questions, as 
 the present, a hundred contradictory views may preserve a 
 kind of imperfect analogy ; and invention has here full scope 
 to exert itself. Without any great effort of thought, I 
 believe that I could, in an instant, propose other systems of 
 cosmogony, which would have some faint appearance ol 
 truth ; though it is a thousand, a million to one, if either 
 yours or any one of mine be the true system. 
 
 For instance ; what if I should revive the old Epicurean 
 hypothesis ? This is commonly, and T believe, justly, esteemed 
 the most absurd system, that has yet been proposed ; yet, I 
 know not, whether, with a few alterations, it might not be 
 brought to bear a faint appearance of probability. Instead 
 of supposing matter infinite, as Epicurus did ; let us sup- 
 pose it finite. A finite number of particles is only susceptible 
 of finite transpositions : and it must happen, in an eternal 
 duration, that every possible order or position must be tried 
 an infinite number of times. This world, therefore, with all 
 its events, even the most minute, has before been produced 
 and destroyed, and will again be produced and destroyed, 
 without any bounds and limitations. No one, who has a 
 conception of the powers of infinite, in comparison of finite, 
 will ever scruple this determination. 
 
 But this supposes, said Demea, that matter can acquire 
 motion, without any voluntary agent or first mover. 
 
 And where is the difficulty, replied Philo, of that supposi- 
 tion ? Every event, before experience, is equally difficult and 
 incomprehensible ; and every event, after experience, is 
 equally easy and intelligible. Motion, in many instances, 
 from gravity, from elasticity, from electricity, begins in 
 matter, without any known voluntary agent ; and to suppose 
 always, in these cases, an unknown voluntary agent, is mere 
 hypothesis ; and hypothesis attended with no advantages. 
 The beginning of motion in matter itself is as conceivable 
 a priori as its communication from mind and intelligence. 
 
 Besides ; why may not motion have been propagated by 
 impulse through all eternity, and the same stock of it, or 
 nearly the same, be still upheld in the universe ? As much 
 is lost by the composition of motion, as much is gained by 
 its resolution. And whatever the causes are, the fact is cer- 
 tain, that matter is, and always has been in continual agita- 
 tion, as far as human experience or tradition reaches. There
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 427 
 
 is not probably, at present, in the whole universe, one particle 
 of matter at absolute rest. 
 
 And this very consideration too, continued Philo, which 
 we have stumbled on in the course of the argument, suggests 
 a new hypothesis of cosmogony, that is not absolutely absurd 
 and improbable. Is there a sj'stem, an order, an ceconomy 
 of things, by which matter can preserve that perpetual 
 agitation, which seems essential to it, and yet maintain a 
 constancy in the forms, which it pioduces? There certainly 
 is such an ceconomy : for this is actually the case with the 
 present world. The continual motion of matter, therefore, 
 in less than infinite transpositions, must produce this ceconomy 
 or order; and by its very nature, that order, when once 
 established, suj)ports itself, for many ages, if not to eternity. 
 But where-ever matter is so poized, arranged, and adjusted 
 as to continue in perpetual motion, and yet preserve a con- 
 stancy in the forms, its situation must, of necessity, have all 
 the same appearance of art and contrivance, which we ob- 
 serve at present. All the parts of each form must have a 
 relation to each other, and to the whole : and the whole 
 itself must have a relation to the other parts of the universe ; 
 to the element, in which the form subsists ; to the materials, 
 with which it repairs its waste and decay ; and to every 
 other form, which is hostile or friendly. A defect in any of 
 these particulars destroys the form ; and the matter, of 
 which it is composed, is again set loose, and is thrown into 
 irregular motions and fermentations, till it unite itself to 
 some other regular form. If no such form be prepared to 
 receive it, and if there be a great quantity of this corrupted 
 matter in the universe, the universe itself is entirely dis- 
 ordered ; whether it be the feeble embryo of a world in its 
 first beginnings, that is thus destroyed, or the rotten carcass 
 of one, languishing in old age and infirmity. In either case, 
 a chaos ensues ; tiU finite, though innumerable revolutions 
 produce at last some forms, whose parts and organs are so 
 adjusted as to support the forms amidst a continued succes- 
 sion of matter. 
 
 Suppose, (for we shall endeavour to vary the expression) 
 that matter were thrown into any position, by a blind, un- 
 guided force ; it is evident that this first position must in all 
 probability be the most confused and most disorderly imagin- 
 able, without any resemblance to those Avorks of human
 
 428 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 contrivance, wliicli, along with a symmetry of parts, discover 
 an adjustment of means to ends and a tendency to self- 
 preservation. If the actuating force cease after this operation, 
 matter must remain for ever in disorder, and continue an 
 immense chaos, without any proportion or activity. But 
 suppose, that the actuating force, whatever it he, still con- 
 tinues in matter, this first position will immediately give 
 place to a second, which will likewise in all probability be as 
 disorderly as the first, and so on, through many successions 
 of changes and revolutions. No particular order or position 
 ever continues a moment unaltered. The original force, still 
 remaining in activity, gives a perpetual restlessness to matter. 
 Every possible situation is produced, and instantly destroyed. 
 If a glimpse or dawn of order appeal's for a moment, it is 
 instantly hurried away, and confounded, by that never- 
 ceasing force, which actuates every part of matter. 
 
 Thus the universe goes on for many ages in a continued 
 succession of chaos and disorder. But is it not possible that 
 it may settle at last, so as not to lose its motion and active 
 force (for that we have supposed inherent in it) yet so as to 
 preserve an uniformity of ax3pearance, amidst the continual 
 motion and fluctuation of its parts ? This we find to be the 
 case with the universe at present. Every individual is per- 
 petually changing, and every part of every individual, and 
 yet the whole remains, in appearance, the same. May we 
 not hope for such a position, or rather be assured of it, from 
 the eternal revolutions of unguided matter, and may not this 
 account for all the appearing wisdom and contrivance, which 
 is in the universe ? Let us contemplate the subject a little, 
 and we shall find, that this adjustment, if a^ttained by matter, 
 of a seeming stability in the forms, with a real and ^Derpetual 
 revolution or motion of parts, afi'ords a plausible, if not a 
 true solution of the difficulty. 
 
 It is in vain, therefore, to insist upon the uses of the parts 
 in animals or vegetables and their curious adjustment to each 
 other. I would fain know how an animal could subsist, 
 unless its parts were so adjusted? Do we not find, that it 
 immediately perishes whenever this adjustment ceases, and 
 that its matter coiTupting tries some new form. It happens, 
 indeed, that the parts of the world are so well adjusted, that 
 some regular form immediately lays claim to this corrupted 
 matter: and if it were not so, could the world subsist?
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 429 
 
 Must it not dissolve as well as the animal, and pass through, 
 new positions and situations ; till in a great, but finite suc- 
 cession, it falls at last into the present or some such order? 
 
 It is well, replied Clbanthes, you told us, that this hypo- 
 thesis was suggested on a sudden, in the course of the argu- 
 ment. Had you had leisure to examine it, you would soon 
 have perceived the insuperable objections, to which it is 
 exposed. No form, you say, can subsist, unless it possess 
 those powers and organs, requisite for its subsistence : some 
 new order or oeconomy must be tried, and so on, without in- 
 term.ission ; till at last some order, which can support and 
 maintain itself, is fallen upon. But according to this hypo- 
 thesis, whence arise the mauy conveniencies and advantages 
 which men and all animals possess ? Two eyes, two ears, are 
 not absolutely necessary for the subsistence of the species. 
 Human race might have been propagated and preserved, 
 without horses, dogs, cows, sheep, and those innumerable 
 fruits and products which serve to our satisfaction and enjoy- 
 ment. If no camels had been created for the use of a man 
 in the sandy deserts of Afeica and Aeabia, would the world 
 have been dissolved ? If no loadstone had been framed to 
 give that wonderful and useful direction to the needle, would 
 human society and the human kind have been immediately 
 extinguished ? Though the maxims of Nature be in general 
 very frugal, yet instances of this kind are far from being 
 rare ; and any one of them is a sufficient proof of design, 
 and of a benevolent design, which gave rise to the order and 
 arrangement of the universe. 
 
 At least, you may safely infer, said Philo, that the fore- 
 going hypothesis is so far incomplete and imperfect ; which I 
 shall not scruple to allow. But can we ever reasonably ex- 
 pect greater success in any attempts of this nature ? Or can 
 we ever hope to erect a system of cosmogony, that will be 
 liable to no exceptions, and will contain no circumstance 
 repugnant to our limited and imperfect expeiience of the 
 analogy of Nature ? Your theory itself cannot surely pre- 
 tend to any such advantage ; even though you have run into 
 Anthropomorphism, the better to preserve a conformity to 
 common experience. Let us once more put it to trial. In 
 all instances which we have ever seen, ideas are copied from 
 real objects, and are ectypal, not archetj'pal, to express myself 
 in learned terms : You reverse this order, and give thought
 
 430 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 the precedence. In all instances wbiicli we have ever seen, 
 thought has no influence upon matter, except where that 
 matter is so conjoiiied with it, as to have an equal reciprocal 
 influence upon it. No animal can move immediately any 
 thing but the members of its own body ; and indeed, the 
 equality of action and re-action seems to be an universal law 
 of Nature : But your theory implies a contradiction to this 
 experience. These instances, with many more, which it were 
 easy to collect, (particularly the supposition of a mind or 
 system of thought that is eternal, or in other words, an 
 animal ingenerable and immortal) these instances, I say, may 
 teach, all of us, sobriety in condemning each other ; and let 
 us see, that as no system of this kind ought ever to be re- 
 ceived from a slight analogy, so neither ought any to be 
 rejected on account of a small incongruity. For that is an 
 inconvenience, from which we can justly pronounce no one to 
 be exempted. 
 
 All religious systems, it is confessed, are subject to great 
 and insuperable difficulties. Each disputant triumphs in his 
 turn ; while he carries on an offensive war, and exposes the 
 absurdities, barbarities, and pernicious tenets of his antago- 
 nist. But all of them, on the whole, prepare a complete 
 triumph for the Sceptic ; who tells them, that no system 
 ought ever to be embraced with regard to such subjects : For 
 this plain reason, that no absurdity ought ever to be assented 
 to with regard to any subject. A total suspense of judgment 
 is here our only reasonable resource. And if every attack, as 
 is commonly observed, and no defence, among Theologians, is 
 successful ; how complete must be his victor}^, who remains 
 always, with all mankind, on the offensive, and has himself no 
 fixed station or abiding city, which he is ever, on any occa- 
 sion, obliged to defend ? 
 
 PART IX. 
 
 But if so many difficulties attend the argument a posteriori, 
 said Demea ; had we not better adhere to that simple and 
 sublime argument a priori, which, by offei'ing to us infallible 
 demonstration, cuts off at once all doubt and difficulty? By 
 this argument, too, we may prove the INFINITY of the 
 divine attributes, which, I am afraid, can never be ascertained
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 4:il 
 
 with certainty from any other topic. For how can an effect, 
 which either is finite, or, for aught we know, may be so ; how 
 can such an effect, I say, prove an infinite caase ? The unity 
 too of the Divine Nature, it is very difficult, if not absolutely 
 impossible, to deduce merely from contemplating the works 
 of nature ; nor will the uniformity alone of the plan, even 
 were it allowed, give us any assurance of that attribute. 
 Whereas the argument a priori .... 
 
 You seem to reason, Demea, interposed Cleanthes, as if 
 those advantages and conveniencies in the abstract argument 
 were full proofs of its solidity. But it is first pi'oper, in my 
 opinion, to determine what argument of this nature you chuse 
 to insist on ; and we shall afterwards, from itself, better than 
 from its useful consequences, endeavour to determine what 
 value we ought to put upon it. 
 
 The argument, replied Demea, which I would insist on is 
 the common one. Whatever exists must have a cause or 
 reason of its existence ; it being absolutely impossible for any 
 thing to produce itself, or be the cause of its own existence. 
 In mounting up, therefore, from effects to causes, we must 
 either go on in tracing an infinite succession, without any 
 ultimate cause at all ; or must at last have recourse to some 
 ultimate cause, that is necessarily existent : Now that the 
 first supposition is absurd may be thus proved. In the infinite 
 chain or succession of causes and effects, each single effect is 
 determined to exist by the power and efficacy of that cause, 
 which immediately preceded ; but the whole eternal chain or 
 succession, taken together, is not determined or caused by any 
 thing : aiid yet it is evident that it requires a cause or 
 reason, as much as any particular object, which begins to 
 exist in time. The question is still reasonable. Why this 
 particular succession of causes existed from eternity, and not 
 any other succession, or no succession at all. If there be no 
 necessarily-existent being, any supposition, which can be 
 formed, is equally possible ; nor is there any more absurdity 
 in Nothing's having existed from eternity, than there is in 
 that succession of causes, which constitutes the universe. 
 What was it then, which determined something to exist 
 rather than nothing, and bestowed being on a particular 
 possibility, exclusive of the rest? External causes, there 
 are supposed to be none. Chance is a word without a mean- 
 ing. Was it Nothing ? But that can never produce any thing.
 
 432 DIALOGUES COXCERNIXG 
 
 We must, therefore, have recourse to a necessarily-existent 
 Being, who carries the REASON of his existence in himself; 
 and who cannot be supposed not to exist without an express 
 contradiction. There is consequently such a Being, that is, 
 there is a Deity. 
 
 I shall not leave it to Philo, said Cleanthes, (though I 
 know that the starting objections is his chief delight) to 
 point out the weakness of this metaphysical reasoning. It 
 seems to me so obviously ill- grounded, and at the same time 
 of so little consequence to the cause of true piety and religion, 
 that I shall myself venture to show the fallacy of it. 
 
 I shall begin with observing, that there is an evident 
 absurdity in pretending to demonstrate a matter of fact, or to 
 prove it by any arguments a priori. Nothing is demonstrable, 
 unless the contrary implies a contradiction. Nothing, that is 
 distinctly conceivable, implies a contradiction. Whatevei 
 we conceive as existent, we can also conceive as non-existent. 
 There is no being, therefore, whose non-existence implies a 
 contradiction. Consequently there is no being, whose exis- 
 tence is demonstrable. I propose this argument as entirely 
 decisive, and am willing to rest the whole controversy upon it. 
 
 It is jjretended that the Deity is a necessarily- existent 
 being ; and this necessity of his existence is attempted to be 
 explained by asserting, that, if we knew his whole essence 
 or nature, we should perceive it to be as impossible for him 
 not to exist as for twice two not to be four. But it is evident, 
 that this can never happen, while our faculties remain the 
 same as at present. It will still be possible for us, at any 
 time, to conceive the non-existence of what we formerly con- 
 ceived to exist ; nor can the mind ever lie under a necessity 
 of supposing any object to remain always in being ; in the 
 same manner as we lie under a necessity of always conceiviDg 
 twice two to be four. The words, therefore, necessary exist- 
 ence, have no meaning ; or, which is the same thing, none 
 that is consistent. 
 
 But farther ; why may not the material universe be the 
 necess'^rily-existent Being, according to this pretended expli- 
 cation of necessity ? We dare not affirm that we know all the 
 qualities of matter; and for aught we can determine, it may 
 contain some qualities, which, were they known, would make 
 its non-existence appear as great a contradiction as that twice 
 tAvo is five. I find only one argument employed to prove.
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 433 
 
 that the material world is not the necessarily-existent Being ; 
 and this argument is derived from the contingency both of 
 the matter and the form of the world. *Any particle of 
 matter,' 'tis said,' * may be conceived to be annihilated ; and 
 any form may be conceived to be altered. Such an annihi- 
 lation or alteration, therefore, is not impossible.' But it 
 seems a great partiality not to perceive, that the same argu- 
 ment extends equally to the Deity, so far as we have any 
 conception of him ; and that the mind can at least imagine 
 him to be non-existent, or his attributes to be altered. It 
 must be some unknown, inconceivable qualities, which can 
 make his non-existence appear imj)ossible, or his attributes 
 unalterable : And no reason can be assigned, why these 
 qualities may not belong to matter. As they are altogether 
 unknown and inconceivable, they can never be proved incom- 
 patible with it. 
 
 Add to this, that in tracing an eternal succession of objects, 
 it seems absurd to inquire for a general cause or lirst author. 
 How can any thing, that exists from eternity, have a cause, 
 since that relation implies a priority in time and a beginning 
 of existence ? 
 
 In such a chain too, or succession of objects, each part is 
 caused by that which preceded it, and causes that which 
 succeeds it. Where then is the difficulty ? But the WHOLE, 
 you say, wants a cause. I answer, that the uniting of these 
 parts into a whole, like the uniting of several distinct counties 
 into one kingdom, or seveial distinct members into one body, 
 is performed merely by an arbitrary act of the mind, and has 
 no influence on the nature of things. Did I show you the 
 particular causes of each individual in a collection of twenty 
 particles of matter, I should think it very unreasonable, should 
 you afterwards ask me, what was the cause of the whole 
 twenty. This is sufficiently explained in explaining the cause 
 of the parts. . 
 
 Though the reasonings, which you have urged, Cleanthes, 
 may well excuse me, said Philo, from starting any farther 
 difficulties ; yet I cannot forbear insisting still upon another 
 topic. 'Tis observed by arithmeticians, that the products of 
 9 compose always either 9 or some lesser product of 9 ; if you 
 add together all the characters, of which any of the former 
 products is composed. Thus, of 18, 27, 30, which are p»'o- 
 
 ' Dr. CiarKe. 
 VOL. II. F F
 
 4:34 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 ducts of 9, you make 9 by adding 1 to 8, 2 to 7, 3 to 6. Thus, 
 869 is a product also of 9 ; and if you add 3, 6, and 9, you 
 make 18, a lesser product of 9.' To a superficial observer, 
 so wonderful a regularity may be admired as the effect either 
 of chance or design: but a skilful algebraist immediately 
 concludes it to be the work of necessity, and demonstrates, 
 that it must for ever result from the nature of these numbers. 
 Is it not probable, I ask, that the whole occonomy of the 
 universe is conducted by a like necessity, though no human 
 algebra can furnish a key, which solves the difficulty ? And 
 instead of admiring the order of natural beings, may it not 
 happen, that, could we penetrate into the intimate nature ot 
 bodies, we should clearly see why it was absolutely impos- 
 sible, they could ever admit of any other disposition ? So 
 dangerous is it to introduce this idea of necessity into the 
 present question ! and so naturally does it afford an inference 
 directly opposite to the religious hypothesis ! 
 
 But dropping all these abstractions, continued Philo ; and 
 c<jufining ourselves to more familiar topics ; I shall venture 
 to add an observation, that the argument a ^priori has seldom 
 been found very convincing, except to people of a metaphysical 
 head, who have accustomed themselves to abstract reasoning, 
 and who finding from mathematics, that the understanding 
 frequently leads to truth, through obscurity, and contrary to 
 first appearances, have transferred the same habit of thinking 
 to subjects, where it ought not to have place. Other people, 
 even of good sense and the best inclined to religion, feel 
 always some deficiency in such arguments, though they are 
 not perhaps able to explain distinctly where it lies. A certain 
 j)roof, that men ever did, and ever will derive their religion 
 from other sources than from this species of reasoning. 
 
 PAET X. 
 
 It is my opinion, I own, replied Demea, that each man feels, 
 in a manner, the truth of religion within his own breast ; and 
 from a consciousness of his imbecility and misery, rather 
 than from any reasoning, is led to seek protection from that 
 Being, on whom he and all nature is dependent. So anxious 
 
 ' Kepublique des Lettres, Aout 1 685.
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 436 
 
 or so tedious are even the best scenes of life, that futurity ia 
 still the .object of all our hopes and fears. We incessantly 
 look forward, and endeavour, by prayers, adoration, and 
 sacrifice, to appease those unknown powers, whom we find, 
 by experience, so able to afflict and oppress us. Wretched 
 creatures that we are ! what resource for us amidst the 
 innumerable ills of life, did not Eeligion suggest some 
 methods of atonement, and appease those terrors, with which 
 we are incessantly agitated and tormented ? 
 
 I am indeed persuaded, said Philo, that the best and indeed 
 the only method of bringing every one to a due sense of reli- 
 gion, is by just representations of the misery and wickedness 
 of men. And for that purpose a talent of eloquence and 
 strong imagery is more requisite than that of reasoning and 
 argument. For is it necessary to prove, what every one feels 
 within himself? 'Tis only necessary to make us feel it, if 
 possible, more intimately and sensibly. 
 
 The people, indeed, replied Demea, are sufficiently con- 
 vinced of this great and melancholy truth. The miseries of 
 life, the unhappiness of man, the general corruptions of our 
 nature, the unsatisfactory enjoj^ment of pleasures, riches, 
 honours ; these phrases have become almost proverbial in all 
 languages. And who can doubt of what all men declare 
 from their own immediate feeling and experience? 
 
 In this point, said Philo, the learned are perfectly agreed 
 with the vulgar; and in all letters, sacred and profane, the 
 topic of human misery has been insisted on with the most 
 pathetic eloquence that sorrow and melancholy could inspire. 
 The poets, who speak from sentiment, without a system, and 
 whose testimony has therefore the more authority, abound 
 in images of this nature. From Homer down to Dr. Young, 
 the whole inspired tribe have ever b^en sensible, that no 
 other representation of things would suit the feeling and 
 observation of each individual. 
 
 As to authorities, replied Demea, you need not seek them. 
 Look round this library of Cleanthes. I shall venture to 
 affirm, that, except authors of particular sciences, such as 
 chymistry or botany, who have no occasion to treat of human 
 life, there is scarce one of those innumerable writers, from, 
 whom the sense of human misery has not, in some passage 
 or other, extorted a complaint and confession of it. At 
 J east, the chance is entirely on that side ; and no one author 
 
 rv2
 
 436 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 has ever, so far as I can recollect, been so extragavant as to 
 deny it. 
 
 There you must excuse me, said Philo : Leibnitz has 
 denied it ; and is perhaps the first,' who ventured upon so 
 bold and paradoxical an opinion ; at least, the first, who 
 made it essential to his philosophical system. 
 
 And by being the first, replied Demea, might he not have 
 been sensible of his eiTor? For is this a subject, in which 
 philosophers can propose to make discoveries, especially in 
 so late an age ? And can any man hope by a simple denial 
 (for the subject scarcely admits of reasoning) to bear down 
 the united testimony of mankind, founded on sense and con- 
 sciousness ? 
 
 And why should man, added he, pretend to an exemption 
 from the lot of all other animals 'P The whole earth, believe 
 me, Philo, is cursed and polluted. A perpetual war is 
 kindled amongst all living creatures. Necessity, hunger, 
 want, stimulate the strong and courageous : Pear, anxiety, 
 terror, agitate the weak and infirm. The first entrance into 
 life gives anguish to the new-born infant and to its wretched 
 parent : Weakness, impotence, distress, attend each stage of 
 that life : and 'tis at last finished in agony and horror. 
 
 Observe too, says Philo, the curious artifices of Nature, in 
 order to imbitter the life of eveiy living being. The stronger 
 prey upon the weaker, and keep them in perpetual terror and 
 anxiety. The weaker too, in their turn, often prey upon the 
 stronger, and vex and molest them without relaxation. Con- 
 sider that innumerable race of insects, which either are bred 
 on tlie body of each animal, or flying about infix their stings 
 in him. These insects have others still less than themselves, 
 which torment them. And thus on each hand, before and 
 behind, above and below, every animal is surrounded with 
 enemies, which incessantly seek his misery and distruction. 
 
 Man alone, said Demea, seems to be, in part, an exception 
 to this rule. For by combination in society, he can easily 
 master lions, tygers, and bears, whose greater strength and 
 agility naturally enable them to prey upon him. 
 
 On the contrary, it is here chiefly, cried Philo, that the 
 uniform and equal maxims of Nature are most apparent. 
 Man, it is true, can, by combination, surmount all his real 
 
 ' That sentiment had been main- before Lelbnitz, though by none of so 
 tained by Dr. King and eome few others, great fame as that German philosopher.
 
 NATUEAL RELIGION. 437 
 
 enemies, and become master of the whole animal creation : 
 but does he not immediately raise up to himself miaginary 
 enemies, the daemons of his fancy, who haunt him with 
 superstitious terrors, and blast every enjoyment of life ? His 
 pleasure, as he imagines, becomes, in their eyes, a crime : 
 his food and repose give them umbrage and offence : his very 
 sleep and dreams furnish new materials to anxious fear : and 
 even death, his refuge from every other iU, presents only the 
 dread of endless and innumerable woes. Nor does the wolf 
 molest more the timid flock, than supei-stition does the 
 anxious breast of wretched mortals. 
 
 Besides, consider, Demea ; this very society, by which we 
 surmount those wild beasts, our natural enemies ; what new 
 enemies does it not raise to us ? What woe and misery does 
 it not occasion ? Man is the greatest enemy of man. Op- 
 pression, injustice, contempt, contumely, violence, sedition, 
 war, calumny, treachery, fraud ; by these they mutually tor- 
 ment each other : and they would soon dissolve that society 
 which they had formed, were it not for the dread of still 
 greater ills, which must attend their separation. 
 
 But though these external insults, said Demea, from 
 animals, from men, from all the elements, which assault us, 
 form a frightful catalogue of woes, they are nothing in com- 
 parison of those, which arise within ourselves, from the dis- 
 tempered condition of our mind and body. How many lie 
 under the lingering torment of diseases ? Hear the pathetic 
 enumeration of the great poet. 
 
 Intestine stone and ulcer, colic-pangs, 
 Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholj'. 
 And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy, 
 Marasmus and wide-wasting pestilence. 
 Dire was the tossing, deep the groans : DESPAIR 
 Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch. 
 And over them triumphant DEATH his dart 
 Shook, but delay'd to strike, tho' oft invok'd 
 With vows, as their chief good and final hope. 
 
 The disorders of the mind, continued Demea, though more 
 secret, are not perhaps less dismal and vexatious. Remorse, 
 shame, anguish, rage, disappointment, anxiety, fear, dejec- 
 tion, despair ; who has ever passed through life without cruel 
 inroads from these tormentors ? How many have scarcely 
 ever felt any better sensations ? Labour and poverty, so ab- 
 horred by every one, are the certain lot of the far greater
 
 438 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 number ; and tliose few privileged persons, who enjoy ease 
 and opulence, never reach contentment or true felicity. All 
 the goods of life united would not make a very happy man : 
 but all the ills united would make a wretch indeed ; and 
 any one of them almost (and who can be free from every one) 
 nay often the absence of one good (and who can possess all) 
 is sufficient to render life ineligible. 
 
 Were a stranger to drop, on a sudden, into this world, I 
 would show him, as a specimen of its ills, an hospital full of 
 diseases, a prison crowded with malefactors and debtors, a 
 field of battle strewed with carcases, a fleet floundering in 
 the ocean, a nation languishing under tyranny, famine, or 
 pestilence. To turn the gay side of life to him, and give 
 him a notion of its pleasures ; whither should I conduct him ? 
 to a ball, to an opera, to court ? He might justly think, that 
 I was only showing him a diversity of distress and sorrow. 
 
 There is no evading such striking instances, said Philo, 
 but by apologies, which still farther aggravate the charge. 
 Why have all men, I ask, in all ages, complained incessantly 
 of the miseries of life ? .... They have no just reason, says 
 one : these complaints proceed only from their discontented, 
 
 repining, anxious disposition And can there possibly, 
 
 I reply, be a more certain foundation of misery, than such a 
 wretched temper ? 
 
 But if they were really as unhappy as they pretend, says 
 my antagonist, why do they remain in life ? . . . . 
 
 Not satisfied with life, afraid of death. 
 
 This is the secret chain, say I, that holds us. We are terri- 
 fied, not bribed to the continuance of our existence. 
 
 It is only a false delicacy, he may insist, which a few re- 
 fined spirits indulge, and which has spread these complaints 
 
 among the whole race of mankind And what is this 
 
 delicacy, I ask, which you blame ? Is it any thing but a 
 greater sensibility to all the pleasures and pains of life ? and 
 if the man of a delicate, refined temper, by being so much 
 more alive than the rest of the world, is only so much more 
 unhappy ; what judgment must we form in general of human 
 life? 
 
 Let men remain at rest, says our adversary ; and they 
 will be easy. They are willing artificers of their own 
 misery No ! reply I j an anxious languor follows
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 439 
 
 their repose : disappointment, vexation, trouble, tlieir activity 
 and ambition. 
 
 I can observe something like what you mention in some 
 others, replied Cleanthes : but I confess, I feel little or 
 nothing of it in myself, and hope that it is not so common as 
 you represent it. 
 
 If you feel not human misery yourself, cried Demea, I con- 
 gratulate you on so happy a* singularity. Others, seemingly 
 the most prosperous, have not been ashamed to vent their 
 complaints in the most melancholy strains. Let us attend 
 to the great, the fortunate Emperor, Charles V, when, tired 
 with human grandeur, he resigned all his extensive dominions 
 into the hands of his son. In the last harangue, which he 
 made on that memorable occasion, he publicly avowed, that 
 the greatest prosperities which he had ever enjoyed, had been 
 mixed with so many adversities, that he might truly say he had 
 never enjoyed any satisfaction or contentment. But did the 
 retired life, in which he sought for shelter, afford him any 
 greater happiness ? If we may credit his son's account, his 
 repentance commenced the very day of his resignation. 
 
 Cicero's fortune, from small beginnings, rose to the great- 
 est lustre and renown ; yet what pathetic complaints of the 
 ills of life do his familiar letters, as well as philosophical 
 discourses, contain? And suitably to his own experience, 
 he introduces Cato, the great, the fortunate Cato, protesting 
 in his old age, that, had he a new life in his offer, he would 
 reject the present. 
 
 Ask yourself, ask any of your acquaintance, whether they 
 would live over again the last ten or twenty years of their 
 lives. No ! but the next twenty, they say, will be better : 
 
 And from the dregs of life, hope to receive 
 What the first sprightly runDing could not give. 
 
 Thus at last they find (such is the greatness of human 
 misery; it reconciles even contradictions) that they com- 
 plain, at once, of the shortness of life, and of its vanity and 
 sorrow. 
 
 And is it possible, Cleanthes, said Philo, that after all 
 these reflections, and infinitely more, which might be sug- 
 gested, you can still persevere in your Anthropomorphism, 
 and assert the moral attributes of the Deity, his justice,
 
 440 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 benevolence, mercy, and rectitude, to be of the same nature 
 with these virtues in human creatures ? His power we allow 
 infinite : whatever he wills is executed : but neither man nor 
 any other animal are happy : therefore he does not will their 
 happiness. His wisdom is infinite : he is never mistaken in 
 chusing the means to any end : but the course of nature 
 tends not to human or animal felicity : therefore it is not 
 established for that purpose. Through the whole compass of 
 human knowledge, there are no inferences more certain and 
 infallible than these. In what respect, then, do his benevo- 
 lence and mercy resemble the benevolence and mercy of men ? 
 
 Epicurus's old questions are yet unanswered. 
 
 Is he willing to jjrevent evil, but not able ? then is he im- 
 potent. Is he able, but not willing ? then is he malevolent. 
 Is he both able and willing ? whence then is evil ? 
 
 You ascribe, Cleanthes, (and I believe justly) a purpose 
 and intention to Natui-e. But what, I beseech you, is the 
 object of that curious artifice and machinery, which she has 
 displayed in all animals? The preservation alone of in- 
 dividuals and propagation of the species. It seems enough 
 for her pui-pose, if such a rank be barely upheld in tlie 
 universe, without any care or concern for the happiness of 
 the members that compose it. No resource for this purpose : 
 no machinery, in order merely to give pleasure or ease : no 
 fund of pure joy and contentment : no indulgence without 
 some want or necessity accompanying it. At least, the few 
 j)henomena of this nature are overbalanced by opposite phe- 
 nomena of stilj greater importance. 
 
 Our sense of music, harmonj^, and indeed beauty of all 
 kinds gives satisfaction, without being absolutely necessary 
 to the preservation and i)ropagation of the species. But 
 what racking pains, on the other hand, arise from gouts, 
 gravels, megrims, tooth-aches, rheumatisms ; where the in- 
 jury to the animal-machinery is either small or incurable? 
 Mirth, laughter, play, frolic, seems gratuitous satisfactions, 
 which have no farther tendency : spleen, melancholy, dis- 
 content, superstition, are j)ains of the same nature. How 
 then does the divine benevolence display itself, in the sense 
 of you Anthropomorphites ? None but we Mystics, as you 
 were pleased to call us, can account for this strange mixture 
 of phenomena, by deriving it from attributes, infinitely per- 
 fect, but incomprehensible.
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 441 
 
 And have you at last, said Cleanthes smiling, betrayed 
 your intentions, Philo ? Your long agreement with Demea 
 did indeed a little surpi'ise me ; but I find you were all the 
 while erecting a concealed battery against me. And I must 
 confess, that you have now fallen upon a subject, worthy of 
 your noble spirit of opposition and controversy. If you can 
 make out the present point, and prove mankind to be un- 
 happy or corrupted, there is an end at once of all religion. 
 For to what purpose establish the natural attributes of the 
 Deity, while the moral are still doubtful and uncertain ? 
 
 You take umbrage very easily, replied Demea, at opinions 
 the most innocent, and the most generally received even 
 amongst the religious and devout themselves : and nothing 
 can be more surprising than to find a topic like this, con- 
 cerning the wickedness and misery of man, charged with no 
 less than Atheism and profaneness. Have not all pious 
 divines and preachers, who have indulged their rhetoric on 
 so fertile a subject ; have they not easily, I say, given a solu- 
 tion of any difficulties, which may attend it ? This world is 
 but a point in comparison of the universe : this life but a 
 moment in comparison of eternity. The present evil phe- 
 nomena, therefore, are rectified in other regions, and in some 
 future period of existence. And the eyes of men, being then 
 opened to larger views of things, see the whole connection of 
 general laws ; and trace, with adoration, the benevolence and 
 rectitude of the Deity, through all the mazes and intricacies 
 of his providence. 
 
 No ! replied Cleanthes, No ! These arbitrary suppositions 
 can never be admitted, contrary to matter of fact, visible and 
 uncontro verted. Whence can any cause be known but from 
 its known effects ? Whence can any hypothesis be proved 
 but from the apparent phenomena ? To establish one hypo- 
 thesis upon another, is building entirely in the air ; and the 
 utmost we ever attain, by these conjectures and fictions, is to 
 ascertain the bare possibility of our opinion ; but never can 
 we, upon such terms, establish its reality. 
 
 The only method of supporting divine benevolence (and it 
 is what I willingly embrace) is to deny absolutely the misery 
 and wickedness of man. Your representations are exagge- 
 rated: Your melancholyviewsmostly fictitious: Your inferences 
 contrary to fact and experience. Health is more common 
 than sickness : Pleasure than pain : Happiiless than misery.
 
 442 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 And for one vexation, which we meet with, we attain, upon 
 computation, a hundred enjoyments. 
 
 Admitting your position, replied Philo, which yet is ex- 
 tremely doubtful, you must, at the same time, allow, that, if 
 pain be less frequent than pleasure, it is infinitely morf' 
 violent and durable. One hour of it is often able to outweigh 
 a day, a week, a month of our common insipid enjoyments : 
 And how many days, weeks, and months are passed by several 
 in the most acute torments ? Pleasure, scarcely in one in- 
 stance, is ever able to reach ecstacy and rapture : And in no 
 one instance can it continue for any time at its highest pitch 
 and altitude. The spirits evaporate ; the nerves relax ; the 
 fabric is disordered ; and the enjoyment quickly degenerates 
 into fatigue and uneasiness. But pain often, good God, how 
 often ! rises to torture and agony ; and the longer it con- 
 tinues, it becomes still more genuine agony and torture. 
 Patience is exhausted; courage languishes; melancholy 
 seizes us ; and nothing terminates our misery but the removal 
 of its cause, or another event, which is the sole cure of all 
 evil, but which, from our natural folly, we regard with still 
 greater horror and consternation. 
 
 But not to insist upon these topics, continued Philo, though 
 most obvious, certain, and important ; I must use the free- 
 dom to admonish you, Cleanthes, that you have put the 
 controversy upon a most dangerous issue, and are unawares 
 introducing a total Scepticism, into the most essential articles 
 of natural and revealed theology. What ! no method of 
 fixing a just foundation for religion, unless we allow the hap- 
 piness of human life, and maintain a continued existence 
 even in this world, with all our present pains, infirmities, 
 vexations, and follies, to be eligible and desireable ! But this 
 is contrary to every one's feeling and experience : It is con- 
 trary to an authority so established as nothing can subvert : 
 Ko decisive j)^*oofs can ever be produced against this 
 authority ; nor is it possible for you to com.pute, estimate, 
 and compare all the pains and all the pleasures in the lives of 
 all men and of all animals : And thus by your resting the 
 whole sj'Stem of religion on a point, which, from its very 
 nature, must for ever be uncertain, you tacitly confess, that 
 that system is equally uncertain. 
 
 But allowing you, what never will be believed ; at least, 
 what you never possibly can prove, that animal, or at least,
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 443 
 
 human happiness, in this life, exceeds its misery ; you have 
 yet done nothing : For this is not, by any means, what we 
 expect from infinite power, infinite wisdom, and infinite good- 
 ness. Why is there any misery at all in the world ? Not by 
 chance surely. From some cause then. Is it from the in- 
 tention of the Deity ? But he is perfectly benevolent. Is it 
 contrary to his intention? But he is almighty. Nothing 
 can shake the solidity of this reasoning, so short, so clear, so 
 decisive; except we assert, that these subjects exceed all 
 human capacity, and that our common measures of truth 
 and falsehood are not applicable to them ; a topic, which I 
 have all along insisted on, but which you have, from the 
 beginning, rejected with scorn and indignation. 
 
 But I will be contented to retire still from this intrench- 
 ment : For I deny that you can ever force me in it : I will 
 allow, that pain or misery in man is compatible with infinite 
 power and goodness in the Deity, even in your sense of these 
 attributes : What are you advanced by all these concessions ? 
 A mere possible compatibility is not sufficient. You must 
 prove these pure, unmixt, and uncontrollable attributes from 
 the present mixed and confused phenomena, and from these 
 alone. A hopeful undertaking ! Were the phenomena ever 
 so pure and unmixt, yet being finite, they would be insufficient 
 for that purpose. How much more, where they are also so 
 jarring and discordant ! 
 
 Here, Cleanthes, I find myself at ease in my argument. 
 Here I triumph. Formerly, when we argued concerning the 
 natural attributes of intelligence and design, I needed all my 
 sceptical and metaphysical subtilty to elude your grasp. In 
 many views of the universe, and of its parts, particularly the 
 latter, the beauty and fitness of final causes strike us with 
 such irresistible force, that all objections appear (what I 
 believe they really are) mere cavils and sophisms ; nor can 
 we then imagine how it was ever possible for us to repose any 
 weight on them. But there is no view of human life or of 
 the condition of mankind, from which, without the greatest 
 violence, we can infer the moral attributes, or learn that in- 
 finite benevolence, conjoined with infinite power and infinite 
 wisdom, which we must discover by the eyes of faith alone. 
 It is your turn now to tug the labouring oar, and to support 
 your philosophical subtilties against the dictates of plain 
 reason and experience.
 
 444 DIALOGUES CONCErvNlNG 
 
 PART XI. 
 
 I SCRUPLE not to allow, said Cleanthes, that I have been 
 apt to suspect the frequent repetition of the word, infinite, 
 which we meet with in all theological writers, to savour 
 more of panegyric than of philosophy, and that any purposes 
 of reasoning, and even of religion, would be better served, 
 were we to rest contented with more accurate and more 
 moderate expressions. The terms, admirable, excellent, su- 
 'perlatively great, wise, and lioly ; these sufficiently fill the 
 imaginations of men ; and any thing beyond, besides that it 
 leads into absurdities, has no influence on the affections or 
 sentiments. Thus, in the present subject, if we abandon all 
 human analogy, as seems your intention, Demea, T am afraid 
 we abandon all religion, and retain no conception of the 
 great object of our adoration. If we preserve human analogy, 
 we must for ever find it impossible to reconcile any mixture 
 of evil in the universe with infinite attributes ; much less 
 can we ever prove the latter from the former. But supposing 
 the Author of Nature to be finitely perfect, though far ex- 
 ceeding mankind ; a satisfactory account may then be given 
 of natural and moral evil, and every untoward phenomenon 
 be explained and adjusted. A less evil may then be chosen, 
 in order to avoid a greater ; Inconveniencies be submitted 
 to, m order to reach a desirable end : And in a Avord, bene- 
 volence, regulated by wisdom, and limited by necessity, may 
 produce just such a world as the present. You, Philo, who 
 are so prompt at starting views, and reflections, and analogies, 
 I would gladly hear, at length, without interruption, your 
 opinion of this new theory ; and if it deserve our attention, 
 we may afterwards, at more leisure, reduce it into form. 
 
 My sentiments, replied Philo, are not worth being made 
 a mystery of; and therefore, without any ceremonj-, I shall 
 deliver what occurs to me, with regard to the present sub- 
 ject. It must, I think, be allowed, that, if a very limited in- 
 telligence, whom we shall suppose utterly unacquainted with 
 the universe, were assured, that it were the production of a 
 very good, wise, and powerful being, however finite, he 
 would, from his conjectures, form beforehand a different 
 notion of it from what we find it to be by experience ; nor 
 would he ever imagine, merely from these attributes of the
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 445 
 
 cause, of which he is informed, that the effect could be so 
 full of vice and misery and disorder, as it appears in this 
 life. Supposing now, that this person were brought into the 
 world, still assured, that it was the workmanship of such a 
 sublime and benevolent Being ; he might, perhaps, be sur- 
 prised at the disappointment ; but would never retract his 
 former belief, if founded on any very solid argument ; since 
 such a limited intelligence must be sensible of his own blind- 
 ness and ignorance, and must allow, that there maybe many 
 solutions of those phenomena, which will for ever escape his 
 comprehension. But supposing, which is the real case with 
 regard to man, that this creature is not antecedently con- 
 vinced of a supreme intelligence, benevolent, and powerful, 
 but is left to gather such a belief from the appearances of 
 things ; this entirely alters the case, nor will he ever find 
 any reason for such a conclusion. He may be fully convinced 
 of the narrow limits of his understanding ; but this will not 
 help him in forming an inference concerning the goodness 
 of superior powers, since he must form that inference from 
 what he knows, not from what he is ignorant of. The more 
 you exaggerate his weakness and ignorance, the more diffi- 
 dent you render him, and give him the greater suspicion, 
 that such subjects are beyond the reach of his faculties. 
 You are obliged, therefore, to reason with him merely from 
 the known phenomena, and to drop every arbitrary supposi- 
 tion or conjecture. 
 
 Did I show you a house or palace, where there was not 
 one apartment convenient or agreeable ; where the windows, 
 doors, fires, passages, stairs, and the whole ceconomy of the 
 building were the source of noise, confusion, fatigue, dark- 
 ness, and the extremes of heat and cold ; you would certainly 
 blame the contrivance, without any farther examination. 
 The architect would in vain display his subtilty, and prove 
 to you, that if this door or that window were altered, greater 
 ills would ensue. What he says, may be strictly true : The 
 alteration of one particular, while the other parts of the 
 building remain, may only augment the inconveniencies. 
 But still you would assert in general, that, if the architect 
 had had skill and good intentions, he might have formed 
 such a plan of the whole, and might have adjusted the parts 
 in such a manner, as would have remedied all or most of 
 these inconveniencies. His ignorance, or even your own ig-
 
 410 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 norance of such a plan, will never convince you of the impos- 
 sibility of it. If you find any inconveniencies and deformities 
 in the building, you will always, without entering into any 
 detail, condemn the architect. 
 
 In short, I repeat the question : Is the world, considered 
 in general, and as it appears to us in this life, different from 
 what a man or such a limited Being would, heforehandy 
 expect from a very powerful, wise, and benevolent Deity ? 
 It must be strange prejudice to assert the contrary. And 
 from thence I conclude, that, however consistent the world 
 may be, allowing certain suppositions and conjectures, with 
 the idea of such a Deity, it can never afford us an inference 
 concerning his existence. The consistence is not absolutely 
 denied, only the inference. Conjectures, especially where 
 infinity is excluded from the Divine attributes, may perhaps 
 be sufiicient to prove a consistence ; but can never be foun- 
 dations for any inference. 
 
 There seems to be four circumstances, on which depend 
 all, or the greatest parts of the ills, that molest sensible 
 creatures ; and it is not impossible but all these circum- 
 stances may be necessary and unavoidable. We know so 
 little beyond common life, or even of common life, that, with 
 regard to the ceconomy of a universe, there is no conjec- 
 ture, however wild, which may not be just ; nor any one, 
 however plausible, which may not be erroneous. All that 
 belongs to human understanding, in this deep ignorance and 
 obscurity, is to be sceptical, or at least cautious ; and not to 
 admit of any hypothesis, whatever ; much less, of any which 
 is supported by no appearance of probability. Now this I 
 assert to be the case with regard to all the causes of evil, 
 and the circumstances, on which it depends. None of them 
 apj)ear to human reason, in the least degree, necessary or 
 unavoidable ; nor can we suppose them such, without the 
 utmost license of imagination. 
 
 The first circumstance which introduces evil, is that con- 
 trivance or ceconomy of the animal creation, by which pains, 
 as well as pleasures, are employed to excite all creatures to 
 action, and make them vigilant in the great work of self- 
 preservation. Now pleasure alone, in its various degrees, 
 seems to human understanding sufiicient for this purpose. 
 All animals might be constantly in a state of enjoyment; 
 but when urged by any of the necessities of nature, such as
 
 NATURAL EELIGION. 447 
 
 thirst, liu tiger, weariness ; instead of pain, they mig-lit feel a 
 diminution of pleasure, by which they might be prompted 
 to seek that object, which is necessary to their subsistence. 
 Men pursue pleasure as eagerly as they avoid pain ; at least, 
 might have been so constituted. It seems, therefore, plainly 
 possible to carry on the business of life without any pain. 
 Why then is any animal ever rendered susceptible of such a 
 sensation? If animals can be free from it an hour, they 
 might enjoy a perpetual exemption from it ; and it required 
 as particular a contrivance of their organs to produce that 
 feeling, as to endow them with sight, hearing, or any of the 
 senses. Shall we conjecture, that such a contrivance was 
 necessary, without any appearance of reason ? and shall we 
 build on that conjecture as on the most certain truth ? 
 
 But a capacity of pain would not alone produce pain, were 
 it not for the second circumstance, viz. the conducting of the 
 world by general laws ; and this seems nowise necessary 
 to a very perfect being. It is true ; if every thing were 
 conducted by particular volitions, the course of nature would 
 be perpetually broken, and no man could employ his reason 
 in the conduct of life. But might not other particular voli- 
 tions remedy this inconvenience ? In short, might not the 
 Deity exterminate all ill, where-ever it were to be found ; 
 and produce all good, without any preparation or long pro- 
 gress of causes and effects ? 
 
 Besides, we must consider, that, according to the present 
 ceconomy of the world, the course of Nature, though supposed 
 exactly regular, yet to us appears not so, and many events 
 are uncertain, and many disappoint our expectations. Health 
 and sickness, calm and tempest, with an infinite number of 
 other accidents, whose causes are unknown and variable, 
 have a great influence both on the fortunes of particular per- 
 sons and on the prosperity of public societies : and indeed 
 all human life, in a manner, depends on such accidents. A 
 being, therefore, who knows the secret springs of the uni- 
 verse, might easily, by particular volitions, turn all these 
 accidents to the good of mankind, and render the whole 
 world happy, without discovering himself in any operation. 
 A fleet, whose purposes were salutary to society, might 
 always meet with a fair wind : Good princes enjoy sound 
 health and long life : Persons, born to power and authority, 
 be framed with good tempers and virtuous dispositions. A
 
 448 DIAI.OGUES COXCERNTNG 
 
 few such events as these, regularly and wisely conducted, 
 would change the face of the world ; and yet would no more 
 seem to disturb the course of Nature or confound human 
 conduct, than the present oeconomy of things, where the 
 causes are secret, and variable, and compounded. Some 
 small touches, given to Caligula's brain in his infancy, 
 might have converted him into a Trajan : one wave, a little 
 higher than the rest, by burying C.^sar and his fortune in 
 the bottom of the ocean, might have restored liberty to a 
 considerable part of mankind. There may, for aught we 
 know, be good reasons, why Providence interposes not in 
 this manner ; but they are unknown to us : and though the 
 mere supposition, that such reasons exist, may be sufficient 
 to save the conclusion concerning the divine attributes, yet 
 surely it can never be sufficient to establish that conclusion. 
 
 If every thing in the universe be conducted by general 
 laws, and if animals be rendered susceptible of pain, it 
 scarcely seems possible but some ill must arise in the various 
 shocks of matter, and the various concurrence and opposition 
 of general laws : But this ill would be very rare, were it not 
 for the third circumstance, which I proposed to mention, viz. 
 the great frugality, with which all powers and faculties are 
 distributed to every particular being. So well adjusted are 
 the organs and capacities of all animals, and so well fitted 
 to then* preservation, that, as far as history or tradition 
 reaches, there appears not to be any single species, which 
 has yet been extinguished in the universe. Every animal has 
 the requisite endowments ; but these endowments are be- 
 stowed with so scrupulous an oeconomy, that any considerable 
 diminution must entirely destroy the creature. Where-ever 
 one power is encreased, there is a proportional abatement in 
 the others. Animals, which excel in swiftness, are commonly 
 defective in force. Those, which possess both, are either im- 
 perfect in some of their senses, or are oppressed with the 
 most craving wants. The human species, whose chief ex- 
 cellency is reason and sagacity, is of all others the most 
 necessitous, and the most deficient in bodily advantages ; 
 without cloaths, without arms, without food, without 
 lodging, without any convenience of life, except wnat they 
 owe to their own skill and industry. In short, Nature seems 
 to have formed an exact calculation of the necessities of her 
 creatures ; and like a rigid master, has afforded them little
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 449 
 
 more powers or endowments, than what are strictly sufficient 
 to supply those necessities. An indulgent parent would have 
 bestowed a large stock, in order to guard against accidents, 
 and secure the happiness and welfare of the creature, in the 
 most unfortunate concurrence of circumstances. Every 
 course of life vv^ould not have been so surrounded with preci- 
 pices, that the least departure from the true path, by mistake 
 or necessity, must involve us in misery and ruin. Some re- 
 serve, some fund would have been provided to ensure happi- 
 ness ; nor would the powers and the necessities have been 
 adjusted with so rigid an oeconomy. The author of Nature 
 is inconceivably powerful : his force is supposed great, if not 
 altogether inexhaustible : nor is there any reason, as far as 
 we can judge, to make him observe this strict frugality in his 
 dealings with his creatures. It would have been better, were 
 his power extremely limited, to have created fewer animals, 
 and to have endowed these with more faculties for their 
 happiness and preservation. A builder is never esteemed 
 prudent, who undertakes a plan, beyond what his stock will 
 enable him to finish. 
 
 In order to cure most of the ills of human life, I require 
 not that man should have the wings of the eagle, the swift- 
 ness of the stag, the force of the ox, the arms of the lion, the 
 scales of the crocodile or rhinoceros ; much less do I demand 
 the sagacity of an angel or cherubim. I am contented to 
 take an encrease in one single power or faculty of his soul. 
 Let him be endowed with a greater propensity to industry 
 and labour ; a more vigorous spring and activity of mind ; 
 a more constant bent to business and application. Let the 
 whole species possess naturally an equal diligence with that 
 which many individuals are able to attain by habit and 
 reflection ; and the most beneficial consequences, without 
 any allay of ill, is the immediate and necessary result of this 
 endowment. Almost all the moral, as well as natural evils 
 of human life arise from idleness ; and were our species, by 
 the original constitution of their frame, exempt from this vice 
 or infirmity, the perfect cviltivation of land, the improvement 
 of arts and manufactures, the exact execution of every office 
 and duty, immediately follow ; and men at once may fully 
 reach that state of society, which is so imperfectly attained 
 by the best-regulated government. But as industry is a 
 power, and the most valuable of any. Nature seems deter- 
 
 VOL. II. G G
 
 450 DIALOGUES CONCERXIXO 
 
 mined, suitably to her usual maxims, to bestow it on men 
 with a very sparing hand ; and rather to punish him severely 
 for his deficiency in it, than to reward him for his attain- 
 ments. She has so contrived his frame, that nothing but the 
 most violent necessity can oblige him to labour ; and she 
 employs all his other wants to overcome, at least in part, the 
 want of diligence, and to endow him with some share of a 
 faculty, of which she has thought fit naturally to bereave 
 him. Here our demands may be allowed very humble, and 
 therefore the more reasonable. If we required the endow- 
 ments of superior penetration and judgment, of a more deli- 
 cate taste of beauty, of a nicer sensibility to benevolence and 
 friendship ; we might be told, that we impiously pretend to 
 break the order of Nature, that we want to exalt ourselves 
 into a higher rank of being, that the presents which we re • 
 quire, not being suitable to our state and condition, would 
 only be pernicious to us. But it is hard ; I dare to repeat 
 it, it is hard, that being placed in a world so full of wants 
 and necessities; where almost every being and element is 
 either our foe or refuses its assistance ... we should also 
 have our own temper to struggle with, and should be de- 
 prived of that faculty, which can alone fence against these 
 multiplied evils. 
 
 The fourth circumstance, whence arises the misery and 
 ill of the universe, is the inaccurate workmanship of all the 
 springs and principles of the great machine of nature. It 
 must be acknowledged, that there are few parts of the uni- 
 verse, which seem not to serve some purpose, and whose 
 removal would not produce a visible defect and disorder in 
 the whole. The parts hang all together; nor can one be 
 touched without affecting the rest in a greater or less degree. 
 But at the same time, it must be observed, that none of these 
 parts or principles, however useful, are so accurately ad- 
 justed, as to keep precisely within those bounds, in which 
 their utility consists ; but they are, all of them, apt, on every 
 occasion, to run into the one extreme or the other. One 
 would imagine, that this grand production had not received 
 the last hand of the maker; so little finished is every part, 
 and so coarse are the strokes, with which it is executed. 
 Thus, the winds are requisite to convey the vapours along 
 the surface of the globe, and to assist men in navigation : 
 but how oft, rising up to tempests and hurricanes, do they
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 451 
 
 become pernicious ? Eains are necessary to nourish all the 
 plants and animals of the earth : but how often are they de- 
 fective ? how often excessive ? Heat is requisite to all life 
 and vegetation ; but is not always found in the due propor- 
 tion. On the mixture and secretion of the humours and 
 juices of the body depend the health and prosperity of the 
 animal : but the parts perform not regularly their proper 
 function. What more useful than all the passions of the 
 mind, ambition, vanity, love, anger ? But how oft do they 
 break their bounds, and cause the greatest convulsions in 
 society ? There is nothing so advantageous in the universe, 
 but what frequently becomes pernicious, by its excess or 
 defect ; nor has Nature guarded, with the requisite accuracy, 
 against all disorder or confusion. The irregularity is never, 
 perhaps, so great as to destroy any species ; but is often 
 sufficient to involve the individuals in ruin and misery. 
 
 On the concurrence, then, of these four circumstances does 
 all, or the greatest part of natural evil depend. Were all 
 living creatures incapable of pain, or were the world ad- 
 ministered by particular volitions, evil never could have found 
 access into the universe : and were animals endowed with a 
 large stock of powers and faculties, beyond what strict neces- 
 sity requires ; or were the several springs and i3rinciples of 
 the universe so accurately framed as to preserve always the 
 just temperament and medium ; there must have been very 
 little ill in comparison of what we feel at present. What 
 then shall we pronounce on this occasion ? Shall we say, 
 that these circumstances are not necessary, and that they 
 might easily have been altered in the contrivance of the uni- 
 verse ? Tliis decision seems too presumptuous for creatures, 
 so blind and ignorant. Let us be more modest in our con- 
 clusions. Let us allow, that, if the goodness of the Deity (I 
 mean a goodness like the human) could be established on any 
 tolerable reasons a priori, these phenomena, however unto- 
 ward, would not be sufficient to subvert that principle ; but 
 might easily, in some unknown manner, be reconcilable to it. 
 But let us still assert, that as this goodness is not antece- 
 dently established, but must be inferred from the phenomena, 
 there can be no grounds for such an inference, while there 
 are so many ills in the universe, and while these ills might 
 so easily have been remedied, as far as human understanding 
 can be allowed to judge on such a subject. I am Sceptic
 
 452 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 enougli to allow, that the bad appearances, notwithstanding 
 all my reasonings, may be compatible with such attributes as 
 you suppose : But surely they can never prove these attri- 
 butes. Such a conclusion cannot result from Scepticism ; 
 but must arise from the phenomena, and from our confidence 
 in the reasonings, which we deduce from these phenomena. 
 
 Look round this universe. What an immense profusion of 
 beings, animated and organized, sensible and active ! You 
 admire this prodigious variety and fecundity. But inspect a 
 little more narrowly these living existences, the only beings 
 worth regarding. How hostile and destructive to each other ! 
 How insufficient all of them for their own happiness ! How 
 contemptible or odious to the spectator ! The whole presents 
 nothing but the idea of a blind Nature, impregnated by a 
 great vivifying principle, and pouring forth from her lap, 
 without discernment or parental care, her maimed and abor- 
 tive children ! 
 
 Here the Manich^an system occurs as a propjer hypothesis 
 to solve the difficidty : and no dotibt, in some respects, it is 
 very specious, and has more probability than the common 
 hypothesis, by giving a plausible account of the strange 
 mixture of good and ill, which appears in life. But if we 
 consider, on the other hand, the perfect uniformity and 
 agreement of the parts of the universe, we shall not discover 
 in it any marks of the combat of a malevolent with a bene- 
 volent being. There is indeed an opposition of pains and 
 pleasures in the feelings of sensible creatures : but are not 
 all the operations of Nature carried on by an opposition of 
 principles, of hot and cold, moist and dry, light and heavy ? 
 The true conclusion is, that the original source of all things 
 is entirely indifferent to all these principles, and has no more 
 regard to good above ill than to heat above cold, or to 
 drought above moisture, or to light above heavy. 
 
 There may /owr hypotheses be framed concerning the first 
 causes of the universe ; that they are endowed with perfect 
 goodness, that they have perfect malice, that they are oppo- 
 site and have both goodness and malice, that they have 
 neither goodness nor malice. Mixt phenomena can never 
 prove the two former unmixt principles. And the unifor- 
 mity and steadiness of general laws seem to oppose the third. 
 The fourth, therefore, seems by far the most probable. 
 
 What I have said concerning natural evil will apply to
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 453 
 
 moral, with little or no variation ; and we have no more 
 reason to infer, that the rectitude of the Supreme Being re- 
 sembles human rectitude than that his benevolence resembles 
 the human. Nay, it will be thought, that we have still 
 greater cause to exclude from him moral sentiments, such as 
 we feel them ; since moral evil, in the opinion of many, is 
 much more predominant above moral good than natural evil 
 above natural good. 
 
 But even though this should not be allowed, and though 
 the virtue, which is in mankind, should be acknowledged 
 much superior to the vice ; yet so long as there is any vice at 
 all in the universe, it will very much puzzle you Ajithropo- 
 morphites, how to account for it. You must assign a cause 
 for it, without having recourse to the first cause. But as 
 every effect must have a cause, and that cause another ; you 
 must either carry on the progression in infinitum, or rest on 
 that original principle, who is the ultimate cause of all 
 things .... 
 
 Hold ! hold ! cried Demea : Whither does your imagina- 
 tion hurry you ? I joined in alliance with you, in order to 
 prove the incomprehensible nature of the Divine Being, and 
 refute the principles of Cleanthes, who would measure every 
 thing by a human rule and .standard. But I now find you 
 running into all the topics of the greatest libertines and 
 infidels ; and betraying that holy cause, which you seemingly 
 espoused. Are you secretly, then, a more dangerous enemy 
 than Cleanthes himself? 
 
 And are you so late in perceiving it ? replied Cleanthes. 
 Believe me, Demea ; your friend Philo, from the beginning, 
 has been amusing himself at both our expence ; and it must 
 be confessed, that the injudicious reasoning of our vulgar 
 theology has given him but too just a handle of ridicule. 
 The total infirmity of human reason, the absolute incompre- 
 hensibility of the Divine Nature, the great and universal 
 misery and still greater wickedness of men ; these are strange 
 topics surel}^ to be so fondly cherished by orthodox divines 
 and doctors. In ages of stupidity and ignorance, indeed, 
 these principles may safely be espoused ; and perhaps, no 
 views of things are more proper to promote superstition, than 
 such as encourage the blind amazement, the diffidence, and 
 melancholy of mankind. But at present 
 
 Blame not so much, interposed Philo, the ignorance of
 
 454 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 these reverend gentlemen. They know how to change their 
 style with the times. Formerly it was a most popular theo- 
 logical topic to maintain, that human life was vanity and 
 misery, and to exaggerate all the ills and pains, which are 
 incident to men. But of late years, divines, we find, begin 
 to retract this position, and maintain, though still with some 
 hesitation, that there are more goods than evils, more plea- 
 sures than pains, even in this life. When religion stood 
 entirely upon temper and education, it was thought proper 
 to encourage melancholy ; as indeed, mankind never have 
 recourse to superior powers so readily as in that disposition. 
 But as men have now learned to form principles, and to draw 
 consequences, it is necessary to change the batteries, and to 
 make use of such arguments as will endure, at least some 
 scrutiny and examination. This variation is the same (and 
 from the same causes) with that which I formerly remarked 
 with regard to Scepticism. 
 
 Thus Philo continued to the last his spirit of opposition, 
 and his censure of established opinions. But I could observe, 
 that Demea did not at all relish the latter part of the dis- 
 course ; and he took occasion soon after, on some pretence or 
 other, to leave the company. 
 
 PART XII. 
 
 After Demea's departure, Cleanthes and Philo con- 
 tinued the conversation in the following manner. Our 
 friend, I am afi-aid, said Cleanthes, will have little inclina- 
 tion to revive this topic of discourse, while you are in com- 
 pany; and to tell truth, Philo, I should rather wish to 
 reason with either of you apart on a subject, so sublime and 
 interesting. Your spirit of controversy, joined to your 
 'abhorrence of vulgar superstition, carries you strange lengths, 
 when eng-ag^ed in an arofuraent : and there is nothingf so 
 sacred and venerable, even in your own eyes, which you spare 
 on that occasion. 
 
 I must confess, replied Philo, that I am less cautious on 
 the subject of Natural Religion than on any other ; both 
 because I know that I can never, on that head, corrupt the 
 principles of any man of common sense, and because no one,
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 455 
 
 I am confident, in whose eyes I appear a man of common 
 sense, will ever mistake vaj intentions. You, in particular, 
 Cleanthes, with whom I live in unreserved intimacy ; you 
 are sensible, that, notwithstanding the freedom of my con- 
 versation, and my love of singular arguments, no one has a 
 deeper sense of religion impressed on his mind, or pays more 
 profound adoration to the Divine Being, as he discovers 
 himself to reason, in the inexplicable contrivance and artifice 
 of Nature. A purpose, an intention, a design strikes every- 
 where the most careless, the most stupid thinker ; and no 
 man can be so hardened in absurd systems, as at all times to 
 reject it. That Nature does nothing in vain, is a maxim 
 established in all the schools, merely from the contemplation 
 of the works of Nature, without any religious purpose ; and, 
 from a firm conviction of its truth, an anatomist, who had 
 observed a new organ or canal, would never be satisfied, till 
 he had also discovered its use and intention. One arreat 
 foundation of the Copernican system is the maxim. That 
 Nature acts by the simjilest methods, and chuses the most proper 
 TYieans to any end ; and astronomers often, without thinking 
 of it, lay this strong foundation of piety and religion. The 
 same thing is observable in other parts of philosophy : And 
 thus all the sciences almost lead us insensibly to acknowledge 
 a first intelligent Author ; and their authority is often so 
 much the greater, as they do not directly profess that 
 intention. 
 
 It is with pleasure I hear Galen reason concerning the 
 structure of the human body. The anatomy of a man, says 
 he,' discovers above 600 different muscles; and whoever duly 
 considers these, will find, that in each of them Nature must 
 have adjusted at least ten different circumstances, in ordei 
 to attain the end which she proposed ; proper figure, just 
 magnitude, right disposition of the several ends, upper and 
 lower position of the whole, the due insertion of the several 
 nerves, veins, and arteries : So that in the muscles alone, 
 above 6000 several views and intentions must have been 
 formed and executed. The bones he calculates to be 284 i 
 The distinct purposes, aimed at in the structure of each, 
 above forty. What a prodigious display of artifice, even in 
 these simple and homogeneous parts ! But if we consider 
 the skin, ligaments, vessels, glandules, humours, the several 
 ' De formatione Foetus.
 
 450 DL\.LOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 limbs and members of the body ; how must our astonishment 
 rise upon us, in proportion to the number and intricacy of 
 the parts so artificially adjusted ! The farther we advance 
 in these researches, we discover new scenes of art and 
 wisdom : But descry still, at a distance, farther scenes beyond 
 our reach ; in the fine internal structure of the parts, in the 
 ceconomy of the brain, in the fabric of the seminal vessels. 
 All these artifices are repeated in every different species of 
 animal, with wonderful variety, and with exact propriety, 
 suited to the different intentions of Nature, in framing each 
 species. And if the infidelity of Galen, even when these 
 natural sciences were still imperfect, could not withstand 
 such striking appearances ; to what pitch of pertinacious 
 obstinacy must a philosopher in this age have attained, who 
 can now doubt of a Supreme Intelligence ? 
 
 Could I meet with one of this species (who, I thank God, 
 are very rare) I would ask him : Supposing there were a God, 
 who did not discover himself immediately to our senses ; were 
 it possible for him to give stronger proofs of his existence, 
 than what appear on the whole face of Nature ? What 
 indeed could such a divine Being do, but copy the present 
 ceconomy of things ; render many of his artifices so plain, 
 that no stupidity could mistake them ; afford glimpses of still 
 greater artifices, which demonstrate his prodigious superiority 
 above our narrow apprehensions ; and conceal altogether a 
 great many from such imperfect creatures? Now according 
 to all rules of just reasoning, every fact must pass for undis- 
 puted, when it is supported by all the arguments, which its 
 nature admits of; even though these arguments be not, in 
 themselves, very numerous or forcible : How much more, in 
 the present case, where no human imagination can compute 
 their number, and no understanding estimate their cogency ! 
 
 I shall farther add, said Cleanthes, to what you have so 
 well urged, that one great advantage of the principle of 
 Theism, is, that it is the only system of cosmogony, which 
 (inn be rendered intelligible and complete, and yet can 
 throughout preserve a strong analogy to what we every day 
 see and experience in the world. The comparison of the 
 universe to a machine of human contrivance is so obvious 
 and natural, and is justified by so many instances of order 
 and design in Nature, that it must immediately strike all 
 unprejudiced apprehensions, and procure universal approba-
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 457 
 
 tiou. Whoever attempts to weaken this theory, cannot pre- 
 tend to succeed by establishing in its place any other, that is 
 precise and determinate : It is sufficient for him, if he start 
 doubts and difficulties ; and by remote and abstract views of 
 things, reach that suspense of judgement, which is here the 
 utmost boundary of his wishes. But besides, that this state 
 of mind is in itself unsatisfactory, it can never be steadily 
 maintained against such striking appearances, as continually 
 engage us into the religions hypothesis. A false, absurd 
 system, human nature, from the force of prejudice, is capable 
 of adhering to, with obstinacy and perseverance : But no 
 system at all, in opposition to theory, supported by strong 
 and obvious reason, by natural propensity, and by early 
 education, I think it absolutely impossible to maintain or 
 defend. 
 
 So little, replied Philo, do I esteem this suspense of 
 judgement in the present case to be possible, that I am apt 
 to suspect there enters somewhat of a dispute of words into 
 this controversy, more than is usually imagined. That the 
 works of Nature bear a great analogy to the productions of 
 art is evident : and according to all the rules of good reason- 
 ing, we ought to infer, if we argue at all concerning them, 
 that their causes have a proportional analogy. But as there 
 are also considerable differences, we have reason to suppose a 
 proportional difference in the causes ; and in particular ought 
 to attribute a much higher degree of power and energy to the 
 supreme cause than any we have ever observed in mankind. 
 Here then the existence of a DEITY is plainly ascertained 
 by reason ; and if we make it a question, whether, on account 
 of these analogies, we can projoerly call him a mind or in- 
 telligence, notwithstanding the vast difference, which may 
 reasonably be supposed between him and human minds ; 
 what is this but a mere verbal controversy? No man can 
 deny the analogies between the effects : To restrain ourselves 
 from enquiring concerning the causes is scarcely possible : 
 From this enquiry, the legitimate conclusion is, that the 
 causes have also an analogy : And if we are not contented 
 with calling the first and supreme cause a GOD or DEITY, 
 but desire to vary the expression ; what can we call him but 
 MIND or THOUGHT, to which he is justly supposed to bear 
 a considerable resemblance'? 
 
 All men of sound reason are disgusted with verbal disputes,
 
 4r.8 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 which abound so much in philosophical and theological en- 
 quiries ; and it is found, that the only remedy for this abuse 
 must arise from clear definitions, from the precision of those 
 ideas which enter into any argument, and from the strict and 
 uniform use of those terms which are employed. But there 
 is a species of controversy, which, from the very nature of 
 language and of human ideas, is involved in perpetual am- 
 biguity, and can never, by any precaution or any definitions, 
 be able to reach a reasonable certainty or precision. These 
 are the controversies concerning the degrees of any quality 
 or circumstance. Men may argue to all eternity, whether 
 Hannibal be a great, or a very great, or a superlatively 
 great man, what degree of beauty Cleopatra possessed, what 
 epithet of praise LiVT or Thucydides is intitled to, without 
 bringing the controversy to any determination. The dis- 
 putants may here agree in their sense, and differ in the 
 terms, or vice versa; yet never be able to define their terms, 
 so as to enter into each other's meaning : Because the degrees 
 of these qualities are not, like quantity or number, suscep- 
 tible of any exact mensuration, which may be the standard 
 in the controversy. That the dispute concerning Theism is of 
 this nature, and consequently is merely verbal, or perhaps, if 
 possible, still more incurably ambiguous, will appear upon the 
 slightest enquiry. I ask the Theist, if he does not allow, that 
 there is a great and immeasurable, because incomprehensible, 
 difference between the human and the divine mind : The 
 more pious he is, the more readily wUl he assent to the 
 affirmative, and the more will he be disposed to magnify 
 the difference : He will even assert, that the difference is of 
 a nature which cannot be too much magnified. I next turn 
 to the Atheist, who, I assert, is only nominally so, and can 
 never possibly be in earnest ; and I ask him, whether, from 
 the coherence and apparent sympathy in all the parts of this 
 world, there be not a certain degree of analogy among all the 
 operations of Nature, in every situation and in every age ; 
 whether the rotting of a turnip, the generation of an animal, 
 and the structure of human thought be not energies that 
 probably bear some remote analogy to each other : It is 
 impossible he can deny it : He will readily acknowledge it. 
 Having obtained this concession, I push him still farther 
 in his retreat ; and I ask him, if it be not probable, tha,t the 
 principle which first arranged, and still maintains order in
 
 NATUEAL RELIGION. 459 
 
 this ani verse, bears not also some remote inconceivable 
 analogy to the other operations of Nature, and among the 
 rest to the oeconomy of human mind and thought. However 
 reluctant, he must give his assent. Where then, cry I to 
 both these antagonists, is the subject of your dispute? 
 The Theist allows, that the original intelligence is very 
 different from human reason : The Atheist allows, that the 
 original principle of order bears some remote analogy to it. 
 Will you quarrel, Gentlemen, about the degrees, and enter 
 into a controversy, which admits not of any precise mean- 
 ing, nor consequently of any determination ? If you should 
 be so obstinate, I should not be surprised to find you in- 
 sensibly change sides ; while the Theist on the one hand 
 exaggerates the dissimilarity between the Supreme Being, 
 and frail, imperfect, variable, fleeting, and mortal creatures ; 
 and the Atheist on the other magnifies the analogy among 
 all the operations of Nature, in every period, every situation, 
 and every position. Consider then, where the real point of 
 controversy lies, and if you cannot lay aside your disputes, 
 endeavour, at least, to cure yourselves of your animosity. 
 
 And here I must also acknowledge, Cleanthes, that, as 
 the works of Nature have a much greater analogy to the 
 effects of our art and contrivance, than to those of our bene- 
 volence and justice ; we have reason to infer that the natural 
 attributes of the Deity have a greater resemblance to those of 
 man, than his moral have to human virtues. But what is the 
 consequence ? Nothing but this, that the moral qualities 
 of man are more defective in their kind than his natural 
 abilities. For, as the Supreme Being is allowed to be abso- 
 lutely and entirely perfect, whatever differs most from him 
 departs the farthest from the supreme standard of rectitude 
 and perfection.^ 
 
 ' It seems evklont-, that the dispute insolvealjl'^. No Sceptic denies, that we 
 
 between the Sceptics and Dogmatists is lie under an absolute necessity, not- 
 
 entirely verbal, or at least regards cmly withstanding these difficulties, of think- 
 
 the degrees of doubt and assurance, ing. and believing, and reasoning with 
 
 which we ought to indulge with regard regard to all kind of subjects, and even 
 
 to all reasoning: And such disputes of frequently assenting with confidence 
 
 are commonly, at the bottom, verbal, and security The only difFerence, then, 
 
 and admit not of any precise determina- between these sects, if they merit that 
 
 tion. No pliilosophieal Dogmatist de- name, is, that the vSeeptic, from habit, 
 
 nies, that tht-re are difficulties both caprice, or inclination, insists most on 
 
 with regard to the senses and to all the difficulties ; the Dogmatist, for like 
 
 science; and that these difficulties are reasons, on the necessity. 
 in a regular, logical method, absolutely
 
 400 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 These, Cleaxthes, are my unfeigned sentiments on thia 
 subject ; and these sentiments, you know, I have ever cherished 
 and maintained. But in proportion to my veneration for true 
 religion, is my abhorrence of vulgar superstitions ; and I in- 
 dulge a peculiar pleasure, I confess, in pushing such principles, 
 sometimes into absurdity, sometimes into impiety. And 
 you are sensible, that all bigots, notwithstanding their great 
 aversion to the latter above the former, are commonly equally 
 guilty of both. 
 
 My inclination, replied Cleanthes, lies, I own, a contrary 
 way. Eeligion, however corrupted, is still better than no 
 religion at all. The doctrine of a future state is so strong 
 and necessary a security to morals, that we never ought to 
 abandon or neglect it. For if finite and temporary rewards 
 and punishments have so great an effect, as we daily find ; 
 how much greater must be expected from such as are infinite 
 and eternal? 
 
 How happens it then, said Philo, if vulgar superstition be 
 so salutary to society, that all history abounds so much with 
 accounts of its pernicious consequences on public afiairs ? 
 Factions, civil wars, persecutions, subversions of government, 
 oppression, slavery; these are the dismal consequences which 
 always attend its prevalency over the minds of men. If the 
 religious spirit be ever mentioned in any historical narration, 
 we are sure to meet afterwards with a detail of the miseries, 
 which attend it. And no period of time can be happier or 
 more prosperous, than those in which it is never regarded, 
 or heard of. 
 
 The reason of this observation, replied Cleanthes, is ob- 
 vious. The proper ofl&ce of religion is to regulate the heart 
 of men, humanize their conduct, infuse the spirit of tem- 
 perance, order, and obedience ; and as its operation is silent, 
 and only enforces the motives of moralit}' and justice, it is in 
 danger of being overlooked, and confounded with these other 
 motives. When it distinguishes itself, and acts as a separate 
 principle over men, it has departed from its proper sphere, 
 and has become only a cover to faction and ambition. 
 
 And so will all religion, said Philo, except the philosophical 
 and rational kind. Your reasonings are more easily eluded 
 than my facts. The inference is not just, because finite and 
 temporary rewards and punishments have so great influence, 
 that therefore such as are infinite and eternal must have so
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. 4f;i 
 
 much greater. Consider, I beseech you, the attachment, 
 which we have to present things, and the little concern which 
 we discover for objects, so remote and uncertain. When 
 divines are declaiming against the common behaviour and 
 conduct of the world, they always represent this principle as 
 the strongest imaginable (which indeed it is) and describe 
 almost all human kind as lying under the influence of it, and 
 sunk into the deepest lethargy and unconcern about their 
 religious interests. Yet these same divines, when they 
 refute their speculative antagonists, suppose the motives of 
 religion to be so powerful, that, without them, it were impos- 
 sible for civil society to subsist ; nor are they ashamed of so 
 palpable a contradiction. It is certain, from experience, 
 that the smallest grain of natural honesty and benevolence 
 has more effect on men's conduct, than the most pompous 
 views suggested by theological theories and sj^stems. A 
 man's natural inclination works incessantly upon him ; it is 
 for ever present to the mind, and mingles itself with every 
 view and consideration : whereas religious motives, where 
 they act at all, operate only by starts and bounds ; and it is 
 scarcely possible for them to become altogether habitual to the 
 mind. The force of the greatest gravity, say the philosophers, 
 is infinitely small, in comparison of that of the least impulse ; 
 yet it is certain, that the smallest gravity will, in the end, 
 prevail above a great impulse ; because no strokes or blows 
 can be repeated with such constancy as attraction and gra- 
 vitation. 
 
 Another advantage of inclination : It engages on its side 
 all the wit and ingenuity of the mind; and when set in 
 opposition to religious principles, seeks ever}' method and art 
 of eluding them : in which it is almost always successful. 
 Who can explain the heart of man, or account for those 
 strange salvos and excuses, with which people satisfy them- 
 selves, when they follow their inclinations in opposition to 
 their religious duty ! This is well understood in the world ; 
 and none but fools ever repose less trust in a man, because 
 they hear, that, from study and philosophy, he has enter- 
 tained some speculative doubts with regard to theological 
 subjects. And when we have to do with a man, who makes 
 a great profession of religion and devotion ; has this any 
 other effect upon several, who pass for prudent, than to put 
 them on their guard, lest they be cheated and deceived by him ?
 
 40? DLVLOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 We must farther consider, that philosophers, who cultivate 
 reason and reflection, stand less in need of such motives to 
 keep them under the restraint of morals ; and that the vulgar, 
 who alone may need them, are utterly incapable of so pure 
 a religion, as represents the Deity to be pleased with nothing 
 but virtue in human behaviour. The recommendations to 
 the Divinity are generally supposed to be either frivolous 
 observances, or rapturous ecstasies, or a bigotted credulity. 
 We need not run back into antiquity, or wander into remote 
 regions, to find instances of this degeneracy. Amongst our- 
 selves, some have been guilty of that atrociousness, unknown to 
 the Egyptian and Grecian superstitions, of declaiming, in 
 express terms, against morality, and representing it as a sure 
 forfeiture of the Divine favour, if the least trust or reliance 
 be laid upon it. 
 
 But even though superstition or enthusiasm should not put 
 itself in direct opposition to morality ; the very diverting of 
 the attention, the raising up a new and frivolous species of 
 merit, the preposterous distribution, which it makes of praise 
 and blame ; must have the most pernicious consequences, and 
 vv^eaken extremely men's attachment to the natural motives of 
 justice and humanity. 
 
 Sucli a principle of action likewise, not being any of the 
 familiar motives of human conduct, acts only by intervals on 
 the temper, and must be rouzed by continual efforts, in order 
 to I'ender the pious zealot satisfied with his own conduct, and 
 make him fulfil his devotional task. Many religious exercises 
 are entered into with seeming fervour, where the heart, at the 
 time, feels cold and languid : A habit of dissimulation is by 
 degrees contracted : and fraud and falsehood become the 
 predominant principle. Hence the reason of that vulgar 
 observation, that the highest zeal in religion and the deepest 
 hypocrisy, so far from being inconsistent, are often or com- 
 monly united in the same individual character. 
 
 The bad effects of such habits, even in common life, are 
 easily imagined : but where the interests of religion are con- 
 cerned, no morality can be forcible enough to bind the 
 enthusiastic zealot. The sacredness of the cause sanctifies 
 every measure, which can be made use of to promote it. 
 
 The steady attention alone to so important an interest as 
 that of eternal salvation is apt to extinguish the benevolent
 
 NATURAL EELIGION. 403 
 
 a Sections, and beget a narrow, contracted selfishness. And 
 when such a temper is encouraged, it easily eludes all the 
 general precepts of charity and benevolence. 
 
 Thus the motives of vulgar superstition have no great in- 
 fluence on general conduct ; nor is their operation favourable 
 to morality, in the instances, where they predominate. 
 
 Is there any maxim in politics more certain and infallible, 
 than that both the number and authority of priests should be 
 confined within very narrow limits, and that the civil magis- 
 trate ought, for ever, to keep his fasces and axes from such 
 dangerous hands ? But if the spirit of popular religion were 
 so salutary to society, a contrary maxim ought to prevail. 
 The greater number of priests, and their greater authority 
 and riches will always augment the religious spirit. And 
 though the priests have the guidance of this spirit, why may 
 we not expect a superior sanctity of life, and greater benevo- 
 lence and moderation, from persons who are set apart for 
 religion, who are continually inculcating it upon others, and 
 who must themselves imbibe a greater share of it? Whence 
 comes it then, that in fact, the utmost a wise magistrate can 
 propose with regard to popular religions, is, as far as possible, 
 to make a saving game of it, and to prevent their pernicious 
 consequences with regard to society ? Every expedient which 
 he tries for so humble a purpose is surrounded with incon- 
 veniencies. If he admits only one religion among his subjects, 
 he must sacrifice, to an uncertain prospect of tranquillity, 
 every consideration of public liberty, science, reason, industry, 
 and even his own independency. If he gives indulgence to 
 several sects, which is the wiser maxim, he must preserve a 
 very philosophical indifference to all of them, and carefully 
 restrain the pretensions of the prevailing sect ; otherwise he 
 can expect nothing but endless disputes, quarrels, factions, 
 persecutions, and civil commotions. 
 
 True religion, I allow, has no such pernicious consequences : 
 but we must treat of religion, as it has commonly been found 
 in the world ; nor have I any thing to do with that speculative 
 tenet of Theism, which, as it is a species of philosophy, must 
 partake of the beneficial influence of that principle, and at 
 the same time must lie under a like inconvenience, of being 
 always confined to very few persons. 
 
 Oaths are requisite in all courts of judicature ; but it is a
 
 404 DIALOGUES CONCERNING 
 
 question whether their authority arises from any popular 
 religion. 'Tis the solemnity and importance of the occasion, 
 the regard to reputation, and the reflecting on the general 
 interests of society, which are the chief restraints upon man- 
 kind. Custom-house oaths and political oaths are but little 
 regarded even by some who pretend to principles of honesty 
 and religion : and a Quaker's asseveration is with us justly 
 put upon the same footing with the oath of any other person. 
 I know, that Polybius' ascribes the infamy of Greek faith to 
 the prevalency of the Epicurean philosophy ; but 1 know 
 also, that Punic faith had as bad a reputation in ancient 
 times, as Irish evidence has in modem ; though we cannot 
 account for these vulgar observations by the same reason. 
 Not to mention, that Greek faith was infamous before the 
 rise of the Epicurean philosophy ; and Euripides,* in a 
 passage which I shall point out to you, has glanced a remark- 
 able stroke of satire against his nation, with regard to this 
 circumstance. 
 
 Take care, Philo, replied Cleanthes, take care ; push not 
 matters too far : allow not your zeal against false religion to 
 undermine your veneration for the true. Forfeit not this 
 principle, the chief, the only great comfort in life ; and our 
 principal support amidst all the attacks of adverse fortune. 
 The most agreeable reflection, which it is possible for human 
 imagination to suggest, is that of genuine Theism, which 
 represents us as the workmanship of a Being perfectly good, 
 wise, and powerful ; who created us for happiness, and who, 
 having implanted in us immeasureable desires of good, will 
 prolong our existence to all eternity, and will transfer us into 
 an infinite variety of scenes, in order to satisfy those desires, 
 and render our felicity compleat and durable. Next to such 
 a Being himself (if the comparison be allowed) the happiest 
 lot which we can imagine, is that of being under his guar- 
 dianship and protection. 
 
 These appearances, said Philo, are most engaging and 
 alluring ; and with regard to the true philosopher, they are 
 more than appearances. But it happens here, as in the 
 former case, that, with regard to the greater part of mankind, 
 the appearances are deceitful, and that the terrors of religion 
 commonly prevail above its comforts. 
 
 ' Lib. 6, cap. 54- ^ Iphigenia in Tauride,
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. ' 465 
 
 It is allowed, that men never liave recourse to devotion so 
 readily as when dejected with grief or depressed with sick- 
 ness. Is not this a proof, that the religious spirit is not so 
 nearly allied to joy as to sorrow ? 
 
 But men, when afflicted, find consolation in religion, re* 
 plied Cleanthes. Sometimes, said Philo : but it is natural 
 to imagine, that they will form a notion of those unknown 
 beings, suitably to the present gloom and melancholy of their 
 temper, when they betake themselves to the contemplation 
 of them. Accordingly, we find the tremendous images to 
 predominate in all religions ; and we ourselves, after having 
 employed the most exalted expressions in our description 
 of the Deity, fall into the flattest contradiction, in affirming, 
 that the damned are infinitely superior in number to the 
 elect. 
 
 I shall venture to affirm, that there never was a popular 
 religion, which represented the state of departed souls in 
 such a light, as would render it eligible for human kind, that 
 there should be such a state. These fine models of religion 
 are the mere product of philosophy. For as death lies 
 between the eye and the prosjDect of futurity, that event is 
 so shocking to Nature, that it must throw a gloom on all the 
 regions which lie beyond it ; and suggest to the generality 
 of mankind the idea of Cekbekus and Furies ; devils, and 
 torrents of fire and brimstone. 
 
 It is true ; both fear and hope enter into religion ; because 
 both these passions, at different times, agitate the human 
 mind, and each of them forms a species of divinity, suitable 
 to itself. But when a man is in a chearful disposition, he is 
 fit for business or company or entertainment of any kind ; 
 and he naturally applies himself to these, and thinks not of 
 religion. When melancholy, and dejected, he has nothing 
 to do but brood upon the terrors of the invisible world, 
 and to plunge himself still deeper in affliction. It may, 
 indeed, happen, that after he has, in this manner, engraved 
 the religious opinions deep into his thought and imagina- 
 tion, there may arrive a change of health or circumstances, 
 which may restore his good humour, and raising chearful 
 prospects of futurity, make him run into the other extreme 
 of joy and triumph. But still it must be acknowledged, that, 
 as terror is the primary principle of religion, it is the pas- 
 
 VOL. II. H H
 
 466 DL4.L0GUES CONCERNING 
 
 sion, which always predominates in it, and admits but oi 
 short intervals of pleasure. 
 
 Not to mention, that these fits of excessive, enthusiastic 
 joy, by exhausting the spirits, always prepare the way for 
 equal fits of superstitious terror and dejection ; nor is there 
 any state of mind so happy as the calm and equable. But 
 this state, it is impossible to support, where a man thinks, 
 that he lies, in such profound darkness and uncertainty, 
 between an eternity of happiness and an eternity of misery. 
 No wonder, that such an opinion disjoints the ordinary frame 
 of the mind, and throws it into the utmost confusion. And 
 though that opinion is seldom so steady in its operation as 
 to influence all the actions ; yet it is apt to make a consi- 
 derahle breach in the temper, and to produce that gloom and 
 melancholy, so remarkable in all devout people. 
 
 It is contrary to common sense to entertain apprehensions 
 or terrors, upon account of any opinion whatsoever, or to 
 imagine that we run any risk hereafter, by the freest use of 
 our reason. Such a sentiment implies both an absurdity and 
 an inconsistency. It is an absurdity to believe that the Deity 
 has human passions, and one of the lowest of human passions, 
 a restless appetite for applause. It is an inconsistency to 
 believe, that, since the Deity has this human passion, he has 
 not others also ; and, in particular, a disregard to the opinions 
 of creatures, so much inferior. 
 
 To know God., says Seneca, is to worship him. All other 
 worship is indeed absurd, superstitious, and even impious. 
 It degrades him to the low condition of mankind, who are 
 delighted with intreaty, solicitation, presents, and flatter}'. 
 Yet is this impiety the smallest of which superstition is 
 guilty. Commonly, it depresses the Deity far below the 
 condition of mankind ; and represents him as a capricious 
 daemon, who exercises his power without reason and without 
 humanit}^ ! And were that divine Being disposed to be offended 
 at the vices and follies of silly mortals, who are his own 
 workmanship ; ill would it surely fare with the votaries of 
 most popular superstitions. Nor would any of the human race 
 merit his favour, but a very few, the philosophical Theists, 
 who entertain, or rather indeed endeavour to entertain, 
 suitable notions of his divine perfections : as the only per- 
 sons, intitled to his compassion and indulgence, would be the 
 philosophical Sceptics, a sect almost equally rare, who, from
 
 NxVTURAL RELIGION. 467 
 
 a natural diffidence of their own capacity, suspend, or en- 
 deavour to suspend all judgement with regard to such sublime 
 and such extraordinary subjects. 
 
 If the whole of Natural Theology, as ?ome people seem to 
 maintain, resolves itself into one simple, though somewhat 
 ambiguous, at least undefined proposition. That the cause or 
 causes of order in the universe 'probably bear some remote analogy 
 to human intelligence : If this proposition be not capable of 
 extension, variation, or more particular explication : If it 
 affords no inference that affects human life, or can be the 
 source of any action or forbearance : And if the analogy, 
 imperfect as it is, can be carried no farther than to the 
 human intelligence ; and cannot be transferred, with any 
 appearance of probability, to the qualities of the mind : If 
 this really be the case, what can the most inquisitive, con- 
 templative, and religious man do more than give a plain, 
 philosophical assent to the proposition, as often as it occurs ; 
 and believe that the arguments, on which it is established, 
 exceed the objections, which lie against it ? Some astonish- 
 ment indeed will naturally arise from the greatness of the 
 object : Some melancholy from its obscurity : Some contem2Jt 
 of human reason, that it can give no solution more satisfac- 
 tory with regard to so extraordinary and magnificent a ques- 
 tion. But believe me, Cleanthes, the most natural sentimei:^., 
 which a well-disposed mind will feel on this occasion, is a 
 longing desire and expectation, that heaven would be pleased 
 to dissipate, at least alleviate this profound ignorance, by 
 affording some particular revelation to mankind, and making 
 discoveries of the nature, attributes, and operations of the 
 divine object of our faith. A person, seasoned with a just 
 sense of the imperfections of natural reason, will fly to re- 
 vealed truth with the greatest avidity : While the haughty 
 Dogmatist, persuaded, that he can erect a complete system 
 of Theology by the mere help of philosophy, disdains any 
 farther aid, and rejects this adventitious instructor. To be 
 a philosophical Sceptic is, in a man of letters, the first and 
 most essential step towards being a sound, believing Chris- 
 tian ; a proposition, which I would willingly recommend to 
 the attention of Pamphilus : And I hop«j Cleanthes will 
 forgive me for interposing so far in the education and in- 
 struction of his pupil.
 
 408 DIALOGUES CONCERNING NATURAL RELIGION. 
 
 Cleanthes and Philo pursued not this conversation much 
 farther ; and as nothing ever made greater impression on 
 me, than all the reasonings of that day ; so I confess, that, 
 upon a serious review of the whole, I cannot but think, that 
 Philo's principles are more probable than Demea's; but 
 that those of Cleanthes approach still nearer to the truth.
 
 INDEX 
 
 THE SECOND VOLUME. 
 
 B. refers to the Sections of the Introduction ; p. to the Pages of Hume's text 
 f. means ' and following sections ' or ' pages.' 
 
 ACC 
 
 Accession, p. 279 
 
 Allegiance, its source, p. 304 ; its mea- 
 sures, 313 ; its objects, 317 
 
 Analogy theological arguments from, p. 
 393, f 457, f. 
 
 Anthropomorphism, p. 390, f. 406, f. 411, 
 417, 439,453, 466 
 
 Appetite and desire, s. 3 
 
 Artificial and natural virtue, s. 55, p. 
 250, 252, f. 258, 262, 293, 338 
 
 Association, p. 82, 87, 88 
 
 Athenians, Themistocles, and Aristides, 
 p. 203 
 
 Aversion, p. 214 
 
 Bacon, p. 388 
 
 Bayle, p. 388 
 
 Beauty, p. 95, 151, 336 
 
 Belief, its effect on the passions, p. 205 
 
 Benevolence, s. 41, p. 152 ; public be- 
 nevolence not the original motive to 
 justice, p. 255 ; nor private, 256 
 
 Butler, s. 24, f 
 
 Cause and effect in morals, p. 182, f. 186 
 
 Character and action, p. 184, f. 
 
 Chastity and modesty, p. 330, f. 
 
 Clarke, s. 26, 50 
 
 Comparison and sympathy, p. 351 
 
 Compassion, p. 155 
 
 Conscience, s. 14, 20, 25 
 
 FRE 
 
 Consciotisness and self, s, 25 
 Contiguity and distance, their effect on 
 
 the passions, p. 205, f. 300 
 Cow^rary passions, p. 194, f. 217 
 Convention, society based on, p. 262, f. 
 Copernican system, p. 387, 399 
 Curiosity, p. 223 
 Custom, its effect on the passions, p, 201 
 
 Demonstration of morality impossible, p. 
 
 240, 241, note 
 Design, argument from, p. 392, f. 403, 
 
 413, 423, 429, 445 
 Desire and appetite, s. 3 ; a reasonable 
 
 is merely a calm desire, s. 44, p. 196 ; 
 
 desire and aversion, p. 214 
 Dialogue, advantages and disadvantages 
 
 of, 'p. 377 
 Distance, its effect on the passions, p. 
 
 205, f. 
 Duty, can sense of, be a motive? s. 61, 
 
 p. 252, f. 
 
 Education and religion, p. 380 
 Epicurus, p. 414, 426, 464 
 Euripides, p. 464 
 Evil, origin of, p. 440, f. 
 
 Faith and scepticism, p. 381, f. 
 Freedom, in Locke, s. 2, 12, 15; m 
 Hume, s. 56, — See Liberty
 
 470 
 
 LNDKX TO 
 
 GAL 
 
 Galen, p. 455 
 
 Gn/ileo, p. 399 
 
 General rules of conduct, p. 298 ; gene- 
 ral opinion infitUible as to mol■al^, 
 .•516 
 
 God, see Religion 
 
 Good and moral good in Locke, s. 1 7, 
 18 ; iu Hobbes, s. 21 ; in Shaftes- 
 bury, 8. 22 ; ill Hume, s. 49, f. — See 
 Moral 
 
 Goodness and benevolence, p. 358 
 
 Government, its origin, p. 300, f. 
 
 Great7iess of mind, p. 349 
 
 Happiness a? a motive, s. 4, f. ; confu- 
 sions involved here, s. 6 ; happiness 
 and pleasure, s. 7 ; true and false 
 happiness, s. 10, 11 
 
 Hatred, see Love 
 
 Heroic virtue, s. 64, p. 250, 356 
 
 Hohbcs, s. 2, 21 
 
 Hope and fear, p. 216, f. 
 
 Hume, his doctrine of morals parallel to 
 his doctrine of nature, s. 1 ; its rela- 
 tion to Locke, s. 2, 19, 49 ; the prob- 
 lem as Locke leaves it to him, s. 19 ; 
 influence on him of the other moral- 
 ists, s 20; of Hobbes and Snaftesbury, 
 s. 21. f. ; how far he is consistent, s. 
 29, 48 ; his account of direct passions, 
 s. 30. f. ; of indirect passions, s. 33, f.; j 
 of self, s. 35 ; of motives, s. 44, f. ; | 
 of moral goodness, 49, f. ; he ter- \ 
 minates an epoch, s. 64 j 
 
 Humility, see Pride ' 
 
 Hutchcson, s. 24, f. i 
 
 Idea, the more general it is the less its 
 influence, p. 203 
 
 Imagination, its eflfect on the passions, 
 p. 202, 216 
 
 Lnpressions, Hume has to derive from 
 impressions the objects which Locke 
 took for granted, s. 19 ; impressions 
 and ideas, p. 75, 81, 87, 88, 113, 124, 
 152, 234 
 
 Ingratitude, p. 243 
 
 Interest, self, and public interest, p. 271 
 
 Interested and disinterested affections, 
 s. 20, f. ; interested and moral obli- 
 gation, s. 67, f., p. 248, f. 270, 299, 
 309 
 
 Justice, s. 55, f. ; is it a natural or an 
 artificial virtue? p. 252, f.. 293, 299 ; 
 the origin of justice and property, p. 
 258. f. ; idea of justice is not the b;isis 
 of society, 261 ; but arises from cun- 
 
 MOT 
 
 vention and the selfishness of man, 
 263, 268 ; why we annex the idea of 
 virtue to justice, 270 
 
 Ka7it and Shaftesbury's ' rational affec- 
 tion,' s. 26 
 
 Laws of Nature invented by man, p. 308/ 
 laws of nations, p. 328 
 
 Lcilmita, p. 436 
 
 Lib<rrty and necessity, s. 56 : p. 181, f. ; 
 liberty of spontaneity and of indif- 
 ferency, p. 188. — See Freidom 
 
 Locke, his influence on ethical apecula- 
 tion, s. 2 : his account of freedom and 
 the will, s. 2 ; of motives, s. 3, f. ; of 
 happiness, s. 6, f. ; of responsibility, 
 s. 12. f . ; of good and e\nl, s. 17. 18, 
 49 ; the problem which he leaves for 
 Hume, s. 19 ; his identification of 
 faith and reason, p. 388 
 
 Love and hatred, s. 38 ; their objects and 
 causes, p. 121, f. ; analogy with pride 
 and humility, 123; experiments to 
 confirm this, 124; difliculties solved, 
 137; love of relations, 140; esteem 
 for the rich and powerful, 145 ; e 
 nevolence and anger, 152; compas- 
 eion, 155 ; malice, 158 ; mixture of 
 these, 165: respect and contempt, 173; 
 love between the sexes, 176 ; love and 
 hatred of animals, 179 ; love of tru t, 
 223; love of mankind, as such, im- 
 possible, 255 
 
 Malcbranche, p. 390 
 
 Malice and envy, p. 158 
 
 Manichaan system, p. 452 
 
 Matter oi fact and morality, p. 240, 244, 
 f. ; and religion, 432 
 
 Moral distinctions not derived from 
 reason but from a moral sense, s. 1, 
 U, 26, 49, f. 60 ; p. 232. 246, 340, 
 347 ; an act is moral when its mere 
 survey gives pleasure of a particular 
 kind, s. 51 ; p. 247, 334, 340, 348; 
 that is, when it is considered in 
 general, s. 53 ; p. 248 
 
 Morality, can sense of be a motive, s, 
 61 ; p. 252, f. 
 
 Motives, the strongest, determine action, 
 a mere truism, s. 3 ; the question is 
 what constitutes them, s 3, see 
 Thought ; enumeration of possible 
 motives, s. 45 ; result of Hume's 
 theory of motives, s. 48 ; constant 
 union of motives and acts. s. 56 ; p. 
 1 S2, f. ; the influencing motives of tho
 
 THE SECOND VOLUME. 
 
 471 
 
 MTS 
 
 \nll, p. 123 ; the motives make an 
 act moral, p. 252 ; can sense of duty 
 be a motive, s. 61 ; p. 252, f: ; the 
 first motive must be natural, p. 253, 
 257 ; the motive to honesty can't be 
 honesty, 254 ; nor benevolence, 255, f. 
 Mystics and sceptics, p. 405, 440 
 
 Natural principles, p. 81, 82, 86, 249; 
 is justice a natural or an artificial 
 virtue ? p. 252, f., 293, 338 ; see Arti- 
 ficial ; natural and moral obligation, 
 see Obligation ; natural right and the 
 social contract, p. 307, f. 313 ; natu- 
 ral virtues and vices, their origin, p. 
 334, f. ; further reflections on, p. 368 ; 
 natural abilities and moral virtues, 
 p. 361 ; natural religion, a fit subject 
 for dialogue, p. 378 ; see Belic/ioti 
 
 i^ature and law, in Locke, s. 17 ; in 
 Hume, s. 55. p. 249, 252. 258, f. ; state 
 of nature, a fiction, p. 265 ; laws of 
 nature invented Vjy man, p. 308 
 
 Niccssity and liberty, s. 66 ; p. 181, f. ; 
 what necessity really is, p. 188, f.; in 
 this sense essential to religion and 
 morality, p. 191 
 
 Object of passions, s. 32 ; p. 77, f. 
 
 Ohligation, how accounted for, s. 55, 59 ; 
 p. 263 ; natural and moral obligation, 
 p. 270, 309, 314, 316, 329, f. 333 ; 
 obligation of promises, p. 284 ; natu- 
 ral and civil obligation, p. 308 
 
 Occupation, p. 276 
 
 Ought, its meaning to Locke, s. 16, 
 i7 ; to Hume, s. 60, f. ; p. 245, f. 
 
 Passions, divided into direct and indi- 
 rect, s. 30 ; p. 76 ; account oF the in- 
 direct passions, s. 33, f ; p. 77, f. ; of 
 the direct, s 30, f. ; p. 181, f. 214, f. , 
 all equally interested or disinterested, 
 s. 43; account of apparent conflict 
 between reason and passion, s. 44, f. ; 
 p. 193, f. ; distinction of calm and 
 violent passions, p. 196, 197 ; causes 
 of the violent, p. 198 ; effects on the 
 passions of custom, p. 201 ; of imagin- 
 ation, p. 202 ; of contiguity and dis- 
 tance, p. 205 
 
 Perijiafetics, p. 409 
 
 Philosophers and love of truth, p. 224 
 
 PhUosofhy and hunting, p. 226 
 
 Physiological account of pride, s, 36 ; p, 
 85 ; its fallacy, s. 37 
 
 Pity, p. 155 
 
 Platonists, p. 404 
 
 Pleasure and happiness, s. 7. f. ; present 
 and future pleasure, s. 12, 13 ; plea- 
 sure and pain, p. 84, 214, 247 
 
 Prescription, p. 278 
 
 Pride and humility, s. 33, f. ; p. 75, f, 
 359, f. ; their objects and causes, p. 
 77 ; whence these are derived, p. 79 ; 
 influence on them of relations of im- 
 pressions and ideas, p. 81, 83. f. ; limi- 
 tations of this system, p 88 ; influ- 
 ence of vice and virtue, p. 92 ; of 
 beauty and deformity, p. 95 ; of ex- 
 ternal advantages and disadvantages, 
 p. 99; of property and riches, p. iOo; 
 of the love of fame, p. 110; pride and 
 humility in animals, p. 118 
 
 Probability, p. 216, 219 
 
 Promises, based on convention, p. 283, f. 
 
 Prope^-ty based on convention, p. 263, 
 294 ; rules which determine it, p. 273; 
 transference of property, p. 283 
 
 Pyrrhonians, p. 383, 388 
 
 Reason, apparent conflict between reason 
 and passion, s. 44, p. 193, f. ; reason 
 can give no motive, p. 193, 237 ; nor 
 restrain passion, p. 194; it is and 
 ought to be the slave of the passions, 
 p. 195; not contrary to rea.son to 
 prefer my lesser good, p. 195, 196; 
 therefore moral distinctions are not 
 derived from reason, p. 233, f. ; be- 
 Ciuise they influence the passions, p. 
 235 ; and because they are neither 
 relations of objects, p. 240, nor mat- 
 ters of fact discoverable by the un- 
 derstanding, p. 244 ; the matter of 
 fact here is the object of feeling, 
 not of reason, p. 245. — See also 
 Thought 
 
 Reasonable desire, only a calm desire, s. 
 44, p. 196 
 
 Rdation to an object implied in the 
 direct passions of desire and aversion, 
 &c., s. 29, 30, 32 ; a double relation 
 to a person (as object) and a thing 
 (as caiise) assumed to account for the 
 indirect passions of pride and humi- 
 lity, love and hatre<i, s. 30, f. 33 f. 
 s. "38; p. 77. 84, f. 87, 100, 124, f. 
 166, 214 
 
 Religion, natural relii'jon a fit subject 
 for dialogue, p. 378 ; religion and 
 education, 380; faith and scepticism, 
 382, f. ; God's nature unknowable, 
 390, 397 ; his being self-evident, 
 391 ; or proved from design, 392, 
 403, 456 ; but what analogy is there ? 
 393, f. ; God's attributes incompre- 
 hensible, 404 ; but how does this
 
 472 
 
 INDEX TO THE SECOND VOLUME. 
 
 REP 
 
 mysticism differ from atheism ? 40.5, 
 f. ; an immutable mind is no mind, 
 407 ; but this cause itself wants a 
 cause, and so on, 407, f. ; fresh diffi- 
 culties in the anthropomorphic notion 
 of God, 411 ; how can we attribute 
 perfection to him? 412; or unity? 
 413 ; is he the soul of the world? 
 416 ; is the world then eternal ? 418 ; 
 is it not more like a vegetable than a 
 work of art? 420; theory of Epi- 
 curus, 426 ; all religious systems 
 have insupera})le difficulties, 430 ; 
 then as the a posteriori argument f lils, 
 had we not better keep to the a priori 
 argument? 430; but no matter of 
 tact can be proved a priori, 432 ; and 
 thus to enquire for a first cause is 
 absurd, 433 ; religion is brought 
 home to us by misery, 435; which 
 man shares with nature, 436 ; whence 
 then this evil? 440 ; is it intelligible 
 if ho be finitely perfect? 444, f. ; ex- 
 istence of evil prevents us from attri- 
 buting moral attributes to God, 453 ; 
 but the artifice of nature plainly re- 
 veals a divine being, 455 ; it does 
 not matter what we call him, 457 ; it 
 is merely a verbal dispute between 
 the theist and the atheist, 458 ; true 
 and false religion, 460, f. ; natural 
 theology resolves itself into one pro- 
 position, 467 
 
 Beputntion, p. 272 
 
 Bespectabilify alone remains to Hume, 
 and even that he can't account for, s. 
 64 
 
 Etspcvsibility, Locke's account of, s. 
 12, f. 
 
 Revolution, right of, p. 325 
 
 Right, based on convention, p. 263 
 
 Scepticism and faith, p. 381, f. ; sceptics 
 inconsistent in theory as well as 
 practice, 385 ; scepticism and mysti- 
 cism, 405 
 
 Self -consciousness active in constituting 
 object of desire or passion, s. 3, f. 14, 
 
 34, 40 ; Hume's juggle with self, B. 
 
 35, p. 77, 121, &c. 
 
 Selfish and unselfish affections, s. 20, f. 
 
 Si'lfishness the origin of justice, p. 268 
 
 Si'/f-love, 8. 46 
 
 Shaftesbury's doctrine ' vice is selfish- 
 ness,' s. 22 ; its confusions, 23 ; his 
 ' rational affection ' and Kant, 26 
 
 Simonides and Hiero, p. 398 
 
 Sin, consciousness of, disappears for 
 Hume, s. 63 
 
 Society, its origin, p. 258 ; it alone can 
 supply man's defects, 259 ; based 
 neither on nature, nor the idea of 
 justice, 261 ; but on artifice and con- 
 vention, 262 
 
 Spectator, pleasure to, makes an act 
 good, s. 49. 54, 61, 62 ; p. 246, f. 271 
 
 Stoics, p. 383, f 
 
 Succession, p. 280 
 
 Suspense of desire, s. 12, 14 
 
 Sympathy, s. 39; p. Ill, 147,150, 169, 
 " 180, 225, 271, 335, 337, 343, 349, f. 
 371 
 
 Theologians and scepticism, p. 388 ; and 
 
 human misery, 454 
 Thought, and its originative action, s. 1, 
 
 3, 14, 15, 16, 25, 26, 31, 34, 37, 38, 
 
 40. 44, 47, 48, 50.55, 64 
 Truth, love of, p. 223 
 
 Unacconntable impulses, s. 31 ; p. 215 
 
 Understanding, p. 193, 216 
 
 hneasiness does not alone determine the 
 
 will, p. 197 
 Unmotivcd action an absurdity, s. 56 ; 
 
 p. 181, f 
 Utilitarians and happiness, s. 7, H 
 
 Virtue for virtue's sake, s. 62, f. ; p. 252, 
 f. ; of virtue and vice in general, p. 
 233, f. ; origin of the distinction, 234, 
 f. ; artificial -s-irtues, 252, f. ; natural 
 virtues and vices, 334 
 
 Will, Locke's account of, s. 2 ; Hume's, 
 s. 56; p. 181, f. 215; the motives 
 which determine the will, s. 44 ; p. 
 193 
 
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